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The rules we set up for ourselves for paintings are a strange labyrinth. For a still life I expect myself to stage it, set up the pieces deliberately. For some reason I feel like that would be too contrived in a landscape, the pieces have to really be there unless they are obviously part of the enchantment, the flying sea creatures and whatnot. So when I saw a gorgeous pink armchair sitting by the curb in front of this tiny house I knew it had to be a painting somehow, it wanted to be a painting.