An artistic medley by
Autobiography, ideologies, paintings, and poems

Although my creative strength is not in writing, I felt compelled to express myself through this self-published artistic medley containing my autobiography, ideologies, paintings, and poems. I am convinced that this will give the reader a well-rounded continuum about me. In regards to my artistic endeavor: If by any measure I accomplish what I set forth, it will be a life filled with exploring my thoughts and documenting the results through various artistic means of expression. If by a greater measure I surpass what I set forth, the results of these thoughts and expressions will be displayed in prestigious collections and museums alongside the works of renowned artists.


My family’s heritage bursts with enriching flavor. Its descendents are richly seasoned with cultural, ethnic, and geographic diversity—politically, economically, and socially. My family tree thrives on individuality, yet it is strengthened through bonds of unity. Its foundation and roots are deep, immersed in the clay and sandy soils of Eden’s bedrock. Its trunk is raised high in the sky like a magnificent totem pole adorned with the bark of many nations, colors and creeds. Its branches are spread out in a web of multi-layered ideologies that intertwine with the environment, effectively adapting to the surrounding atmosphere with increasing vitality. Its leaves are all-seasonal with blooming flowers that permeate the air with fragrance.

My childhood surroundings were comprehensive, richly influenced by my atmosphere; my demographics worth a 50-point word in Scrabble. In the following paragraph, my lineage—which at first appears to be the members in attendance of a multicultural-luncheon, a global peace conference, or the United Nations General Assembly—are the offspring of my maternal Grandparents, Charles and Myrtle Murphy. Introducing the blood of my blood, flesh of my flesh, in no particular order or color, those who my mother calls the rainbow tribe:

Khaidijah, Joan, Perry, Talia, Charles, Brooklyn, Henry, Charlene, Brian, Kimyata, Michael, Tarra, Zoe, Scott, Ahmed, Shawn, Sallah, Donniel, Hellema, Myranda, Scott, Crystal, Adam, Jumaani, Alex, Olivia, Dominique, Mark, Ajahnee, Seattle, Moriah, Patrick, Arianna, Miguel, Qwaniah, Hunter, Kalijah, Hassen, Robert, Mahogany, and Johara (who passed moments before leaving her mother’s womb).


Let me begin with a confession: the duration of time between Brian’s first request to write an introduction to this collection and the engendering of these words, has been a substantial lapse. It was not of procrastination or insincerity that I avoided the task, it was simply that I did not know how to appropriately express my sentiments to his work.
When I first met Brian I was left with the prevailing sense of his genuine character and integrity. He is someone you immediately know governs himself by his principles yet still adheres to an immense regard for others. So when he shared his work with me, even if I had not known him, I was able to see the core of his being translated into tangible form.
Whatever my sheer visceral reaction was to each piece, I was moved by their raw and brilliant nature. It was Brian, unfiltered, only in words and on canvas. And when he began to describe the meaning and symbolism behind his creations, each began to resonate with the passion in which they were materialized. The only aspect of his life I have heard him discuss with a more fervent expression is when the conversation shifts to that of his wife and children. His unrelenting love for his family is the predominant driving force which harbors not only his inspiration, but soul as well.
It has been an honor to have seen Brian’s art develop during the past years, but it is an even greater honor to have known him. In this brief preface I have done no justice to the beauty of his art and poetry. Yet even if I were granted volumes in which to pen my reflections, I would still not be in the appropriate vicinity of grace and elegance. So when these forwarding pages are turned, and each piece is standing autonomously yet supported by the others, remember the man responsible and the rest will be clear.

Janice K. Carson, Educator
with Renee Carson

Diehard determination to not allow others to decide whether he was talented or not.  A mind that far exceeds the understanding of my own.  To walk through life as one who belongs.  To become one with any environment in which he'd been placed.  To laugh, to cry, to strive.  All will be encouraged as one journeys through a few pages in his earth walk.  May you be intrigued and blessed as you see a glimpse of this amazing man I call my brother.
Shawn Moniquea Edlund


If it is in a magnificent way that I intend to insert an addendum into the history of modern art, I must paint with the child-like imagination of Picasso while using a brush with bristles made of Dali's mustache. Although I never met Picasso or Dali—who together in a room are like a particle and antiparticle nanoseconds away from annihilation—their life's work and legacy have unquestionably influenced a majority of what I understand and appreciate about modern art. They were the vanguards of Abstraction and Surrealism, the two main art movements that ferociously battled to conquer the 20th Century; both of them were autonomous in their craftsmanship and philosophies, creating and abandoning styles and genres before anyone else had the opportunity to comprehend their genius.

In my opening statement I chose to focus on Picasso and Dali, not because my artistic scope is limited, but because I recognize that any artist born after these two brilliant Spaniards becomes lost in the shadow of their success—let alone the dominant Spanish figures of the Golden Age that paved their way: El Greco, Diego Velasquez, and Francisco Goya.

It is often said in traditional art circles that if a painter desires to be great, they must first learn how to paint like the masters; therefore as my teachers, I chose Dali and Picasso—the classical masters of modern art. I don’t want to become them, but through their instruction of artistic brilliance, and the exhortation of other ambitious artists, I can become BRIMS: Perhaps, one of the great and well known painters of the Twenty-First Century.

 I don’t want to limit my praise to Spanish artists, though they are among my favorites, as there were many significant artists of various ethnicities throughout the history of art. This history, from the cave paintings of Lascaux to the wallpaper and screensavers of personal computers, is fascinating and worth the study of anyone interested; but the scope of this book is not about the history of art, nor other artists. But if the reader wonders, the past seven centuries, from the Gothic art of Giotto to the Abstract Expressionism of Pollock, are some of my favorite, though my inspiration comes from a much broader spectrum: Every artist who ever lived inspires me; from the creation of our universe to the simplified stick-figures drawn by a child. With such a glorious history of artists, how difficult it is then, to become known among them—this will be determined by an artist’s relentless ambition to create works that cause the viewer to pause and appreciate the fruits of their work.

