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Posts Tagged ‘GC Myers’

Choose!

Posted in Painting, Quote, Recent Paintings, tagged , , , , , on May 25, 2026| 3 Comments »

The Choice (2017)- Coming to Principle Gallery

I won’t tell you that the world matters nothing, or the world’s voice, or the voice of society. They matter a good deal. They matter far too much. But there are moments when one has to choose between living one’s own life, fully, entirely, completely—or dragging out some false, shallow, degrading existence that the world in its hypocrisy demands. You have that moment now. Choose!

― Oscar Wilde, Lady Windermere’s Fan (1892)

I am including the painting at the top in my upcoming solo exhibit, Flow, at the Principle Gallery. As I have pointed out here, this year’s show, my 27th at the Principle, will be a hybrid retrospective, mixing both new and older work. This painting is titled The Choice and is 18″ by 24″ on canvas. It was painted in 2017 and has long been a favorite of mine. This painting always hit hard with me, both in its visual pop, which it has in spades, and the meaning I take from it.

That meaning, which always jumps out at me when I stand before this piece, is that we all choose the path we take in this life. For some it is an unconscious choice but for others it is a deliberate decision.

We all too often walk through life on a path guided by the expectations and demands of others.  Maybe it is family, friends, society– the whole world. We seldom if ever stray from that path, following their rules of the road and accepting their definitions of who and what we are.

And so it goes.  We shuffle down the path and play the part. We don’t make waves, don’t step out of line, keep our heads down, and take what we’re given. And there is considerable pressure from others to do so. It is a heavy burden trying to live up to the expectations and opinions of others.

When we are young, most of us wants to be pointed out or be considered the odd one who is out of place. So, while we have the desire to break away, we often keep in place in the safe security of the crowded path.

We all want to be included, to be part of the club. We want to please others and not disappoint them by not living up to their expectations.

For some of us, this path continues throughout our lives and for many that is enough. And there is nothing wrong with that. How can anyone decry someone choosing to be safe and secure?

But for some, that is not nearly enough. The words at the top from Oscar Wilde‘s play, Lady Windermere’s Fan, perfectly capture this feeling.

For those folks there is a nagging thought, a strong desire to veer off that path and break free from the bonds of society and its imposed expectations. You want to stand apart, to live in the world in your own way, and be that person that you see yourself to be. To set aside the labels imposed on you so that you can begin defining yourself.

To be that person you know you are.

It sounds simple, even easy. Of course, it’s not. The pressure of pleasing the desires and expectations of others is replaced by other stresses created by the lack of the safety net that that one has when staying on the main road. But that is mostly overcome by the knowledge that you are on your own path, with as much freedom available as your dare to grab.

It can be hard going, not for the squeamish. But it is there for those of us who never felt at home in the crowd on that main road.

It is an always available choice.

Choose…

Here’s a tune whose chorus has lived rent-free in my head for nearly 50 years. Here’s David Bromberg from How Late’ll You Play Til?, his 1976 album.  This is Get Up and Go. Here’s that chorus:

You’ve got a mind of your own
Why don’t you use it?
You know your way home or did you lose it?
Well, you knew right where you were going
When you walked up to that door
And anytime you wanna leave
Get up to go

Fine words to bear in mind if you’re at that spot on your path and have to choose which to follow. Whichever you choose, get up and go.

You heard me– git!

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A Look Back: Respice Finem

Posted in Early Paintings, In the Studio, tagged , , , on May 18, 2026| 3 Comments »

Respice Finem (1999)– Coming to Principle Gallery, June

Respice finem; that is to say, in all your actions, look often upon what you would have, as the thing that directs all your thoughts in the way to attain it.

― Thomas Hobbes, Leviathan (1651)

The Gesta Romanorum is a early 14th century Latin collection of anecdotes and stories, most carrying a moral meaning. It was greatly influential as a source of material for generations of writers down through the centuries, such as Chaucer, Boccacio, and Shakespeare.

One of the tales concerns a certain King Dominatius who is approached by a traveling merchant who offers him three invaluable rules of wisdom for a hefty price. The King pays the price and is given the three tidbits which are:

  1. Quidquid agis, prudenter agas et respice finem translates as “Whatever you do, do it wisely, and consider its consequences or its end.”
  2. Never tell a secret to a woman or your dearest friend.
  3. If you leave your path for a shorter one, you will often find it longer and more dangerous.

