MEDIUM: Watercolor on paper

DATE: 2025

Wrapped in Contradiction

Each time I begin a new piece, it feels like entering a conversation with a hidden part of myself. Not a clear dialogue, but something quieter, something layered. In this work, I set out to explore the uneasy harmony between fear and innocence, control and surrender, stillness and tension.

What emerged was a face—part mask, part mirror, part dream.

At the center of the composition is a face that resists a fixed identity. Instead, it fragments into symbols. The face glows in yellow, a color I associate with consciousness. It feels vulnerable, as though the mind itself has been laid bare.

Encircling is a blue serpent, forming both a boundary and a presence. To me, the snake embodies duality—protection and danger, transformation and rebirth, wisdom and threat. Wrapped around the head, it becomes both guardian and captor. I want that tension to remain unresolved.

The eyes, rendered as red spirals reflect the repetitive cycles of thought: the way we return to the same desires, fears and questions.

At the center of the face rests a cloud leopard. It represents softness, and instinctive alertness. It introduces a tense gentleness in a charged space.

Beside it, a spider. A symbol I return to often for its contradictions: fear and patience, creation and entrapment, fragility and control. Positioned near the eye, it suggests that perception itself is entangled with danger and anxiety.

The mouth is barely there—faint, almost erased. This piece is not about speaking. It is about what remains unspoken.

I approached this work through a balance of looseness and precision. Watercolor allowed the emotional atmosphere to remain fluid, especially across the larger fields of color. The interplay of yellow, blue, and red creates a full-color dreamlike rhythm that softens the image without diminishing its intensity.

In contrast, the leopard and the spider are drawn with sharp detail.  Some aspects of the psyche blur and shift, while others demand to be seen clearly.

The composition has no external setting.  The viewer is left alone with the image—face to face with its internal world.

This piece lives in a space where tenderness and unease coexist.

The leopard fur offers softness. The serpent and spider offer complication. The spiraled eyes suspend the viewer somewhere between clarity and confusion, as if caught in a dream that resists interpretation.

Because that is often where we exist.

When I look at this work, I don’t see harmony as something clean or simple. I see coexistence. The ability is to hold opposing truths without forcing them to cancel each other out.

The serpent does not erase the leopard.
The dark spider does not extinguish the light.
The red spirals do not consume the face.

Everything remains.

And because everything remains, the image feels alive.

This piece reminds me that harmony is not the absence of contradiction. It is the willingness to hold contradiction without doubt.

We do not become whole by removing fear, fragility, or uncertainty.
We become whole by learning how those parts can exist together.

This work is meditation on that truth:
that within shadow, there is still innocence;
within softness, there is still strength;
and within a divided self, there is always the possibility of balance.

MEDIUM: Watercolor on paper

DATE: 2025

Between the Dowager and the Eunuch

Some images arrive like answers. Others feel more like questions.

This one came to me as a quiet confrontation between two versions of the self: the part that still meets the world with fragile wonder, and the part shaped by sharpened, alert experience. As I worked, it felt less like I was building a figure and more like I was uncovering parts already there.

What emerged is a kind of a totem. The lower figure can be a naive presence—soft and searching. Above it, a fractured watcher is made from plans, memory, and fear. They don’t resolve into one another. They hold tension. And that tension feels familiar.

The rounded pink face with circular glasses, wide eyes, and a slightly uncertain mouth carries vulnerability, the part of us that still looks outward with curiosity and tries to understand. The glasses matter. They suggest perception, but not clarity. We don’t see cleanly; we see through memory, emotion, and old wounds.

Above it sits a second presence, more abstract and more unsettled. A vertical green form cuts through the face like a blade or an axis. That split becomes central: reason against instinct, control against chaos. The upper figure isn’t whole. It’s assembled. It feels like consciousness under pressure.

Fan-like shapes rise from the head, almost like a crown that can’t quite settle. They radiate outward like thoughts or signals—suggesting authority, but not comfort. This isn’t wisdom at rest. It’s awareness that won’t switch off.

Behind it, yellow circular forms create a charged field. They echo a halo, but not a sacred one. The light here reveals—and exposes.

And then there are the teeth—s harp, triangular, hard to ignore. They cut through the softness of the watercolor and introduce something feral. Even the most reflective parts of us carry an edge.

I kept the palette restrained—pale pinks, yellows, greens, muted blues—and let transparency do most of the emotional work. The colors feel tentative, like the image is still surfacing.

That softness is interrupted by harsher elements: the central divide, the angular teeth, the asymmetry.  The emptiness around the figures becomes part of the psychology. It lets the images hover between dream and diagnosis.

What stays with me is the friction between the two parts. The lower face feels open, almost naïve. The upper one is watchful, hard to trust.

We don’t move through life as a single, stable self. We move as layers. Some are soft. Some are protective. Some become so sharp they start to intimidate even us.

This piece lives in that narrow space where innocence and awareness meet—and don’t quite reconcile.

Complexity doesn’t erase innocence and awareness. Complexity gathers around it.

The structures we build to survive can also obscure what’s most open in us. But the answer isn’t to choose one over the other.