Due to the fact that many artists published little about themselves—perhaps a lack of foresight, resources or time for personal reflection—many publications in circulation today do not accurately portray the life of the artist; consequently, some accounts consist of hearsay, speculation, or blatantly false information. For these reasons, I chose to give the first account of my life. In addition, I don’t want the only accounts of my life to be second-hand like the teachings of Socrates recorded in Plato’s dialogues; or like Shakespeare, arguably one of the greatest writers in the English language, but who is he? Nor do I have the time to wait for someone else to discover me—I want to provide an inheritance for my wife and children. Furthermore, I understand that art historians, authors, or publishers, usually do not intend to mislead; instead, they are constrained by the lack of verifiable information. When reliable information is discovered, it can be obscure, or mistakenly taken out of context. Thus my intention as an artist, and now an author, is to document a diverse glimpse of the events that brought me to this point, to give the reader an unabridged version of my life right from the “Bag.”
However, even though I wrote this book, a bit of uncertainty will still exist, as this book is based upon what I remembered or what others have told me about when I was too young to remember. With that being said, I put myself in a precarious position of contradicting the initial reason why I wanted to write this book—to accurately portray the life of the artist; nonetheless, I wrote it. What I mean is that I didn’t trace my beginnings like the patriarchs of the bible, or my life history like a presidential nominee; instead, I sought them out like salmon swimming upstream avoiding the claws of bears and the hooks of fishermen. I didn’t waist any of my time on talk shows to verify my bloodline, nor did I ask my parents or five sisters for a DNA comparison analysis. Thus, here in these pages you may come across certain fallacies, or errors in my reasoning; not that I intended them, but they are inevitable. For instance: My mother and father told me I’m their son; so it must be true, right? This is a classical appeal to authority—just because someone in an authoritative position says so, does not constitute a truth. Was I there when I was born, did I see myself conceived? Do I remember swimming towards my mother’s ovum, or was I injected by a needle? These are disturbing thoughts, I know (some that Sigmund Freud would appreciate); nonetheless, they are valid. My birth certificate states the name of my parents, the hospital I was born at, and the doctor who delivered me; yet, this could be a fraudulent document—I hope this isn’t the case. Yet, for the sake of preventing a few historical misdemeanors, philosophical disputes, or the psychoanalysis of a shrink—I am aware of these inherent uncertainties. So, in no manner do I consider this to be a thorough account—it’s not the synoptic gospels. Instead, as I alluded to, think of this as an honest approach to capture segments of my memory, before my mind crashes from not being defragged.

Chapter 1

 My mother, Charlene Myrtle Murphy, daughter of Charles Barney Murphy and Myrtle Ethel Fryett, was born on 28 January1941 in the small town of Roslyn, Washington. A midwife delivered her while my grandfather, completely covered in soot, was mining coal deep beneath the surface of the earth. Shortly after she was born, my grandparents moved to Seattle and my grandfather got a job as a welder at Houghton’s Lake Washington Shipyard. Then, with the news of the attack on Pearl Harbor and the United States declaring war on Japan, my grandfather contemplated the possibility of joining the Navy before he was drafted to another service; but before he could say “Aye aye, Skipper” he was at Camp Roberts, the Army’s Replacement Training Center, with a 50-caliber machinegun in his hand.

For years I wondered why my grandfather was so quiet; he always seemed preoccupied with deep thoughts, and not too interested in running his household. He kept to himself, except for an occasional giggle. My grandmother on the other hand, ran the show; she was a strong woman, perfectly capable of the leadership role. This has been the case with most of the women in my family; not because they chose this role, but because the men did not—some of them were not interested, not around, or incarcerated.

My grandfather was not around for a few years in the mid-forties, though for a much different reason. He was a member of the 25th Infantry Division, “Tropic Lightning,” who assisted in the liberation of the Philippines and fulfilled MacArthur’s famous words that he said in 1942 upon his retreat, “I shall return.” Starting in January of 1945, my grandfather, Corporal Murphy, was in combat for nearly six months straight providing support for a field artillery battery whose mission was to clear Japanese forces throughout central Luzon and the Caraballo Mountains. During this mission, in some of the fiercest fighting of the Pacific war, the 25th Infantry Division suffered more casualties than any other American forces in the Philippines.

While my grandfather helped to liberate the Philippines, my grandmother raised my mother in an old house in her friend’s backyard; for extra income, near the end of World War II, she got a job as a clerk-typist for the Army Corps of Engineers. Shortly after Japan’s unconditional surrender in September of 1945, my grandfather was sent to Japan to help with occupational duty; while there, he was offered the rank of Sergeant if he remained on active duty—he declined, finished his obligated service, and returned to Seattle. My mother, around 5-years old, was thrilled to see her father return, though she would never know who he was—to know someone before and after they have fought in a war, is to know two different people. After learning about my grandfather’s role in World War II, I began to understand why he was so quiet in his latter years. My grandmother talked about a different man before and after the War, and my mother recalled that he had awful night terrors and was not that affectionate towards her—war changes everyone.

This could also explain why my grandfather was a first-rate hunter, as was his only son, my uncle Pat, who was in the Navy stationed onboard the USS Camden (AOE-2) during Vietnam—they both loved to be in the wilderness, regardless of the elements, hunting, fishing and picking wild berries. My grandparents were essentially urban hunter-gatherers: In addition to a backyard full of rabbits that they raised, every deer and elk hunting season venison was a staple at their home. What they didn’t cook, they froze, canned or dehydrated and made into jerky. Their backyard was also a flourishing garden of fruits, vegetables and spices that my grandmother canned in mason jars and gave to the rest of the family. Whenever my cousin Scott and I went camping with them or visited their property east of the Cascades, we picked wild berries that my Grandmother turned into wonderful preserves and jams. On one of these adventures she taught me how to swim and I picked my first wild blueberry. On a side note, she taught me how to wipe my butt with four squares of toilet paper, and when I cursed she put a bar of soap in my mouth; needless to say, my cousin Scott and I were always blowing bubbles.

By the time my mother was thirteen she could design and make just about anything with a sewing machine; from looking at basic patterns in the fabric store and giving them her own fashion twist, to buying worn clothes at second-hand stores and transforming them into fabulous ensembles. When she was fourteen, by word or mouth, she got hired by a local seamstress, Mrs. Howell, who taught her how to make professional drapes on industrial-sized sewing machines. Later in life she built upon these skills and taught herself how to be a full-fledged upholsterer.

When I was a teenager I remember scouting through neighborhoods with my mother and sisters just before trash pickup searching for furniture placed next to the dumpsters; if we found something that looked interesting my mother had us haul it home. Between custom-order drapes and dresses, she reupholstered these found items and converted them into sleek modern piece of furniture. Upon completion she would say, “Not too shabby.” The goal was to sell them at the swapmeets and my parents’ upholstery shop, One-In-A-Million, which they owed for a short while in the early 1980s.