The King was so taken by the first rule, Respice Finem, that he had it inscribed throughout his castle, even on the towels used while he was shaved. Though he is fair-minded and just ruler, he nonetheless has enemies surrounding him at court. They bribe the King’s barber to assassinate the King by cutting his throat while shaving him. Ready to do the act, the barber catches sight of the words on the King’s towel. He stops and thinks of what will become of him if he goes through with the deed, which would most likely be torture then crucifixion. Heeding the wisdom in considering the end of his actions, he drops the razor, thus ending the treasonous plot and saving the King’s life.

Over the years, Respice Finem, while serving as a warning to consider the long-term consequences, has also come to be viewed as a Memento Mori, a reminder of one’s mortality, to live so that your life will be approved after your death.

That brings us to the painting at the top, Respice Finem, which has been with me in my studio for most of the time since it was painted in 1999. It has become so ubiquitous to me that I don’t even remember why it stayed here for so long. It was always just here.

Maybe it was that title, reminding me to keep in mind that life is ephemeral, as well as that what we do today often has consequences in the distant future.

Maybe. Who knows?

Whatever the reason might be, this smaller painting is heading to the Principle Gallery for my June solo show there. As I have pointed out here, this year’s show will be hybrid retrospective of my work, combining new work with older examples from different points in my painting life.  I feel it is a fine example of my work from 1999, painted as it is in transparent inks over a surface treated with gesso, which at that time I was just starting to use. The segmented sky also signifies the process I employed while transitioning to larger work. At the time, I was working with small blocks or puddles of color and to make a larger piece I would sort of mesh together smaller blocks to cover a larger area.

It also has a sense of stillness that was the primary goal for my work then. Actually, it still is the goal.

It has lived well with me, and I have tried to heed the advice it has readily offered.

What more could I ask?

Well, there is still much to do in preparation for the show. The last few days have been rough, physically, so I am glad I began final prep work much earlier than normal in my process. Everything seems to be moving at a snail’s pace, just trying to conserve energy. But even that slower pace at much shorter intervals seems to drain me– much more than I had expected several months ago when I was planning for this. It seems that the fatigue I am experiencing, the added effort of the work itself, and the normal anxiety that comes with any show are a potent combo.

I guess I underestimated the effects of it all and overestimated my own ability to overcome it. Suppose I should have spent more time considering the message of the painting– Respice Finem. Consider the consequences.

That being said, today, as the song below from John Prine says, will no doubt be a Long Monday. One day, one step at a time…

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Flow

Posted in Early Paintings, Event, Painting, Poetry, tagged , , , on May 11, 2026| 4 Comments »

 

Flow– Coming to Principle Gallery, June

Quiet friend who has come so far,

feel how your breathing makes more space around you.
Let this darkness be a bell tower
and you the bell. As you ring,

what batters you becomes your strength.
Move back and forth into the change.
What is it like, such intensity of pain?
If the drink is bitter, turn yourself to wine.

In this uncontainable night,
be the mystery at the crossroads of your senses,
the meaning discovered there.

And if the world has ceased to hear you,
say to the silent earth: I flow.
To the rushing water, speak: I am.

— Rainer Maria Rilke, Let This Darkness Be a Bell Tower (1922)

My annual solo exhibit at the Principle Gallery opens in a little over a month, on Friday, June 12th. I have been in getting things together for the show in recent weeks, as I normally would though at a much slower pace. Still battling fatigue which requires that there be an almost equal amount of rest for any real effort made. This was to be expected after my recent radiation treatments so early in the year, the Principle Gallery and I decided that this year’s show would be a hybrid retrospective exhibit, a mix of new work and older work, covering the nearly thirty years my work has been showing there, as well as some representing my earliest work.

 I would prefer a show of only new work for this show, my 27th at the Principle. There’s something exciting about unveiling a group of new work. Sometimes it’s exciting like opening a wrapped Christmas present and sometimes it’s more like being handed the gun during a game of Russian Roulette. You never know.

But things being as they are, I am happy to put together this hybrid show. It’s been really interesting going through my older work and reexamining them with a newly critical eye. Fortunately, it’s gone pretty easily thus far.  The hard part is not in trying to determine which pieces fit into this show as I see it but rather which pieces I cannot include.

I believe that is because the title and theme for this year’s show is Flow. I wanted this show to show how the work has changed over the last thirty years but also how it has maintained a throughline in its identity and feeling.

A continuum.

A flow.

Like drops of water in a stream that moves forward and merges with and grows as it runs toward its place in the great waters of the earth.

I cross a small footbridge every morning while walking to the studio. It’s a runoff creek that dries up in the summer, much more often now than it did thirty years ago. But on those days when the creek is running, the thought that this humble trickle of water is destined to someday move through the Chesapeake Bay and merge with the Atlantic brings to mind the unity that makes up this world.

