This looks different from a lot of his other work. Very cool.
It was painted response to a short story written by Caitlin Horrocks entitled, "Where the Air Blows Through."
Where the Air Blows Through In the forest behind their house she finds a bone. They are waiting for dinner to be ready, for their father to be home, for their mother to call them in. They wait for the evening to click along its track. In the near-dark the girl holds the bone and her brother touches the back of her neck. "A vertebra," he says. "Like from here." He tugs at her dirty-blond ponytail, reaches underneath it and opens his palm against her spine. "If you break your neck, you aren't able to move anymore. They put this hole in your throat and you wheel around in a wheelchair." The girl drops the bone on the ground. She is in sixth grade. Her brother is in eighth. He lets her ponytail fall and touches the hollow of her throat, above the collar of her purple hoodie. "Here," he says. "In the front. This is where the air blows through." His finger presses too hard, like he is accusing her of something. "That's called a tracheotomy." He is clumsy with his hands, clumsy with his words, even though he has so many. When he is talking about bones--osteology--or the deer that run behind their house--Odocoileus virginianus--the words come in a flood and he flaps his hands like wings. In her homeroom a few of the boys do imitations. "And this is a stick!" they moan in excitement, waving their pencils around. She feels her brother's hand, imagines him cracking her spine, knows this is ridiculous, knows he loves her. Sometime she wishes he wouldn't. She pushes his hand away, kicks the vertebra further into the dirt. She knows her brother will bend to pick it up, and when he kneels she sees his hair is greasy. She knocks the bone back out of his hand. He tilts his head like a dog: not angry, only puzzled. When her brother is angry he beats his head against the carpet in the upstairs hallway. He says this makes him feel better. He says the carpet is full of dust mites and anger. He tells her to wear shoes in the house. Socks, at least. But she's already walked through it. She thinks things will be worse when they are in high school. She is already bracing for it. She is wondering how much loyalty she will allow herself to show. Her brother dusts the vertebra free of dirt and puts it in his pocket. He says it belonged to a deer. At dinner he talks about deer and decomposition until their mother says, "That's really interesting, honey. Now we should see if anyone else would like to talk." But no one else feels like talking. That night he bores a hole into the bone at their father's basement workbench so she can wear it like a necklace. He hands it to her and she can tell he is wondering why she doesn't run for ribbon or string. She tosses it up and down in her palm. She wants to wash her hands. "I'll keep it in my treasure box," she says. "Can I see?" "No," she says. "It's mine." She looks at her brother and imagines she can feel his breath blow through her neck. She is eleven years old and already full of holes. She does not want to show him the box with its blue lining and fragile silver lock. She's kept the dead brown sticks he gave her, the pointy rocks, a scrap of fabric. A rectangular piece of white cardstock he shoved under her bedroom door. It was sealed in a gold envelope, but blank. The blank card in the box says, "My brother loves me this much." It says, "I love my brother this much." It says, "Close this lid."
so it seems that Tanuki is the word for the Japanese Racoon Dog that in folklore seems to be depicted classically with oversized testicles that symbolize financial prowess or some such thing according to wikipedia....