We also scouted out the local second-hand stores and garage sells in search of priceless items made of amber, turquoise, brass and copper, especially anything made in Lombard, England. In the beginning, this was a noble undertaking, but through an injury my mother’s health began to deteriorate; she lost her shop and our entire house became an overstocked storage unit jam-packed with unfinished projects—as my siblings moved out, their room too was crammed from floor-to-ceiling with potential treasures. This was no small house either; it had three floors, 8 bedrooms, and two kitchens. There were paths throughout the house like a labyrinth that led you from one pile to another. At one point our house was so cluttered that in the mid 1990s, tipped-off by a phone call my older sister Perry made, my mother was featured on several talk shows, including The Gayle King Show and Northwest Afternoon. She, a self-proclaimed pack rat, was dubbed the “Queen of Clutter,” among other dubious tittles.

After nineteen years in this house she was evicted (after my siblings and I moved out) and a lot of these projects went to the dump. It was at this same house that a fake Christmas tree, among other peculiar items, was on our dinning room table for over ten years. I literally briefed my friends before they entered my home for the first time, and still, every single time, their jaws dragged across the threshold as they entered. My friends and I laughed for hours every time we talked about the clutter in my house; at times we picked a pile and shoved our hand deep within it, then pulled out whatever we grabbed.
“What did you get,” we said. Each time it was something completely different. Believe it or not, I was never ashamed of our house; I brought over anyone I could just to see their reaction and to help them understand my living conditions. Could you imagine what my wife thought when she first seen this house?

When my mother was 15 she got a job at the original Dick’s Drive-In, a successful greasy spoon restaurant located in the Wallingford district near the University of Washington, which today is the states oldest fast food restaurant. By working there, she unknowingly started a family tradition. Over the years our family went to Dick’s for just about any occasion, especially if it was near one of their five stores, as was my high school graduation. Influenced by the atmosphere, work ethics and great food, my sisters Shawn and Kimyata, and I, all worked there as well for a year or so. Since its first store opened on my mother’s 13th birthday, 28 January 1954, Dick’s has been a hang out for many Seattleites—from vagrants to the elite. To locals, Dick's serves the best burgers, fresh-cut fries, and hand-whipped shakes anywhere.

My birth father, Gilbert Allen Sims, son of Morris Oliver Sims & Ida Meardine Angelakos, was born on 24 March 1938 in Birmingham Alabama; afterward his family moved to Seattle. During the mid 1950s, while living near the University of Washington, he led a local greaser’s gang called the White Rats, a black leather and blue denim standard group of rebels that mainly threw wild parties. In 1957 my mother met him at one of his wild parties, at which time she was given one of the prized White Rats membership cards. They hung out occasionally for a few years, and then on 26 October 1962 they exchanged vows; two years later my oldest sister Perry was born. After her birth, they moved to the industrial naval city of Bremerton, which is a transitional city for shipyard workers and sailors. My father worked as a pipe fitter at Puget Sound Naval Shipyard, while my mother stayed home perfecting her craft of sewing. She made drapes, bedspreads, and beautiful dresses for my three sisters that were born during the Sexy Sixties—Perry in 1964, Donniel in 1966, and Shawn in 1968. They were the first fruits of Generation X, each one of them leading completely different lives. As I remember, Perry was outgoing, Donniel a goody two-shoe, and Shawn the adventurous one.

In the early stages, the picture of my parents’ marriage embodied Impressionism at its finest hour, like a Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte, or lilies in one of Monet’s ponds; they had a wonderful relationship, three beautiful daughters, and were financially well off. They enjoyed a beautiful Starry Night; like a Surrealist’s canvas, their dream was realized. However, as their dream manifested, so did the psychology of my father—his mental suppression of consciousness was awakened, and his behavioral characteristics became Unrestrained, which led to the development of multiple personalities. At first this was entertaining to my mom and sisters, like Picasso’s Rose and Blue periods simultaneously, but he lost sight of the mechanism that controlled them; this left my father vulnerable, and at times, unable to distinguish reality from fantasy. Consequently, my parents’ relationship began to deteriorate and the picture of their marriage was on a course Towards Abstraction, breaking apart like one of Kandinsky’s early compositions, particularly VI and VII. As a means to vent, my father spent money on frivolous living; like the spontaneous improvisations in Pollock’s drip and splash style of action painting, he carelessly did whatever he wanted to without fear of reproach or consequence. Subsequently, my mother became suspicious of his activities and began to wonder if he had another muse. Then one day while she was bowling with her friends, her female instincts told her that something was out of the norm—upon returning home, she saw my father with another young woman. At this point, the picture of their marriage was forced to look like one of Rothko’s typical pictorial forms with two or three separated rectangles. In the following months my father became violent; he began throwing fits as well as the nearest objects to him. And while my mother was pregnant with me, he threw the andiron from the fireplace tool set at her. After this, the picture of their marriage was reduced to nothing more than one of Malevich’s White on White paintings. To flee the insanity and constant mood changes of my father, my mother stayed with her parents from time to time in Wedgewood, 7 miles NE of Seattle.

During one of these visits to my grandmother’s house, while my mother was pregnant with me, she went into labor and was rushed to the Northwest Hospital and Medical Center in North Seattle. I was delivered on Friday at 1:12 pm, 24 September 1971. The next day, the doctor told my mother that I was the biggest child delivered in Seattle that day, a hefty 10 pounds 11 ounces. It took two doctors pushing on my mother’s stomach and one pulling on me (like giving birth to a calf). Strangely enough, my mother said it was more comical than painful, probably because it was her first epidural—thanks mom.

For the occasion of presenting me to the rest of the family, my mother dressed up like an emerald queen: She wore an elegant green satin dress layered with a green velvet vest that went down to her ankles, accented with blue suede shoes, a white platinum wig, thick false eyelashes, and green pearl earrings. After she got all decked out, she sat back down in her bed, and ordered a steak dinner from the hospital menu. She was so proud to have her son. Latter that day in a letter to her aunt Ruth she wrote: "I feel it a real pleasure to be a mother of a baby boy. It is still like a big dream to me. I love my girls so very much. They have always given me great happiness. And now the greatest of all a son. All day I look at him and I'm thankful that I was made a mother."