It seems small but contains greatness.

That’s how I would like to have this work come across, as part of the flow that sees small drops merging into a greater body.

I think the final lines from the poem at the top, Let This Darkness Be a Bell Tower, sums it up beautifully:

And if the world has ceased to hear you,
say to the silent earth: I flow.
To the rushing water, speak: I am.

These were, fittingly, the final lines of the final poem in his 1922 book, Sonnets to Orpheus. These lines spoke to me because when I began painting, I felt unheard in the world. Small and insignificant.  Each painting was a small droplet put out into the stream. Over the years, these droplets moved from stream to river, bay, and ocean, continually gaining momentum, proclaiming in its voice that comes from its humble origins in a tiny creek running through the wood: I flow, I am.

I flow, I am…

 

 

 

 

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Epiphany?

Posted in Biographical, Early Paintings, tagged , , , on May 9, 2026| 6 Comments »

Epiphany (2015)

I think a lot of people have unreasonable expectations because they never stop to consider what life actually has to offer them. They’re always looking for some great epiphany from the skies. They never stop to consider the fact which human beings find hardest to recognize: “Maybe I’m not worthy of an epiphany.”

–Robertson Davies, Conversations with Robertson Davies (1989)

The painting above, Epiphany, is another painting that will be heading to the Principle Gallery for my June show. It’s a painting that satisfies me on several levels. The contrast of the corona of light around the Red Tree against the underlying darkness of the black underpainting and the deep reds and yellows are right in my sweet spot. It also connects with me on a personal level, bringing to mind a very early painting that I might consider my one true experience with epiphany.

The word epiphany, of course, denotes someone experiencing a sudden and profound realization. A Eureka! moment. I never really thought about such things before. I mean who has time to seek something like epiphany when you’re just trying to get by in this world? And even if I had thought about it, I would have no doubt ascribed to the words above from the late Canadian man of letters, Robertson Davies, that you could waste your life seeking something that will never be available to you while the miracle of this world and our existence in it is in plain sight all the time. I am pretty sure I would not have seen myself as being worthy of an epiphany.

But you never know, do you? After my accidental fall from a ladder brought me to painting in late 1993, I began to spend several hours a day painting in between my job as waiter in a pancake house and working towards completing the construction of our home. I didn’t have any expectations at that point, never saw it doing anything other than providing an outlet for expressing pent up emotions in a constructive way. I would have been happy with that.

Well, I think would have been. It didn’t turn out that way so how can I really know what I would felt if that had been the case?

Anyway, as I worked in our back bedroom for several months, I began to feel that my painting had something more to offer me but I wasn’t seeing it. And to be honest, I had no idea what it might be or what it would even mean if I were to come across it. How would I know such a thing?

I tried to not think about such things and just focused on what the painting was giving me in the moment. Just seeing it develop and progress seemed to be enough.

One evening that summer, after doing my morning shift then working for a few hours on our house, I went home and sat down to paint. I was working on a small painting and suddenly it beckoned on me that what I was looking at was exactly that thing I was looking for. It suddenly had form and substance. More than that, I could see it in a flash that it instantaneously opened a path forward for me. I didn’t know where it would lead but I knew that it had to be followed.

I remember so distinctly that moment. I felt a giddy excitement that was a shock to me. The hair on the back of my neck was raised and my heart was racing. I didn’t know what to do. I mean, what do you do when something hits you like that? Nobody told me that something like this might happen. I needed to tell someone about this, but Cheri was still at work.

First View (1994)

I paced anxiously for a couple of hours, waiting for Cheri to return. I met her at the door and made her follow me into the back bedroom. I picked up the small piece of watercolor paper that held the painting. I can’t remember exactly how it was phrased but I said something like, “Look at this! Look at this!”

She looked then replied, “Yeah. It’s nice. What is it?”

“You don’t see it? That’s IT!”

“What’s it?

“This is what I have been looking for. This means something. I don’t know where or what, but this is going to take us somewhere.”

I told her how it came to be and my explosion of emotion when it appeared. I still am not sure she was impressed or convinced by what I was saying that night. In retrospect, I can understand that. It’s a quiet, simple little piece. It doesn’t yell or wave its arms to grab your attention.

But that didn’t matter to me. In my eyes that night– and even now– it set off explosions in me that blew down walls that had been hindering me from seeing the path that was now before me. It felt like it had opened up a whole new section of synapses in my brain that I had not been using up to that point.

I later titled it First View since it felt like I was looking at a newly discovered and unexplored vista. This unassuming little painting still retains its power for me. Every painting since this piece has been an attempt to recapture that explosive reaction that I felt on that summer night in 1994. There have been potent and wonderful moments from other paintings but none that came close to the feeling this painting provided.

