As I often do, I am sitting and staring at my paintings. There are about forty of them in my field of vision, but my gaze rests on the most recent ones more often than on any others. Out of the blue, my eyes light upon a painting from the winter of 2000-2001. My mother was still alive, I remember vividly. She quite liked it, too. When my eyes shift to a painting next to it, I remember that it comes from the winter of 1990-1991. It is from the first batch of paintings in this long-drawn project. Only at this point my chest swells with something akin to pride: at least I nurse my projects for a long time. In this particular case, for decades. And then I reward myself with a proverbial cigar. For nursing, it goes without saying. Only for nursing.