I really don’t want to like this painting. It’s so very not my style. And yet, something about it feels so right to me. The softness, instability, the impermanence, the colorful yarns. Maybe it’s the memories of selling ojos de dios to my schoolmates in fifth grade for a dollar apiece. Either way, I want this painting–but as a guilty pleasure, to hang in my imaginary boudoir, where no one else can see.