Although my mother was in Seattle because of a series of unfortunate events, I am thankful that I was born to an emerald queen in the “Emerald City,” Seattle’s nickname it received in the mid 1980s for its lush-green urban parks and forests. As an artist, I considered it a privilege, even a birthright, to have been born of my mother in the city that has provided me with a lifetime of inescapable culture, diversity, and inspiration. Seattle is beautifully surrounded by mountains, valleys and waterways; for any artist, there are plenty of breath-taking views: To the East, Lake Washington, Snoqualmie Falls, and the Cascade Mountain Range; to the West, the Puget Sound, Olympic Mountains and Peninsula; to the South, Mount Rainier; and to the North, the Strait of Juan de Fuca, which connects the Puget Sound to the Pacific Ocean. Originally called the Duwamps, it was renamed in the 1850s in honor of Chief Seattle (or Sealth), leader of the Suquamish and Duwamish Native American Tribes, for his bravery, loyalty, and tactful negotiations with the early white settlers. Thus, in my own life, to honor the courageous spirit of Chief Seattle and the Native Americans, and to commemorate the location of where my wife and I met, and where I was born, we named our first child Seattle Ann Sims.

In Seattle during the year I was born: Starbucks opened its first coffee shop in Seattle's Historic Pike Place Market; the Seattle Arts Commission, which promotes art and culture throughout the city, was established; and the Seattle Festival for the Arts, known as Bumbershoot, was organized—now one of America's largest urban arts festivals.

Throughout my childhood and adolescence going to Bumbershoot, Northwest Folklife Festival, Seattle International Children's Festival, and the circus at the Seattle Center were yearly family events. In addition, the Seattle Center was a safe haven for my cousin, Scott, and I; we made our daily rounds all summer to the Northwest Craft Center, Pacific Science Center, and Center House, collecting as many souvenirs and free brochures as we could. When it was hot, we climbed up the International Fountain and placed soda cans and Styrofoam cups over its water nozzles, which were synchronized to classical music, then ran away and watched them shoot up in the sky like rockets. In the midst of our studious activities of running amuck, we were occasionally told to slow down by security, but then went right on entertaining ourselves. Most of the security and workers knew who we were anyway, because our Great Grandmother Fryett, Grandmother Murphy, his mother Joan (my Aunt), and Aunt Nancy, who operated the world famous Bubbleator, all worked in the Center House in the late 70s.
Elsewhere in the United States during the year I was born: The busing of students to achieve desegregation in public schools was unanimously upheld by the Supreme Court—in high school, I was bussed from one side of the city to the other. The voting age for American citizens in the United States was lowered from 21 to 18—I turned 18 the day I graduated boot camp, and felt that if I could serve my country, I should be able to vote for its leaders. One of the most notorious events to happen this year was the nation's largest civil disobedience action, "Mayday," held in Washington DC. 25,000 ambitious radicals made an effort to prevent government employees from getting to work, so in effect they couldn’t fight the war. An unnamed friend of mine, who was a product of the Pennsylvanian educational system, was among these radicals, removing wheels from cars and sitting them on their hubs to block bridges and roadways.

Chapter 2
 I lived in Bremerton between 1971 and 1976; while there, I moved once. At my first home, 106 Arvon Avenue, located outside the Naval Avenue Gate of Puget Sound Naval Shipyard, I played for hours in a two-story clubhouse my parents won from a raffle at the downtown J.C. Penney's for only a $1.00. Though I was young, I remembered this clubhouse because it had stairs, a slide, and a fireman’s pole. Shortly after being potty trained and given my first haircut, I experienced a minor developmental set back while using the restroom; the toilet seat, obstructed by magazines sitting on top of the tank, fell down on my paintbrush while I was urinating—ouch! It was extremely painful; I could remember peeing in the tub for days because I could not control my stream.

In 1975 my mother left my father and we moved to 826 6th street, which was more or less downtown. On one side of our house was a bar, on the other side, a massage parlor (prostitution front) and donut shop. My sisters and I stayed clear of the bar, but we made daily visits to the donut shop to get day-old donuts at no charge. While living here I remember my mother painting the bathroom an oriental red (a brilliant reddish orange), which seemed for some of the home parties she had. To provide income for our family, my mother danced at downtown nightclubs and USO events on the naval base, while my oldest sister Perry watched us kids. While working at a downtown club my mother met her boyfriend, James, a black man’s whose house I remember going to from time to time. Nine months later my sister, Kimyata, who almost died of SIDs, was born in 1975.

While she was dating James, Granny Gooch manifested, a character my mother developed for her crazy driving sprees, bizarre antics, and eccentric dance moves. She had a hideous laugh, a devious personality and a reckless behavior—a twisted incarnation of Mary Poppins that my sisters and I enjoyed. In my adolescent years she occasionally “appeared” in a crazed lunatic rage to entertain us, or to cope with gut-wrenching stress, as was the case in her first appearance: While outside her boyfriends house in a car, in a ballistic rage of “I’m gonna get you,” Granny Gooch first appeared like lightning from the sky. My mother took on that personality right there in the car while my sisters and I stared in amazement, then she drove to a nearby gravel parking lot and spun donuts while screaming obscenities. I don’t really know what provoked the conception of Granny Gooch, except that we had just left her boyfriend James’ house. During one of Granny Gooch’s visits, I remember getting pulled over by the police in a middle school parking lot and my mother explaining who she was; the policeman laughed, and then kindly asked my mother to take us kids home.

Between the time that my mother left my father, and we got a new place to live, my sisters and I stayed at our Aunt Kim’s, one of my mother’s best friends. During one of these visits to my Aunt Kim’s house, at a park nearby, I fell off a merry-go-round while it was spinning. When I got up, not realizing that I was underneath, the knife edge of the under carriage split the back of my head wide open. My sister’s screamed bloody murder then ran me to a nearby gas station for help. A Good Samaritan stopped pumping her gas and took me to the hospital—thank you so very much!

In 1975 my mother met a sailor named Louis at the enlisted club on the Bremerton Naval Base. That night, in the men’s bathroom, he told my mother that he was going to marry her. Louis Lovey Green, son of Lovey and Annie-May Green, was born 21 December 1949 in Chicago Illinois. He grew up in a 16-story high-rise apartment in Henry Horner Homes, one of the Near West Side’s notorious government housing projects located near the United Center (where the Bulls play). Though it was a place heavily concentrated with poverty, drugs, cockroaches, and graffiti, he was proud of the fact that his father helped with the construction of these buildings in the 1950s.

In an honorable way my dad took our family, especially my mother, out of shady surroundings by moving us to Seattle. Our first home, 6956 24th Avenue SW, was located a few blocks from the West Seattle K-mart and about two miles from Delridge Community Center—a place my sisters and I did arts and crafts, played ping pong, and don’t-touch-the-ground tag. There was a huge tree on the side of this house that we built a tree fort in and put a tire swing on one of the branches. Our back yard had tons of blackberry bushes and a creek that ran through; when it rained hard the creek would overflow, flooding our backyard and basement. After one such flood, my sister Donniel stepped on a huge dead sewer rat—it was gross. Other memories I had at this house was my sister’s use to dress me like a girl, they feed me a peanut butter sandwich with a crab in it, and they tickled me until I peed my pants—what love.

