I have always expressed myself as a writer. In my early twenties I got hold of Henry Miller’s autobiographical writings and through them, discovered the joy of painting, and fell in love. Writing can be constrictive. Paint provides a balance to my inherent hyperactivity. When I write I am tight. When I paint, I am light. Joyful. Happy. Early on, I began to sneak text into my paintings, and continue the practice to this day. Also, poignant titles can embellish a painting’s story, or at least set a mood for the viewer. It finishes the piece with the last word to my hit and run style. Some paintings are literary and I admit often ambiguous. Fine with me, it’s my story. Still, I believe a sense of history is important. I tend to be reactionary and judgmental, however, I will cite my opinions from the historical record. So can you. Let’s share our thoughts and be human.
Like Henry Miller, I began in a maelstrom of confusion, struggling joyfully, without madness, toward a life worth living. I like to think that because of his autobiographical odyssey, I had a head start to my journey as a young father, and aspiring writer and painter. “Make room for the life giving ones!” was one of Miller’s many mottos. As a young man I thought I could take up the tome of wisdom he acquired by old age. That is, I welcomed failure as long as it delivered me time as well as the muse to raise my daughters, write, and of course, paint.
Privately, I am aware that failure is the only success an artist should expect. I have had my share, but it just goads me to paint more. And more. Why not? At mid-life I strive to archive a story of life full of color and vibrancy to my wife, children, and children’s children. I guess, in that respect, I am a champion success story.
Miller hawked his watercolors on the streets of Monterey. I hang my paintings out on a line in the country, like my laundry, and listen to the song of crickets. Hurray, I’m alive! Give me more paint!