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I never went into my grandparents' bedroom until last year when they moved out of their house and in with my parents. My whole life the contents of that interior space existed only in my imagination. The most knowledge I had of it were the brief glimpses of blue I caught when one of them would step in or out and quickly close the door behind them. This blue became symbolic for me, representative of the two of them and their life together. In my lithograph, the blue pattern that covers much of the old photograph of my grandparents is representative of a time when the contents of their bedroom were still a mystery, a time when their health was better; a time when I knew less about them because they were more capable as individuals. In the print the pattern creeps into the photograph, obscuring my grandfather more, just as his dementia disguises his personality now.