In 1977 my sister Tarra was born, and Louis, keeping to his word, married my mother on 24 February 1979 at a church in High Point. I was a short little guy, nicknamed “Small Fry” in grade school, so I openly welcomed my 6’4’’ black father. Our family was so proud of him and his heritage; we bragged everywhere we went. We got lots of strange looks, but it made us all feel good that we were family. In grade school, the day after open house, the students would ask how it was possible that my dad was black and I white—my teachers were a bit surprised too, because I didn’t refer to him as my step dad. I remember many times at Goodwill or K-mart yelling for him, or vice-a-verse, and people just staring.

My dad worked extremely hard all his life, taking whatever jobs he could to keep food on the table. He read all the time and was quite intelligent, but because of our social status and his ethnicity, he was not given many opportunities. He worked mainly janitorial jobs at schools, restaurants and mailrooms. Occasionally I helped my dad clean these places; mostly to give him company, though I did work off the money for a bicycle they bought me in 6th grade. Two of the most interesting jobs were: one of the Northwest Kidney Centers, because I got to see refrigerated organs. And My Place Tavern, a topless bar we cleaned from 2:00 – 4:00 in the morning. I found loose change on the floor by the stage, we played pool, and from time to time my mother got up on stage and danced to songs from the jukebox. In the early 80s, my parents did upholstery together, selling what they made at the Midway Swap meet; they even opened up an upholstery shop in White Center called One-in-a-Million, though it didn’t last to long.

In addition to these jobs, he always had a paper route; not just a neighborhood route, but a whole city grid—one route was from midnight to six in the morning. He was always tired; falling asleep anytime he stopped moving. He fell asleep sitting, standing, while eating, while driving, etc. On a night that I helped him with his Wall Street Journal route, he stopped at a stop sign and fell asleep; I watched him for about 20-minutes, then said dad what house is next. I felt compassion for him, he was so tired. One day he fell asleep while standing at my sister Kimyata’s house and never got up, dying of a heart attack just before my mother’s birthday in January 2005.

In high School he hung out with my friends and me, occasionally going to the Admiral Theatre in West Seattle—two movies for two dollars. At home, when he fell asleep, whoever was around would help me dress him up; then we turned off the lights, left the room and yelled his name out loud: DAD, get up! Or as my friends Carlos or Jay would yell, LOUIS, get up! Then he stood up, completely disorientated, and walked around like a ghost—it was so entertaining.

Another great memory I have is that he always wanted to trick out his cars, though they were pieces of junk. I don’t think he ever paid more than five-hundred dollars for any of our cars. He was so determined, even telling family and friends what he planned to do; yet the money was simply not there—I wished Xzibit and Pimp My Ride were around then. He deserved so much. He was such a great man that will genuinely be missed; my sisters Kimyata and Tarra both got unique cross tattoos as a memorial.

Chapter 3

For a white guy, I was exposed to a lot of hip-hop culture growing up; not so much because my dad was black, but because of my surroundings, and the schools I attended. I learned how to breakdance, pop-and-lock, draw strange graffiti caricatures, and beatbox (drum sounds with my mouth)—which I’m still quite good at.

I attended Seattle Public Schools from Kindergarten through twelve grades; to which I am grateful for, as I was often encouraged by my teachers to be a free and creative thinker. I was exposed to many artistic elements through field trips to the Woodland Park Zoo, Northwest Trek, Seattle Center, Pacific Science Center, Pike Place Market, and various historic and cultural museums.
I am also grateful for the free lunches I received for thirteen years (k-12), as my parents could not afford to buy lunches for six kids; even when I went on school field trips, the school packed a brown bag lunch for me—the ham sandwich, apple, cookie, and milk meant the world to me.

I attended Sanislo Elementary School from 1976-83. It is an open concept school with few walls and classrooms, kind of like a warehouse. The students sat on the floor in semi-circles around the teachers, learning in a completely casual environment that encouraged interaction between other teachers and students not in your group. First through Sixth grades were separated into three large groups: Condors (1st - 6th), Whales (1st - 3rd) and Eagles (4th - 6th). I was a Whale, then an Eagle. Sanislo is located on natural wet-lands, surrounded by a small forest that provides any adventurous child with the world during recess, not to mention the huge playground, fireman pole, and super high and long slide they had.

In music class (or indoor recesses) I had lots of fun playing musical chairs, duck-duck-goose, and heads-up-seven-up—especially if it was a girl that picked me, or vice-a-verse; I also enjoyed Hamboning (also Handboning), which is sort of a precursor to beatboxing. To Hambone, is to make rhythmic sounds by slapping your thighs, chest, and hands together; and in between that, singing a lyrical ditty, usually improvisations of daily happenings. For instance: Sing, “Hambone, hambone, where have you been,” then make the slapping sounds, and sing another verse, “I went to the store and back again.”

For a few years, I was a member of the SCATS team, an extracurricular physical education activity where I learned how to walk on my hands, do backhand springs, and ride unicycles among other things. SCATS performed at select venues within the school district; one year we performed in the Seattle Kingdom for a Sonics halftime show. One of my proudest accomplishments was holding the school record for standing on my hands for 2 minutes, 3 seconds—a record that stood for quite a few years.

As part of an outdoor education program I spent a few days with my 5th grade class at YMCA’s Camp Orkila located on Orcas Island, one of the breath-taking San Juan Islands. While there, I participated in daily recreational activities and nightly campfires filled with storytelling and skits. I also gained a better understanding of the Northwest’s environment and its amazing ecological systems from trained staff members. It was a wonderful experience. In the summer after my 7th grade I did somewhat the same thing, but at YMCA’s Camp Colman. It was there that I learned how to water-ski, and participated in the morning Polar Bear swim—jumping in the salty lagoon at the crack of dawn.
At night, if you threw a rock in this lagoon, the phosphorescent glow was magnificent.

For parents who may think otherwise, grade school is where I got my first exposure to drugs; I remember a kid trying to sell me speed, kids doing mushrooms, and my best friend rolling his own joints in the living room of his house when he was 10. As my mother and school taught me, I kept saying no—it has worked for 37 years. With the exception of alcohol, that is - I like to drink from time to time. The natural high I receive from a clear and creative mind is beyond description. If there is one thing I challenge teenagers with, it is to never use drugs; I have seen many friends and family members devastated by its lure and almost inescapable grip.

