The inspiration for 'Mountain Mama' was literally a real find. Shopping for custom cabinetry with friends building a new home, I was drawn to a slab of granite countertop hanging on the wall, intrigued by what seemed a seam of coal against a warm ochre background. It conjured up old memories of flying over West Virginia, a beautiful state yet one scared by strip mines reducing mountains once thought higher than the Rockies to piles of rubble.  With a bird's eye view, I could see the scars; it was a snowy winter, so the trees had shed their leaves and a landscape of utter devastation passed beneath the wing tips. Sometimes with the trees offering cover, one might see what the first settlers and native Americans gasped at, a carpet of hilly wilderness rolling away in all directions.  So it was, a homage of sorts to John Denver's West Virginia Mountain Mama, we despoil our neighborhoods and then flee to the last vestiges of a virgin continent, the hills, mountains, beaches and wide-open spaces, only to turn those back roads into congested pathways of vacation & retirement homes, wilderness lost - sadly man's last refuge in a world of overpopulation. 

It's said the shadows come quickly in the Appalachian hills. Dark and mysterious its best be home before the shadows grow deep. Then again, the closeness of it all, the claustrophobia of never seeing the horizon beyond, brought folks together in prayer and song. A magical world of folk stories and lore, its slipping away, taken down by the ever urbanization of what was country. Be thankful you had the chance to see it before the only remembrance comes from faded pictures of a landscape lost in time.

Some of my earliest memories include numerous summer family road trips traveling along the mountain ridges overlooking the Shenendoah River Valley, a farmer's paradise of song, rich and fertile rolling soil. Back then it seemed largely just a sea of corn, hay and a cluster or two of old growth trees... dotted with handsome farmhouses, barns and dairy cows.... Those memories lay warm and dormant for a lifetime until a recent trip up North shattered them awake, seeing the distribution centers and pockets of urban housing now sprawling like cancer along the interstate. A paradise lost except in my dreams. Perhaps it was the sadness of loss, or watching Shane, an old western with ranchers fighting the 'sod busters'... [actually not that far 'west' as much of the tussling occurred in Kansas and other Great Plain territories] ... or perhaps recalling reading 'Giants in the Earth', but one night those memories came together, conjuring up the coiling of soil as a settler's iron plow blade sliced through the virgin grasslands... forever imprinting the land with the fingerprint-like grooves of man. Shenandoah is my attempt to capture the richness of that valley, the rolling hills of bounty and the memories of that farm-scape that now only lives on in my dreams.  

Every painting comes with some inspiration, even if painting plein air. Oddly enough I first caught glimpse this as a title - 'A Boy's Dream in Blue' - during one of my dream sequences. The sequencing of words just caught my imagination, much like 'Blue Boy' or 'Men in Black', but I had no concept of the art piece itself. Toying with the theme took me several months while engaged on an off in other pursuits. Granted, I had been a boy, and I did a lot of dreaming back in the day, but nothing came to mind that is, until one evening I was just sketching long swirls on a sheet of paper, and to my surprise, certain familiar shapes.... 'took shape'. Light, frolicking, dancing shapes that seemed to capture the title and the thought that this was all too familiar a dream for many a young lad on the cusp of adulthood. I would imagine this 'dream' could become a series, but for now, I can put it all to bed. While some suggested it be titled 'Another Friday Night at the Frat House', having only glimpsed at the experience viewing 'Animal House' or reading letters from my high school buddies attending east coast Ivy's [my life somewhat stunted at Notre Dame, BC], I thought it best to keep it true to its original inspiration.

* BC - before coeds 

Growing up in small Euro-ethnic town Long Island during the '50/60'ties, watching Walter Cronkite's nightly news in black & white was a window into a world beyond my own: riots & racial strife, poverty, intolerance, the lack of civility, rage and then there was that war in some distant country casting its shadow across the screen. It seemed a world consumed by baser instincts, with only a few, like Dr King, leaning into our common humanity preaching what modern genetics now tells us, we may be a mixed pool, yet we all come from the same distant 'Eve'.

'Tangled' started as a doodle, reflecting on this common humanity and my life's experiences. To any observer of nature, when you cut into a forest, the trees exposed on the edges are imperiled by wind and storm. A healthy forest is often best a mix of species, their roots entangled, and their branches woven into a canopy of protection. I say a mix, as the beauty of a western pine forest or the sea of long-lost Chestnuts, can easily fall prey to beetle or blight.

