American artist
During the 70s, I learned to play Twinkle Twinkle Little Star on an upright piano set in the tall beachgrass on Maine’s rocky coast. At low tides, my family and I planted our feet in the purplish muddy seabed and dug up clams. Later, on the beach, we forced the mollusks to unseal their shells in a kettle of boiling water under the starlit skies. In our little A-frame loft, we blindly slapped the buzzing mosquitoes. Without a wink of sleep, we resumed our morning exploration of tidepools while wearing pink masks of Calamine lotion.
Many long summer days away from the ocean, I meandered through the forest like a poet. In the filtered rays of sunshine, I rested on rocks and curled my toes into cool moss beds. I caressed soft tree bark with my cheeks. Out by the road, thunderous cars rolled over my culvert while I hunted for cray fish where the water flowed to Kegan’s pond. By the pond’s edge, I sat on the sulky mounds of grass with mud up to my ankles and strain frog eggs between my fingers. Several times, I ran home with pockets of minnows which later succumbed to an over abundance of canned corn. Once, I transported a big Johnny Roach in my leaky fanny pack and anxiously pluncked it into a pail of water from the hose.
Life is short.
My nomadic way of life abruptly ended when a pack of wild dogs attacked my neighbors’ pony, and we moved to the city.
In the city, I traveled along fences and dug holes from block to block like a little whistle pig. Dodging traffic by the Boulevard were fantastical adventures. Then, unexpectedly, I found myself on a filled to capacity tour bus with oil painters. I sat on my mother’s lap until we reached The Museum of Fine Arts, Boston. I still recall the mysterious and magic of it all. The artist seed was planted and laid dormant for a long time.
Those earliest years of my life built the strong foundation on which I stand as a professional artist. The young fresh breaths of life remain in me and I share this inner part of my soul through my paintings.