While at Madison Middle School (1983-85), I went through puberty and kissed a girl; which I’m pretty sure is the main purpose of middle school. It was in home economics class, she was sitting behind me. She asked me to lean over the table and give her a kiss, so I did (smile). I won a few things while there: A candy bar for remembering the most digits of the mathematical constant Pi (3.14159…), five dollars for finding two identical paper snowflakes on the walls and a trip to San Francisco for selling a ton of posters and calendars. Traveling to San Francisco with my 8th grade class was my first adventure outside the state of Washington. I had a blast. We saw Alcatraz Prison, Fisherman’s Warf, the Golden Gate Bridge, and all the other famous tourist attractions, including the world famous Bushman, along with many other interesting street performers. On our last day, we went to Great America, an amusement theme park near Santa Clara. When I was thirteen, to better myself, I got a paper route and worked part-time at a neighbor’s upholstery shop sweeping the floor; to cause a little mischief, I rode my sister Perry’s moped all over West Seattle—this ended the night I was pulled over by the police and my mother and Perry came to get me.

   In 1984 I moved to 5614 32nd Avenue SW, a half-block away from High Point, West Seattle’s government housing projects. In this neighborhood, and the surrounding schools, I got influenced by graffiti and public murals. I loved the vibrant colors, and how each piece appeared as if it were in motion. I knew and attended middle school with one of Seattle’s infamous graffiti writers, Shame. I remember being in a room with a bunch of taggers, because somehow the teachers got a sheet with the taggers identity on it. I remember the discussion about destroying public property and such; but what stayed with me the most is that the teachers said there is a lot of talent in this room, it just needs to be focused on a different surface (other than walls). Not that I was a tagger or anything, but I took their exhortation and kept my drawings on paper. Over 12 years later, when I learned how to paint with acrylics in college, this stayed with me. I still loved the lure of hip-hop art; I just needed to take that energy and convert it to something acceptable. That’s when I learned about the Mexican muralist Diego Rivera and his wife, Frida Kahlo.

Although I lived in West Seattle, I was bussed to Rainier Beach High School on the East Side of town; which I didn’t mind, as my heritage was continually enriched through diverse culture and ethnic demographics. As a testament to this, my closest circle of friends throughout my teenage years were African, Caucasian, Chinese, Korean, Laotian, Mexican, Native American, Philippinos, Samoan, Taiwanese, and Vietnamese.

My mother let my friends stay the night a lot; if she didn’t, they snuck in the back door anyway (which she knew); I don’t think it bothered her, because we were not mischievous deviants, instead we had all night drawing sessions—soda, paper, and drawing utensils was all we needed. For a source of inspiration, we watched "Style Wars," a 1982 PBS release about New York City graffiti writers. Once the caffeine kicked in we did all sorts of silly skits, played dress up, and laughed for hours about life’s idiosyncrasies.
At age 16 I got a job at the Queen Anne Dick’s Drive-Inn. Like Sir Mix-a-Lot said in his song, Posse on Broadway, “Dick’s is the place where the cool hang out.” Although he was referring to the Dick’s on Broadway, he came to the Queen Anne store as well; I met him sometime in 1988-89. It was comical because he had one of those plastic gold-rope license plates on a Cadillac, and no one else recognized him—which is probably why he came to this one, he really liked the food, and didn’t want to be bothered by fans. A few of the Sonics players came here as well from time to time; the Key arena is a stone throw away. The down side of working was that I had to give my mother a forth of my pay check (after taxes); I understood that the money helped with bills and all, so it wasn’t that bad. What was left went to school clothes and gas.

From my home in West Seattle, school was 10 miles to the East, and work 10 miles to the North. I drove this driving triangle (school, work, and home) for two years. This became my gateway to exploring Seattle, in addition to my friends and I traveling everywhere; the mountains, the coast, and other cities. My first car, a 65' Oldsmobile Cutlass, lasted about two months—the engine seized up on the West Seattle freeway. I never checked the fluids, gauges, or tire pressure; just gas and go, though I ran out of that too one day my sister Donniel was with me. When it died, I bought another one; and so on, and so forth. Over the years, I owned plenty of old cars. Although these old cars always had problems, they were fun to drive because it felt like I was in a machine. Some of my favorites that I owned: 62’ Cadillac Fleetwood, 64’ Chevrolet Malibu, 65’ Oldsmobile Cutlass, 65’ Chevrolet Impala, 72’ Chevrolet Impala, 73’ Oldsmobile Delta 88, and a 76’ Dodge Dart.

When I first started driving, I sat on a phonebook to see over the steering wheel. This was too awkward, not to mention comical, so I learned the gangster lean mode—leaning back with my against the drivers door, looking out to the left side of the steering wheel. converted to low rider vision—looking out the windshield just above the dashboard, yet below the top arc of the steering wheel, or I just leaned up against the drivers door and looked out slightly to the left of the steering wheel.

During my senior year, in woodshop, I made a speaker box for two RS 15-inch woofers. My buddy Carlos hooked up a pretty sweet system in my 72’ Impala, and the rest was history. We cruised all of Seattle’s neighborhoods, including the Downtown, Broadway, and University districts. A powerful system was a right of passage back then, so we fit right in. When my car stereo was not thumping, I beatboxed while my friends attempted to rap.

Chapter 4
I enlisted in the United States Navy in 1989. I did my basic training and attended Electrician's “A” school at Great Lakes RTC/NTC in Chicago. After this training, I was stationed aboard the aircraft carrier USS Independence (CV-62) from 1990-93. During my first year I was a “snipe” (engineering ratings that worked below the waterline); then I attended Cargo Weapons Elevator School in Treasure Island San Francisco, and became a “fresh air snipe” (engineering ratings that worked above the waterline) after being transferred to G-4 “Elevators Shop.” There, I worked on Elevators and sound-powered phones for two years. It was on the Indy that my world travels began, traveling to such places as Australia, Hawaii, Hong Kong, Japan, Korea, The Philippines, Singapore, Thailand, and the United Arab Emirates. In 1991 Indy changed homeports to Yokosuka Japan, a place where I got lost for the first time in my life. You really can’t get lost in your hometown, because you can always ask someone for directions or read the signs; some sailors and I got lost in my 82’ Nissan Vanette on our way home from Mt. Fuji—we couldn’t read any of the signs, and no one knew English at the gas stationed we pulled into for help.

