The air was redolent of fresh seawater and cucumber. A young deer accidently flushed a flock of birds, probably doves, and there was Coorain. Squinting and scrawny, the child was ravenous, not just for the sweet juice of the pomegranate, but for color, for life, for all the lurid details. From eastern Australia, Coorain was taken to rural North America, land of plenty, progress, and snow-laden cottages. Coorain began to flourish, but something was…off. Perhaps something was lost traveling to this new land, but Coorain was haunted by dreams. Dreams in colors and patterns so lush, so incredible they can’t be imagined. Dreams that were both heartbreaking and lovely. Dreams that muddled the beautiful plastic plenty that Coorain was surrounded by with something more, with something Coorain needed to build, to create. Coorain was an artist.