I am a small-town kid who drifted into city life for too long and is now finding his way back home. My journey spills out, more often now, through brush and pen, and I am more grounded for it.
Truth be told, I am cataloging all the memories, all the words, all the lessons, all the laughter, all the doubts, and all the steps accumulated in my life. I am circling back to 18 Elm Street, my eyes wide open.
I unapologetically prize hard work, old skills, and, bluntness. No useful blade was ever sharpened without the love of the stone. I hold tighter, now more than ever, the wisdom bequeathed to me by my parents. They taught me to get my ass out of bed, to get to work, to be a good person, to do my best, to forego excuses, to be grateful, even for simple things.
I have failed them on occasion, and myself, that I know. When I do, I get up, dust myself off, and get on with it, the work of the day. My Mom and Dad ultimately gifted me with a sturdy shovel, a most capable and beautiful tool. With that shovel in hand, back bent, my life has been saved more times than I can count.
Begin with a plan. Quickly abandon the plan. Observe as my head, eyes, and hands wade into the fight. Step back and inhale the fury as each slug it out with the other. Stare. Wait. Invite the music and my memories to join the mayhem. The contest can rage on for days, even weeks.
Nod quietly, spent, as an agitated, peaceful compromise is eventually negotiated. Celebrate the day with bourbon. Neat.
Rise before dawn to fight again.
I describe it as a structured abstraction, autobiographical, storytelling, emotive. There are suggested forms, shapes, and expressive movement. The canvas is my workbench and my art is intentionally not fussy or fragile or frail. It's pretty and it's ugly, like life. I have also added music (Spotify required) and prose to help convey my mood. It all makes sense to me, but I don't completely understand it, either, that is all I can tell you. I hope you find a bit of yourself here and we connect.
Thanks for stopping by.