Was that an epiphany? I don’t know. But if it wasn’t, maybe like Davies said, I wasn’t worthy of an epiphany and will probably never experience one. I don’t know that I could physically or mentally handle a real epiphany if that wasn’t one.

But epiphany or not, the painting above symbolizes and very well captures that moment from 1994. It is a direct descendant of First View and being so, carries elements from it that speak clearly to me, providing moments that recall that first epiphany, if that is indeed what it was. Letting me know that I was not mistaken in following the path I was given.

And that satisfies me in all the best ways.

What more can I ask?

 

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Only Now

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , on May 4, 2026| 6 Comments »

Only Now (2012) – Coming to Principle Gallery

This day will never come again and anyone who fails to eat and drink and taste and smell it will never have it offered to him again in all eternity. The sun will never shine as it does today…But you must play your part and sing a song, one of your best.

—Herman Hesse, Klingsor’s Last Summer (1920)

Only Now, shown above, is a 24″ by 30″ painting from 2012. It is scheduled for inclusion in my June solo show at the Principle Gallery. It has long been a favorite of mine.

I don’t know that I can put a finger on any specific reason for that, but it remains one of those pieces that speaks directly to me. Maybe it is its combination of airiness and earthiness or perhaps it is its clarity of both expression and message for me.

I guess the reason doesn’t matter so much as the fact that it communicates and connects with me on an emotional level. That is the final arbiter for me in all things.

A coincidence occurred while I was looking for a short quote or passage to accompany this painting. I came across the passage above from a lesser-known Hermann Hesse novella that I felt was custom made for this painting. The coincidence came in that I had just purchased the book last week and it still sits unopened and unread on the counter by the backdoor to the studio.

Mere coincidence? Most likely. But it made me wonder about the convergences of things and whether they have meaning in our lives, themes that seem at home in Hesse’s writings. And in my paintings.

By the way, Klingsor’s Last Summer is about a middle-aged painter in the last summer of his life. There is no coincidence here. This will not be my last summer, not by a long shot. Too many paintings still unpainted. Nor am I a middle-aged hedonistic, hard drinking womanizer in Italy like Hesse’s title character.

That description makes my life sound pretty damn boring. But I guess how we experience life is not so important as simply experiencing each day with the understanding that is a once-in-a-lifetime event.

Life is like art– to each his own.

And sometimes the inverse holds true– art is life.

Here’s a song to that might seem at first blush to be an odd choice to go along with this painting. But if you’ve ever really listened closely to the lyrics, you will understand the connection.

Day after day, alone on a hill
The man with the foolish grin is keeping perfectly still
But nobody wants to know him, they can see that he’s just a fool
And he never gives an answer

But the fool on the hill sees the sun going down
And the eyes in his head see the world spinning around

The song is, of course, the Beatles classic The Fool on the Hill from their 1967 album, Magical Mystery Tour. Though the Beatles’ original cannot be surpassed, I am sharing this version from Sergio Mendes & Brasil ’66 for the simple reason that I have always loved its sound and vibe.

And as you know, I am all about the vibe. Says the fool on his hill…

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A Look Back: Dissolve

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , on April 28, 2026| Leave a Comment »

Dissolve– 2011

Anyone in whom the troublemaking self has died,
sun and cloud obey.
If you wish to shine like day,
burn up the night of self-existence.
Dissolve in the Being who is everything.

— Rumi, Masnavi, Book I (ca. 1258)

The paintings in the A Look Back series usually drawn are from my earliest work, pre-2000 or thereabout. By that definition, this painting from 2011, Dissolve, is not part of that series. But nothing is carved in stone here and it is more than a few years old. That’s good enough for me.

I used this piece several weeks ago in a post about being humble. The painting was not mentioned and only served as a symbol of humility for that post. I thought it deserved more attention since it has long been a favorite of mine and will be included in my solo show, Flow, at the Principle Gallery in June.

Below is what I wrote about this painting soon after it was completed in 2011:

This painting called Dissolve is another in the series I’ve been working in for the past few months. This 24″ by 36″ piece is based very much on the same format as Like Sugar In Water, [a large 36″ by 60″ painting from that same time, shown below that served as an anchor for my 2012 show at the Fenimore Museum]. Both paintings grow from the bottom where they begin in structured blocks of color. The path cuts through, rising from the geometry of the fields up to a plain that flattens out. The path continues by the red-roofed house and is not seen again as it enters the broad yellow field that runs to the horizon. The path’s upward movement is continued in the spreading bare limbs of the distant tree which merges into the broken mosaic of the sky.

