The evolution of my artist's vision over the last forty-plus years of exploration is a story of personal evolution in an odd landscape. Many years ago I played with poets, but those care-free days have long ago knuckled down to trying to make serious Art. Do I succeed? Maybe the attempt to make artwork that is museum-worthy, is more important than the artwork actually winding up there. Personally, I feel I've developed an approach that uniquely conveys my hand, and mind, and to some degree my heart. I dunno what sparks the impulse in me to make visual art. It's probably basic enough to be invisible to my analytic perceptions. Some how we know things at an even more basic level than that, I think.
Susan Coffey once said that "Painting is an act of resistance." For me, Painting, and indeed most other Visual Arts are acts to reaffirm my very existence in this blur of a world. I have a minor obsession with dating the work and have done so since about 1970. I guess if every piece of artwork I've ever done could be assembled in one place, there would be a solved puzzle - the puzzle of the record of my life.
"Part of what I've been contending with in my recent ideas is the question: "For Whom does the Artist create?" I think I agree with those who say that the artist who creates for himself is a fool. It's too isolating. What applications then does one choose to apply her or himself to in order to fully "juice," the work, and connect with the all-essential audience? My recent involvement with the self-portrait -- both in it's infernal, and normal mode reflects this search -- in the context of some rather difficult times for the world and its social microspheres. I think there is no solid solution to this problem, but rather an evolution -- a dialectic."
Chords reel and the mind reels,
and for all I know
The minds of the Gods reel as well --
For if the Gods have minds
They must be attuned to music and to harmony.
Harmony is but the pulse of Chaos
And to such pulsation
Even stones resound.
I'm not sure, but perhaps it is
Because the light and dark
Fly into space disguised as owls,
and beat their downy wings
Amidst the stars,
And beat a pulse of radiation
Until even our hearts resound.
Therein my Heart,
Breathes an inkling of Art.