 In 1993 I was selected to attend the Broadened Opportunity for Officer Selection and Training (BOOST) program in San Diego; a prep school for enlisted Sailors and Marines seeking a commission as an Officer. Upon completion, I received a four-year scholarship to attend Washington State University in Pullman Washington. At first, I was not selected to attend a university because my SAT/ACT scores didn’t satisfy minimum requirements. It was difficult for me because my performance and military record were great up to this point. Although I was a good leader, I was not scholastically inclined. At this point I needed some big guns, someone with great influence, an ambassador of men. The next day my mother’s plane arrived.

As I imagined, she was dressed like a fortune teller with all the accessories: brightly colored blouse and poly pants, open-toed sandals, rings on every finger, complete with chandelier earrings and a wooden-bead necklace—a completely outlandish outfit. As providence would have it our graduation guest speaker, Vice Admiral Kihune, the Chief of Naval Education and Training, is a native of Maui. As my mother talked with him about leadership potential, and how it does not necessary correlate with academics, he mentioned that she looked like one of the ladies from the Islands. He asked whose mother she was, but in all the excitement she went blank, forgetting my name and what school I wanted to attend. The admiral’s aid handed her a program, and she pointed out my name. He mentioned to her that my name came up at a staff dinner last night. Four days later six students and I received orders to our university of choice.
While finding out what it meant to be a Cougar at WAZZU living in the Palouse, and a Midshipmen in the joint Navy ROTC program of Washington State University and University of Idaho (they’re 7 miles apart), I decided to pursue a major in electrical engineering. Halfway into my sophomore year that changed; after talking with Navy and college career counselor, I changed majors to art. I was a little concerned about changing majors and what I was going to do with it; though I took comfort in the fact that changing majors was like changing clothes, and Gary Larson, creator of The Far Side, received a Bachelor's in Communication here. What did I know about the world and what it would bring; I wanted to be an artist, so I switched.

I received a four-year scholarship from the Navy for books and tuition, so for room and board, I worked a couple different jobs, including the unemployment office with the Veterans rep, The Combine (a coffee house I cleaned four times a week from midnight to four in the morning), and Burger king.
Along with all the other changes in my life, I was still single; as a matter of fact, I was a twenty-two year old who never had a girlfriend. When I came home for summer vacation, my sister Shawn introduced me to my wife, the former Sharon Sokolowski of Kent Washington, on a blind date in the summer of 1995. It was kind of comical, because my sister had told Sharon that I was a little taller than she was, blonde hair, blue eyes, with a California surfer tan. The night we met she, at 5’ 8”, starred two inches down on me, 5' 6'' on a good hair day, at my dirty blonde hair and pale skin. After meeting we did something together just about everyday. When I went back to school in the fall, Sharon came with me. She stayed for a few weeks, and I asked her to go home, so her parents wouldn’t think that I was taking their daughter away. She went home, and then about two weeks later on my birthday, I came home to my dorm to find her there with a bunch of presents for me, including a cool watch with an engraving on it that I lost. She said she was not going home marrying six months latter on 23 December 1995. My wife did bring up the big question up: “Does my height bother you,” Of course I replied, “No.” The part that worked so great on both of our ends, is that we cared not about the other’s past.

Our wedding was quite comical. It was thrown together last minute; my mother made the dress, Sharon’s parents and my sisters paid for everything else. I finished my final exam for the fall semester on a Friday, and then drove 285 miles form Pullman to Seattle for my wedding on Saturday. It was a semi-surprise wedding; about half the people present that night knew we were going to get married. We rented a church gym and told both families that it was a joint potluck. After we finished eating, Santa Claus came and handed out gifts to the children. Santa’s last gift in the bag was two gold rings. I popped the question to Sharon, and she said yes. We had the rings, I proposed, we were in a church, and three days earlier we got a marriage license. We told Santa all that we needed was a minister. He took off his costume; underneath he was wearing a suit, and said, “I am one.” So we moved everyone into the chapel and we got married. Like I said, it was comical; yet, ten years latter we have three wonderful children—Seattle, Hunter, and Brooklyn.
 In the first year or so of our marriage, Sharon worked at Dissmores IGA grocery store as a cashier, while I went to school. During the winter of 96, our 1982 Delta 88, gave up, and Sharon had to walk to work and back, in the snow, both ways up hill. I could say this, because the University is on a hill. We lived on one side, and her job was on the other; thus, she walked up and down hills to work and back.

About two weeks before our daughter Seattle was born, Sharon had a crazy dream about delivering babies; strange thing was, her babies were not human-she dreamed she delivered a litter of kittens. I'm sure this had something to do with her pregnancy and the strange things she was eating. Along the same lines, three days before our daughter Seattle was born, Sharon and I were evicted from campus housing, not because we didn't pay rent, or had wild toga parties, but because we owned a little kitten in a housing complex where animals were not allowed. Sharon didn't want the cat to go, and I was in no position to reason with an expectant mother, not to mention the fact that she was the one working while I went to school. To make things more interesting, a friend from church drove me from Pullman to Seattle, 285 miles away, so that I could pick up gifts for our daughter. The moment I arrived in Seattle, about 11:00pm, my wife called and said she was in labor. I couldn't just drive back, however, it was December 6th, and snowing in Snoqualmie Pass, 3,000-foot elevation, on the I-90 freeway, was

"Our Children brought a whole new paradigm to life for my wife and I, which parents know, it goes without saying; yet the inspiration and ideas they bring to me as I am painting is fascinating. I am so honored when I come home, or go into a room and see my children just staring at one of my paintings; especially as they get older, their comments become more mature as they notice new things."

For someone who barely made it into college, by my senior year I was married with two children, the Navy ROTC Battalion Commanding Officer for two colleges, and received the WSU President's Award for leadership.

Chapter 5
Upon pursuing a major in art, I quickly noticed that few people in uniform would enter the Fine Arts building, especially to take a course, and yet I was quickly accepted due to his open mind views of military service, liberal arts, and life in general. Besides, the students in the Fine Arts Department saw my seriousness and devotion towards becoming an artist. I was deeply impacted by the students and staff at WSU, who imbedded a permanent desire to tackle the act of becoming an artist with everything that I had. To mention specifically all those who impacted my life at WSU would be too many to list, as I befriended many great Cougar artists and staff, and learned different philosophies of art from all of them. But if I had to mention a few who influenced me the most, I would mention Patrick Siler (drawing teacher), Jack Dollhausen (sculpture teacher), Keith Wells (WSU Museum of Art Curator), Ray Cooper (Teacher's Assistant in painting), David Schu (painting student), and Rebecca Anderson (painting student).