We are all 'equal in the eyes of our creator', yet as humans we know there is no intrinsic equality, no equity, no fairness; In truth we are born into a bell-shaped curve of possibilities parsed razor thin in all matter's human... health, stature, talent, brains, beauty, athletic prowess, skills & aptitudes. Some are gifted far more than their 'fair share', while others seem bereft of any talents save life itself. But in truth we are all human and our individual uniqueness makes for the delights of life itself. A caring spirit calls us to reach out to those less fortunate and celebrate those who enrich or entertain us with their ingenuity and talent. To be human is laugh and sing or just smile as we look into a stranger's eye and yet see ourselves looking back.

If there be but two commandments, it's said the second is 'love thy neighbor as thyself'. Sadly, too many have no love of self, consumed by envy for those who have more and by what they are lacking in the pit of their soul. Our baser instincts needn't dominate, but it starts from being at peace from within and growing to embrace our common humanity as we are all but one link in a vast chain anchored in the dawn of time.

I have also come to see a forest is an organism made up of individuals supporting the others against the buffeting winds. Clear cut a swath, and those on the edge of the forest will snap and uproot taking down one then two then scores as they fall. Each tree is supported by others, and others rely on their fellows to reach for the sun. It's a message that has been taught for ages, yet one mankind often fails to embrace. Maybe in the next lifetimes... among generations yet born, there is always hope despite our baser instincts that simmer below.

Every painting has an inspiration. ‘Jungle in Concrete’, an early work, offers a glimpse inspired by living in Manhattan post grad school. We seldom reflect that while the Boomers changed the world, it was my generation, the forgotten generation, that shaped the Boomers – Elvis, Buddy Holly, Chuck Berry, Hefner, Lennon & Leary. If the Boomers went over the cliff like gerbils, we carried the flag. 1970’s Manhattan, a city alive, a window opened with young men and women fleeing college dorms & the ‘Leave it to Beaver’ constraints of the 1950’s. With a nod to Rosie the Riveter, women were forging their way into their father’s workplaces. Professionals, newly emancipated unlike their mothers and every female generation since time immemorial [see 'The Pill']. It was a time of 'carefree frolic', with drinking at 18 flooding the bars from the Village to the Upper East Side. For the fortunate few, there was New Year’s at Trader Vic's in the Plaza, Sunday brunches in the Rainbow Room atop Rock Center or Tavern on the Green in Central Park and special events at Windows on the World atop the WTC overlooking the harbor. It was also a time of revolution with one war ending and others just erupting: civil rights, gay rights, Black Panthers, women’s rights all adding to the cauldron throbbing through the city. It was marvelous time to be alive… but it had its dark sides too.

Central Park was both a garden by day with sunbathers stretched out on the green and yet a jungle dark and uncertain by night… except when there was a free evening concert on the green. As I recall a multitude of perhaps 5,000 gathered on the slope and were told by the ushers to recline in the green pastures. As they awaited the MC, a young boy, likely from the Bronx, approached carrying a basket with 3 fishes and 4 loaves of barley … oops needle jumped onto the wrong track … a multitude carrying picnic baskets of wine, cheese, grapes and crackers sat down on blankets and the concert began. When it was over, New York’s Finest Parks Department picked up a scooch over 7 truckloads full of scraps & litter.

My sister lived in the city… magna cum laude graduate in fine arts scoring a $93 a month rent controlled ‘pre-professional' railroad apartment on 83rd street off York Avenue in Manhattan.  Her parties were to die for, entering the smoke-filled kitchen [lots of smoking in those days of all types – all my high school smoker friends all now dead] awash with gays by the gas stove… elbowing off to the ‘parlor’ where people of mixed interests kept the place thumping and then into the living room of straights seeking shelter by the fire escape – eclectic for sure, but so Manhattan, so young, so vibrant. I mean, who reinvents the world every 20 years. Magic, fun, excitement – she was a world unto herself:  I lost her to cancer several years back, a gem, a dear friend and I still feel the pain. Maybe another reason like Lots wife, we are told not to look back. Time to lift the needle and get back on track…

It’s said nothing is forever so like a Sunday school preacher slamming down the Bible – wham - the window closed. The dawn of a new decade saw AIDS creeping into the city… slowly, mysteriously. It claimed the Rock, named for New York’s River, it culled countless hundreds. It created so much pain that communities came together to make a quilt so large as if to wrap the city in its healing warmth.

We all saw it; the winds had shifted; the tide was ebbing. As they say about time and tide, it waits for no man, woman or beast. A new age of ‘relationships’ and sobriety had begun to take hold…’carefree frolic’ sank into the shadows. While down in the Meat Packing District, the Glory Hole and Clit Club still had a queue… those few remaining road warriors of all stripes gave a wink to the gate keeper and departed Toyland forever. The world will never have this era again… like Woodstock, if you weren’t there, you missed it… but don’t worry, I told my priest all about it, so I think I’m good….