"Why do I do art?"

It started with my grandmother who had a great reverence for culture, which included visual art, classical music, theatre, and dance, but primarily visual art and classical music. My grandparents had emigrated from Russia. My grandfather was a doctor and my grandmother a dentist. They settled in a small mountain town in the Adirondacks called Elizabethtown. Their house and property were to me a magical place. It was much larger than the small house I lived in during my early years, with large front and back yards, a barn, and a flowing river behind. Next door to their house was The Old Mill School, an art school started by the portrait painter Wayman Adams. My grandmother was enamored with the instructors, the students, the art, the ambience, and some unsavory gossip. She started taking painting lessons there and encouraged my older brother and me to explore making art, lending us her pastels.

I was primarily interested in the room I slept in, which had old-fashioned wallpaper with illustrations depicting people and modes of transportation during the 19^th century. I’d lie in bed staring at the wallpaper and visually moving people around. I was also interested in going into the barn that had very steep stairs and black widows, as well as wading in the swift, cold, river that swept by. But the main thing I was interested in was the Old Mill School. The primary building used for classes was in the former mill that overlooked the river. The other buildings consisted of small cabins and a large dining room and a fragrant garden. The buildings were made from old barn wood and cloved together by square nails. A large bell was rung to alert the students and faculty that lunch or dinner was being served.

Both of my grandparents had their portraits painted by Wayman Adams as did my mother, and her two siblings, my Aunt Ruth, and Uncle Dan. Dan was also called Sonny. I always found that funny that my grown-up uncle would be called Sonny, but he was.

One bright spring day I was standing around in the backyard over by the side of my grandparents’ property where it met up with the Old Mill property. I was staring at the remains of the rusted swing set that had been used by my mother and her siblings. It was right on the edge of the property. The scent of the wild roses that had twisted themselves around the swing set blended in with the scent of turpentine that traveled from the studio next door. At that moment, with bright morning light and smells of roses and turpentine, I knew that I would be an artist. It was as if God had spoken to me through the senses. And what He/She/They was saying to me was that making art was the highest religious experience. I never told anyone about this until much later in my life. But this is the reason I make art.

Sepia ink, green ink and gouache depiction of a Eucalyptus tree. Seen during my daily walks in 2020 during the lockdown. On a recent walk I noticed that this tree was cut down. Everything changes.