Welcome to GMAC@arart45

I am born of the corn fields of Nebraska along the Middle Loup Rive; little place known as Arcadia. Following a bucolic, Tom Sawyerish childhood along my little river mared only by my fathers alcoholism and drug dependancy, violence and insanity.  Following the divorce I completed high's cool  and attended The Evergreen State College in quite naturally  Washington. 

My school days were spent in monkish contemplation of the theory and practice of the media arts; photography, video production and a smattering of more traditional  art disciplines.

Following the close of those halcyon days of my childhoods end and faced with the abyss I secured employment in a small TV station. I soon found that if I wanted more from this corporal life than miserly allowances of food, shelter, and gasoline I needed to move on.

In that time long ago a good deal of sign lettering was still done by hand and paid well before machines mastered the task. I quit the TV place got a job with a bizarre  character  who was hustling  sign  and needed someone to abet him. He rented space down by the tracks where we crafted signs when there was work; when there wasn't I had a quill in my hand practicing. The old man had his lair in the back of the shop I never went in; it was his, but I remember it as an end table with a hot plate and kettle, a dirty cup and a jar of instant coffee, and a bunk with a tangled mass of greasy grey bedding on top. The grey saturated every thing about the man; his clothes filthy, skin palid, toothless, stooped, shuffling and of course drunk. To my discredit I do not remember his name as he was the first to give me some of the knowledge he'd gleaned from the craft of quill lettering. There were others along way of the of the quill with whom I shared knowledge as they shared to me in the course of a life.

Now I have retired from all that and find that my creatve desire still burns and so..

One of my most treasured experiences was when I had espied a racoon making his way along the edge of a cornfield.  With a waddling gait, stopping ever so often to scent the breeze, he gave me my first key to an understanding of the natural world. I felt great happiness watching that old racoon.

ART IS as they say.  Where is it? I believe it is in the practice to paraphrase Blake. Our vision, is forged, sharpened and honed through the practice of our art. Our seeing flows through the ability communicate;  in word, in pictures, in dance, song, and music. My vision is formed of a desire to show the world as the lens of my skill and experiance reveal. Abracadabra: as I speak so do I create.