GC Myers- Like Sugar In Water

GC Myers- Like Sugar In Water 2011

It’s a simple concept and composition, dependent on the complexity of the color and the placement of the elements in order to transmit feeling and emotion. These simpler compositions, when things click and I feel they work well, are often very potent purveyors of feeling and are among my personal favorites. The stripped-down nature of the scene takes away all distractions and centers the essence of the work in the willing viewer’s eyes, making it very accessible to those who connect with it.

And that is much of what I hope for my work- to create work that stirs strong emotion within a seemingly simple context.

Maybe there’s more to it than this. I can’t be sure if my thoughts and interpretations are any more valid than those of a first-time viewer. That’s the great thing about art– there are no absolutes.

That’s also the thing about art that scares a lot of people. Many people fear the gray areas of this world, of which there are many, desiring an at least an appearance of absolute belief and knowledge in all aspects of their lives. However, art most often lives in the ambiguity and uncertainty of this world.

And that can be unsettling to some. 

 Dissolve seems absolute and certain at first glance but is all about the gray areas of our world and our belief.  At least as I see it…

I realize that this earlier description didn’t really say much about what it meant for me. Here’s how I described this painting to the writer for American Art Collector, which will be featuring it in an upcoming preview for my show:

The title for this painting, Dissolve, comes from the feeling I sometimes have that we humans exist in a state of being in that gray area between the physical solidity of this earth and the ethereal nature of the sky. We are made up of both– the physical and the ethereal– equally. At some point that balance shifts. The body remains but the ethereal part of us begins to disperse and dissolve into the sky. Like sugar in water.

I don’t know if the two descriptions combined do this piece justice. Funny how what seems to be a simple painting can sometimes be beyond the grasp of words yet speak powerfully to some emotion within us.

Maybe that is its strength, the quality in it that draws me to it.

I don’t know. I only know that it always leaves me with the desire to stand out in an open field and feel myself being absorbed into the ether, my atoms mingling once more with those of the universe.

Here is a song in a similar vein. This is a new cover of the Mazzy Star hit from 1993, Fade Into You, from Gregory Alan Isakov, who I have featured here in the past, and Sylvan Esso, which is an electropop duo from Durham, North Carolina , according to Wikipedia. Not knowing exactly what electropop is, they are new to me, but I like their work with Isakov on this song. It has a good feel.

Now be gone. You’re blocking my absorption…

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Failure? No, thank you…

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , on April 25, 2026| 2 Comments »

If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again. Then quit. There’s no point in being a damn fool about it.

-W.C. Fields

As I’ve been going through older work here in the studio lately, I began to think about the time and effort I spent in creating these paintings. The work probably represents thousands of hours spent painting, probably a couple of years of my labor, maybe more. I am not willing to do the precise calculations this morning.

Taking them all in, the question comes to mind: Do these pieces represent some form of failure?

The pessimistic part of me wants to say yes but examining each of them reveals a different answer. I would never consider most of the work failures in any way. They are alive and vibrant with speak their own voice. They simply haven’t found a way to escape from me. And for those paintings with evident flaws, their failure is a temporary condition that can be remedied with a bit more care and consideration on my part. A heightening of color here and there, a small addition that better balances the composition, or a change of frame or varnish for those that have been poorly presented.

Relatively minor things Few, if any, are irreparably flawed. Most just need a bit more time and attention.

And for those that can’t be brought alive, I salute them for their sacrifice. Their failure and the lessons learned from them may have provided what was needed for the success of another piece at some later date.

This all brings to mind the post below on failure that first ran back in 2011 and was shared again in 2021.

[From 2011}

In response to yesterday’s post concerning a very large blank canvas that is waiting patiently for me, I received several very interesting questions from my friend, Tom Seltz, concerning the role that failure and the fear of failure play in my work. He posed a number of great questions, some pragmatic and some esoteric, that I’ll try to address.

On the pragmatic side, he asked if there is a financial risk when I take on large projects like the 4 1/2′ by 7′ canvas of which I wrote. Shown here, this went on to become what I consider a signature piece, The Internal Landscape. Actually, it’s not something I think about much because every piece, even the smallest, has a certain cost in producing it that, after these many years, I don’t stop to consider. But a project such as this is costlier as a larger canvas is more expensive right from the beginning simply due to the sheer size of it. The canvas is heavier and more expensive and more of it is used. I use a lot more gesso and paint. The framing is much more expensive and the logistics of shipping and transporting become more involved and costly. It’s larger size and corresponding price means the audience of potential buyers is much more limited which means it might take more time to find, if it ever does. Which means more time trucking it around to galleries or storing it.

