Four decades ago, my father walked into a gallery in downtown Mexico City to see an exhibition by Mexican painter Tomás Parra. He would meet his future wife (and my mother), while purchasing one of the painter's drawings.
When I turned 17, I was lucky enough to be accepted as the very same painter's apprentice, and for the next four years I would assiduously attend his workshop on a daily basis. I would spend the mornings in his studio, and I would go back to my home to keep on working through the evening. As it hung on my bedroom wall, the drawing, which should at the very least be credited with a supporting role in bringing me to life, would become the focus of most my efforts. I've lost track of time regarding how often I stared up from my drawing table to look at it, with a mixture of dread, envy and admiration.
I've pilfered, pillaged and plagiarized its themes, textures and characters more times than I care to remember and, needless to say, it remains my favorite drawing in the world.
This is the latest attempt.