September 11th was quixotically fortunate for me. My brother survived the strike on the WTC. His wife and I watched the towers burn and collapse over and over on the television news that morning. We could barely breathe, cry, or dare to hope as we envisioned Jared's last moments, anonymously repeated in slow motion for all to see.

Our relief and gratitude upon finally hearing from him was subdued by the surrounding anguish. Jared's reportage of the defining minutes of evacuation and rescue provided an overwhelming image that would endure.

"As we made our way down the smoke filled stairwells, I could smell burning jet fuel. The firefighters kept everyone calm, guiding and assuring us that we would be fine. I tried to remember the face of each one as he passed us going up; they had to know they might never come down, even if you couldn't see it in their eyes... I felt that someone should look at their faces because it might be the last time anyone did."

Alternately constrained and rent by grief, disbelief, fear, rage and soaring empathy for the victims and their loved ones, none of us knew where to go. One tangible location for many was the hilltop on Victory Boulevard with Staten Island's unique view of the skyline. People gathered there for days after the 11th, to look, understand, and verify. I've long felt an unreasonable propriety for that vista, having labored it on canvas fifteen years ago.

The power of a painting, now only an abstract truth, the reality of the present and my brother's resonating words spurred me to this project.