And while these cost of materials and handling represent the financial risk, the largest cost outlay comes in the time spent on such a project. It takes longer to prepare such a large canvas, longer to paint and, if it works out, longer to finish and frame. This is time not spent on other projects. Time spent is by far the biggest risk in facing such a project and that is something I have to take into consideration before embarking on large projects.

He also asked whether I can reuse the materials if I don’t like what I’ve painted. Sure, for the most part.  Especially canvasses. Actually, the piece shown here on the right was once such a piece. There’s a failure lingering still beneath its present surface.

I had a concept in my head that floated around for months and I finally started putting it down on this 30″ square canvas. I spent probably a day and a half worth of time and got quite far into it before I realized that it was a flawed concept, that I was down a path that was way off the route I had envisioned. It was dull, shapeless, and lifeless, even at an early stage.

It was crap and I knew that there was no hope for it. I immediately painted it over, mainly to keep me from wasting even more time by trying to resuscitate it, something I often attempt. The piece shown here emerged, happily for me.

Tom also asked if I ever “crashed and burned” on a piece or if the worst sort of failure was that a piece was simply mediocre. Well, I guess the last few paragraphs say a bit about the “crashed and burned” aspect, although that is a rarer event than one might suspect. After decades of painting, a piece doesn’t get too far along in the process before I recognize its apparent flaws in design or execution and begin the process of correcting them.

Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t. The beauty of painting is that it’s results are always subjective. There is almost never total failure.

It’s not like skydiving and when your parachute doesn’t open you die. At least, that hasn’t been my experience thus far.

I’ve fallen on my face many times but I’m still here.

Mediocrity is a different story. That is the one thing I probably fear most for my work and would consider a piece a failure if I judged it to be mediocre. I have any number of examples I could show you in the nooks and crannies of my studio. I’m not sharing those today. Even flawed and mediocre, these pieces have a purpose for me, and many have remaining promise. The purpose is in the lessons learned from painting them. I usually glean some information from each painting, even something tiny but useful for the future. Each is a rehearsal in a way. But most times, the mediocre pieces teach me what I don’t want to repeat in the future. A wrong line or form here. A flatness of color there or just simple dullness everywhere.

But, being art, there are few total failures, and many of these somewhat mediocre pieces sit unfinished because there are still stirs of promise in them.  I can’t tell you how many times I’ve come to what I felt was a dead end for a painting, feeling that it was dull and lifeless, and set it aside. Months and months might pass and one day I might pick it up and suddenly see something new in it. A new way to move in it that brings it new life. These paintings often bring the greatest satisfaction when they leave the gallery with a new owner.

Sometimes failure is simply a momentary perception that requires a new perspective.

Sometimes you need to fail in order to succeed later.

Okay, that’s it for now. I’m sure I have more to say about failure, but it will have to wait until a later date. I’ve got work waiting for me that doesn’t know the meaning of the word failure and I don’t want to take the risk that it might learn it.

Tom, thanks again for the great questions.  I’m always eager for good questions so keep it up!

Now here’s I Don’t Mind Failing from the quirky folksinger Malvina Reynolds. It’s from around 1965 and was written after hearing a sermon called The Fine Art of Failing. Lot of great lines in this one:

I don’t mind failing in this world,
I don’t mind failing in this world,
Somebody else’s definition
Isn’t going to measure my soul’s condition,
I don’t mind failing in this world.

Give a listen and if you fail today, don’t worry about it. You’re in good company.

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A Look Back: My Little Town

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , on April 24, 2026| 6 Comments »

My Little Town (1995)

In my little town
I grew up believing
God keeps his eye on us all
And he used to lean upon me
As I pledged allegiance to the wall

— Paul Simon, My Little Town

This is a little piece from back in November of 1995. There was a lot going on at that point of that year. I had started showing my work at the West End Gallery by then while still working as a waiter at a pancake house and continuing to build our home, which we hoped to soon occupy. My mom was also in the last week or two of her life, a thousand miles away.

It was a busy and fraught time.

I don’t how much any of that came into play for this little painting at the time. I just don’t remember much about working on it. I do remember not thinking much of it when it was done. It felt more like an exercise in color and form more than anything. For the some time, I wouldn’t give it much consideration when I went through my old work. I didn’t even bother scanning it when I was documenting much of the other small pieces from that time. It just seemed insignificant.

But I did title it, scrawling My Little Town along with the date on the bottom of the piece of watercolor paper on which it was painted. That alone makes me think that it had something in it that clicked with some part of me that I might not have recognized at that time.