I could remember long days and nights in the art building working on projects; sometimes, I would stay all night. Not because I had to finish an assignment, but because I had to release the ideas in my head. Nights like that are extremely exciting.
By my senior year, I was married with two children, and well on his way to becoming a unique painter; by technicality however, his skills had lots of room for improvement, yet his desire to become a significant painter of the next century, outweighed everything else. He received his Bachelors of Fine Art and Commission as a Naval Officer in the fall of 1998.

Chapter 6
Upon graduation at WSU, I flew T-34's in Pensacola Florida for a bit while training to become a Naval Flight Officer (98-99), but shortly found out that he and the air were not compatible, as he said, "we just didn't get along-the air and I." So he pursued a career as a Surface Warfare Officer, a glorified ship driver. He attended Surface Warfare Officer School in Newport Rhode Island during the summer of 99, at which time he met Dr. Mark P. Malkovich, III-General Director of the Newport Music Festival for over 30 years, an expert in the field of chamber music, and appreciator of fine art. Dr. Malkovich, III just happens to own one of my earlier works (given to him as a gift of friendship in 2001). After completing SWO School, my first tour as an officer was aboard the Frigate USS Samuel B. Roberts FFG-58 as the Communication's Officer (99-01), home ported in Norfolk Virginia, which later homeport shifted to Mayport Florida. His second tour was aboard the supply ship USS Sacramento AOE-1 as the Damage Control Assistant (01-03), home ported in Bremerton Washington. During this time aboard the "Sammy B" and "Sac" I completed one Mediterranean and two Western Pacific Deployments, in which I continued my world travels to such places as Croatia, Cuba, Egypt, Guam, Israel, Italy, Spain, Turkey, and some of the before mentioned places like Hawaii, Japan, Korea, and Singapore.
about responsibility and stress as an Officer Of the Deck. Underway replenishment…

It is through this traveling that I quantified my eagerness to become a painter. Traveling to cities around the world with such a wealth of history, music and art ignited the creative fuel in my soul (especially Ephesus, Jerusalem, Luxor, and Rome). Standing before Saint Peters basilica and Michelangelo's Sistine chapel, intensified this flame; in a sense, after seeing such wonders in person, I knew that I could achieve what I desired-to become a great painter. I wanted the same spirit or muse that these artistic Renaissance giants had." I am also deeply influenced by my stateside visits to New York, San Francisco, Chicago, Washington D.C., Rhode Island, Portland, and Seattle (his home of record).
After two back to back sea tours, I headed for shore duty in the great state of Oregon. There I was stationed at the Portland Oregon Military Entrance Processing Station where I served as the Testing Control Officer, followed by the Operations Officer (03-05). It was during period at the MEPS that his creative flow and productivity of painting exploded, painting 18 large-scale paintings (36''h x 80''w) in a short two years. Much of which was inspired and fueled by the city of Portland, and the large number of free-spirited artists it contained. Of course, family, close friends, and coworkers continually inspire me.
 I am rather competitive when it comes to certain games; pool, ping-pong, and chess are high on my list. I enjoy playing chess whenever I can; it never gets old, as each person plays a little different. To make chess more interesting, I taught friends and neighbors most of what I knew about it until they became competitive—that’s when the rivalry began, now I was out to crush the person I built up. Kind of like politics; countries arm each other, then those same weapons are used against them. In college I played chess with my friends Alex and Andy until they were blue in the face. They helped me out with calculus and physics, and I showed them what I knew about chess; until they began to win. These two taught me an important lesson on egocentricity; I gloated because I couldn’t be beaten, and they let me know that it hurt their feelings. After that, I showed them all of my secret moves, and they became quite competitive, wining from time to time by the semester’s end. From then, I began to play a bit different with friends.

My favorite chess partner to date is my friend Brad Scott; I showed him everything I knew until I too was blue in the face and able to win. Over a two year period Brad became rather competent and competitive, playing and beating his coworkers most of the time. When I first met Brad he slept a lot; so, I would go over to his house, into his room, yelling at the top of my lungs: Brad, get up; get up, now, Brad! He turned away and curled up into the fetal position, but I kept yelling: Brad, get up; get up, now, Brad! I did this for various reasons, but mostly because it was amusing. I didn’t want to see him sleep life away—there are so many opportunities. Most importantly, though, I needed someone to play chess with and to look at the most recent disturbing image I painted. I said to him that it was great therapy—I’m not a psychiatrist, but I know continuous stimulation worked for just about anything! The truth was, I didn’t want to see my friend depressed. I think I’ll call him now: Brad, get up; get up, now, Brad! That night Brad came over and we played chess—he won, so I smacked my king clear off the board. Like I said, I’m competitive. For serious chess players it hurts to lose; it sticks in your mind that someone out thought you. Soon, Brad and I will have our first annual game triathlon—a chess, pool, and ping-pong tournament in the same day. Hopefully, I will win!

creating works of abstract-surrealism that inspire viewers to gaze beyond the color palette, the lure of their eyes; invoking their mind and soul by tugging at their hearts as gravity on the stars. I think great art is that which forces you to look again, compelling you so much that you can't just walk away.
I hope that you will remember the images (the weirdness, awkwardness, and somewhat disturbing images) and begin to understand my vision, which is to have my work hold its own next to any contemporary master, and of course, be shown in a museum.

I don't want the viewer to forget what they have seen. Meaning, when I go to galleries or museums and look at the works, some really stand out...especially something that is painted so well, so lifelike; yet, the moment I walk away from it, I completely forget it. Thus I paint in a manner, with the subjects and techniques, in a way that makes me not want to look away. When I can stare at my painting, over and over, then I know it is done.

Additionally, I make all of my own frames, which are equally as important as the paintings themselves, adding my own unique signature to traditional framing; instead of the painting being inside and behind the frame, it projects forward and is one and the same.
Various ideas:
 Music is such a part of my life; I listen to just about everything, from the acoustic piano and guitar of George Winston and William Ackerman, to the Grunge and progressive rock and roll of Pearl Jam and Tool. It just depends upon the mood I am in, and what I want to paint or write; or vice-a-verse, music often setting the tone to what I will paint or write.


walking up hill both ways and prego.
Hunters birth
Missed brooklyn's birth, out to sea
poems and haiku’s
don’t count anyone out…
summer camp, free
Almond Roca fart crap and coffee
From food banks and free school lunches