It seems as though that was the case. Over the years I increasingly began to stop and look at this small painting when I shuffled through the old stuff. It had a completeness that spoke to me and differentiated it from other old work that seemed to be missing this critical element.

It also made me think about what it was saying to me as well as what was meant by that title. I was pretty sure it didn’t mean anyplace I recognized as my home in this physical world. At that time, I felt somewhat disconnected from calling anyplace home. I felt rootless, having not yet discovered the ties our family had to this place. It felt like there was a hole in my existence, one that had me seeking some place I would know as home. This search for home was a theme in my work for quite a few years.

I now see this painting as being about the hometown that was forming in my imagination. The same place that later spawned the Red Tree and the Red Roofs. If I couldn’t feel an attachment to any place then, I could still create such a place in my mind.

And that is how I see this piece now, as being emblematic of the imagination’s power to satisfy a basic need. It tells me that wherever I am, my hometown is there in my head. As a result, it has gone from having me see it as a mere exercise into a favorite little piece.

Of course, the title was derived from the Simon and Garfunkel song of the same name which I am sharing below. I am also sharing a video from back in 2010 that deals with this same idea of home. It is titled Finding Home and was put together at the request of gallery in Tulsa, Oklahoma that was showing my work at the time. It’s kind of rudimentary compared to what can be done these days and the resolution seems poorer than I remember. I watched it for the first time in many years this morning and was interested in seeing the studio (and myself) then as compared to now. The work shown in it is all well remembered. The wall behind me as I was working at my painting table, the one that contained a few pieces of my work, is now a pair of windows. I was heavier then, as well. Things change.

Okay. Enough. I have to get to work while I still have a bit of energy. I have been fatigue’s bitch these last few days. I bet you weren’t expecting that phrase. Oh, well, what are you gonna do? Now, git…

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Room to Breathe/Ride Lonesome

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , on April 23, 2026| 2 Comments »

Room to Breathe (2010)

You got to ride lonesome
You got to try to find the road
You got to cry a river
And follow it all the way home
Alone

— Beck, Ride Lonesome (2026)

The painting at the top, Room to Breathe, has long been a favorite of mine. When it was painted in 2010, it seemed different than the work I was doing at the time, more like a throwback to my earlier work. It had that feel, painted as it was with the transparent inks that marked my early work. It also had that same airy solitariness with the Red Tree out and away from the other trees beneath a wide and deep sky.

But more than these other similarities, it had a simplicity that I was craving at the time. My early work was simple by design, meant to cut away the distraction of detail, allowing the few basic forms to hopefully dance and harmonize with one another. More than that, it allowed space for the viewer’s own feelings.

Room to Breathe felt like it was very much cut from the same cloth.

It is well traveled, having made the rounds of the galleries around the country through the years. Every piece does not immediately find a home and sometimes those pieces that I consider true gems are simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. So, having a painting return to you is not uncommon. In fact, it’s a regular and expected thing for any artist, something taken it in stride.

But with some pieces, there is a sense of hurt attached to them when they return. Every piece I paint has an emotional investment, carrying with it some part of me. But some pieces seem to carry a bit more of me with them. Their return always feels like it is not only the painting that is being rejected. It feels like it is a personal rejection as well.

I know that this is not the case. But that feeling still lingers even after I have rationalized the why’s and how’s of it. I sometimes think it is like seeing something in your child that is not evident to everyone else and how deeply you feel at even the most minor of rejections they experience.

It is a disappointment that comes when others are somehow blind to the qualities that you love in your progeny.

I suppose that is how I feel about this painting. And maybe it also represents my own moments of rejection or exclusion, those times when I found myself not part of the in-crowd or even in the inner core of my smaller group of friends.

Like the Red Tree standing apart from the group of trees.

I have found that standing apart is not a bad thing. There is, as the title plainly states, room to breathe. Clear air and unobstructed views.

Room to think and grow in all directions.

I am still debating whether I will include this painting in my June show at the Principle Gallery. I am not sure I want to subject this child of mine– or myself– to yet another potential rejection.

But I tell myself that one of the lessons of this life is that though you may face disappointment and rejection, you have to keep getting up and going out to meet it head-on.

Who knows– it might be your lucky day.

Here’s a new song from Beck that initially sparked this entry. It’s called Ride Lonesome. Its chorus shown at the top pretty much sums up what I have tried to say here.

Now, get out of here and go back to the other trees. I want to be alone…

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The Outsider

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , on April 1, 2026| 2 Comments »

Out of the Loop 2013

I’m fundamentally, I think, an outsider. I do my best work and feel most braced with my back to the wall. It’s an odd feeling though, writing against the current: difficult entirely to disregard the current. Yet of course I shall.

–Virginia Woolf, 22 November 1938, A Writer’s Diary (1953)

The lines above Virginia Woolf from a 1938 entry in her A Writer’s Diary struck a chord with me. In the entry, Woolf looked back on her career, describing how she had at points received praise and widespread acclaim and at other times fell out of favor with the literati, suffering criticism and personal attacks that marked her as a second-rate talent.

She had certainly known the highs and lows.

She claimed that the attacks did not bother her as much as she might have expected since she had never saw herself as being famous. How can they take away something you never felt you possessed? Actually, she saw their downgrading of her as being a sort of relief, shedding all pretense of her being part of the insider’s club. She could clearly see herself as an outsider now. As she wrote, it put her back to the wall, a place where she felt she did her best work.

Much like the I’ll show them attitude I described here recently.

As I wrote above, this resonated with me. Though I’ve had my fair share of high points and an equally fair share of low points, I have always, like Woolf, viewed myself as an outsider.

I believe this comes from knowing who I am and how I am built. I understand that I don’t have what it takes to be an insider. I don’t play a social game, don’t go to parties and few openings. To be honest, I am uncomfortable at my own events. I don’t schmooze with museum or gallery directors. Don’t seek out people who might specifically help my career. No agent seeking new opportunity nor public relations person trying to spread my name in the media. Outside of this blog and a few little social media entries, I have no mechanism for self-promotion. And even this seems like something more than self-promotion now.

I was never part of an artistic group or school. Well, there was one time, when my work first showed at the Principle Gallery in 1997. I was part of group of five artists from this region, all then showing at the West End Gallery, selected by the Principle Gallery who then labeled us the Finger Lakes School. We did a couple of shows there under that label. But even then, I was the outsider in that group, the only one of the five working outside of traditional representational oil painting.

I also don’t pursue opportunity. Perhaps to a fault.

After my 27-year relationship with Kada Gallery in Erie ended when they closed a couple of years ago and the gallery repping my work in California had changed their business model in a way that greatly lowered my visibility there, I considered looking for new galleries to replace those two. I had a realization then that I had not approached a gallery in nearly 30 years and that every gallery that had represented me approached me first. Approaching galleries now felt so far out of my comfort zone that I soon dropped the idea.

And often, I turn away those opportunities that are offered.  I have often failed to follow-up on commission requests simply because I wanted to do work that pleased me first and then others, not the other way around.

A year or so ago, I was offered a chance to have 13 of my Red Tree paintings grace the covers of a series of Hermann Hesse books published in Mandarin Chinese. The company in China had been following my work for several years and felt that my work was a good match for Hesse’s work. I was flattered but ended up turning down the offer simply because I felt it was too far out of my hands.

Mistake? Maybe. It wouldn’t be the first time. But I find myself being okay with this and those other peccadilloes because I know how I am.

I know I am an outsider, will never be the toast of the art world outside of my little corner of it every once in a while.

The way I see it is that to be in that wider spotlight requires effort and responsibility that goes well beyond the work itself, something I am not comfortable in taking on at this point in my life as an artist.

And I am fine and comfortable with that. To be honest, I never trusted the perception that came with the highs nor the lows. Though the praise is nice to hear sometimes and the rejection always stings, they ultimately are not accurate indicators. The work was generally equal in my eyes at both the high and the low points. Actually, there has been work produced in the low points that went unnoticed that I feel was better than much of the work from the high points.

Time, it turns out, levels out those highs and lows.

So now I just do my work, as Woolf did, with my back against the wall and going forever against the current.

That’s all I can do. That is who and what I am– the outsider.

Here’s a tune from Eddie Vedder that is somewhat, if not wholly, in the same vein. This is Society.

PS: Not that it matters, but this is a remake of the post I accidentally deleted yesterday. I think the original had a bit more gracefulness and flow than this one. Maybe it hit its points more impactfully. But this will have to do for now.  It’s much like trying to recreate a painting where the original just flowed organically from the artist. The copy never has the same ease of being, at least in the eyes of its maker. 

The painting at the top, Out of the Loop, is a piece from 2013 that I am considering for inclusion in my June show at the Principle Gallery. It recently came back to me from California where it had been for over a dozen years. My impression of it had been reduced to the online image of it, such as the one at the top. When I took it from the crate, I was thrilled and surprised at its vibrance and depth, which far exceeded the digital image. Seemed a perfect fit for this post but still deciding if it goes to Alexandria in June. We’ll see…

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