The eunuch looks up. The dowager looks down.

We can learn to live with both.

MEDIUM: Watercolor on textured paper

DATE: 2025

The Soft Violence of Being Whole

This week, I confronted a more intimate and unsettling truth—one that lives at the intersection of emotion and instinct, where the boundaries we try to impose simply do not exist.

At the center of this piece stands a fractured, composite being part human, part something undefined, resisting any singular identity. The face is divided into subtle tension. One eye remains exposed and human; the other is encircled by a mechanical ring, suggesting two modes of perception—feeling and analysis, intuition, and observation. Above, elongated horn-like forms stretch upward toward a suspended sphere, a symbol that hovers just out of reach, perhaps representing an idea, a burden, or an unattainable clarity.

The background is split into four distinct color fields—red, blue, yellow, and gray—each evoking a different emotional state. Red pulses with chaos and urgency. Blue recedes into introspection. Yellow vibrates with unstable vitality. Gray settles into numb ambiguity. These are not merely colors, but psychological climates coexisting within the same space, much like the figure itself.

Surrounding the central form are animalistic companions—a goat, a bird, a feline-like creature, and, most importantly, a small yellow figure at the core. These beings read as extensions of identity: instinct, observation, vulnerability, and distortion.

The yellow entity is crucial. Its body is structured around a heart embedded at its center, directly connected to its genitals. This is not symbolic subtlety, but anatomical truth within the surreal logic of the piece. Heart and desire are fused into a single system, forming a continuous channel between emotion and physical impulse. It becomes the raw core of the composition, the place where feeling and instinct are not separate forces, but one.

I allowed the linework to remain imperfect, almost hesitant in places, preserving the human touch and resisting over-refinement. The graphite textures in the central figure create a grounded, tactile presence, while the watercolor background expands freely, bleeding across its quadrants with bold certainty.

This contrast mirrors the internal structure of the work: the figure attempts containment, while the world around it refuses boundaries.

The surrounding creatures are drawn more loosely, as if they emerged without filtration, directly from the subconscious. Their forms are less controlled, less concerned with logic, reinforcing their role as fragments of inner experience rather than external realities.

There is quiet discomfort embedded in this work—not aggressive, but persistent. The viewer is asked to sit with something they may instinctively wish to separate: the merging of love and desire, vulnerability, and instinct.

The central yellow figure intensifies that discomfort. It refuses any romanticized notion of emotion as pure or detached. Instead, it insists that feeling is entangled with the body, with impulse, with need.

And yet, despite this tension, the composition holds. Nothing collapses. Nothing dominates. The chaos is contained—not resolved, but balanced.

While creating this piece, I kept returning to the way we are taught to divide ourselves—to elevate certain parts while suppressing others. Emotion is often idealized, while desire is controlled, hidden, or made shameful.

This work resists that division.

The heart and the body are not separate narratives. They are part of the same sentence.

As Egon Schiele suggested through his own raw explorations of the human form, truth in art is often found where comfort ends.

You are not divided because you are flawed.
You are complex because you are whole.

The connection between your heart and your instincts is not something to fear or erase. It is something to understand.

Balance does not come from separation—
it comes from acknowledging that even your most contradictory parts are speaking the same language, only in different tones.

MEDIUM: Watercolor on textured paper

DATE: 2025

The Guardian Within – Part 2: The Lady Watches

She doesn’t roar. She watches.

In Part 1 of The Guardian Within, I explored the masculine archetype as I understand it: restrained, patient, a quiet force held just beneath the surface. A presence that observes before it acts.

This second guardian is different. Softer in tone, but no less dangerous.

She embodies empathy, self-sacrifice, and the instinct to care—but beneath that gentleness are sharp teeth and hidden claws. She knows when to endure, when to protect, and when to strike. What appears as softness is not weakness, but control.

This is the balance I’ve come to recognize: true power is not loud. It is the ability to love deeply without becoming defenseless.

Years ago, a Jungian therapist told me something that stayed with me. She said I had “the most highly developed feminine sensitivity” she had seen in a man—an instinct toward care, toward giving, toward emotional depth. At the time, I didn’t fully understand it. Now, I see it differently. Not as something to question, but as something to integrate.

As I painted these pieces, I kept returning to the same question: What are they trying to tell me?

The answer came slowly. Not in a single realization, but in layers.

There are two guardians. Not opposing forces, but counterparts. The masculine and the feminine, each with their own language, each protecting in their own way. This piece belongs to her.

She wears a crown—not of jewels, but of symbols. A cat sits atop her head, smiling with a quiet mischief, flanked by twisted ribbons that feel part circus, part ritual. It’s playful at first glance, almost childlike. But something about it resists innocence. The feminine here is not just nurturing, it is clever, strategic, and not entirely knowable.

Her face is a mask of gentleness with a warning beneath it. Pale, powdered skin. Wide eyes rimmed in shadow. Flushed cheeks. Lips slightly parted, revealing anxious teeth. The expression suggests care, but also containment—emotion held just below the surface. The kind that, if pushed too far, does not dissolve, but sharpens.

There is something performative in it, like a Noh mask or a figure stepping off a surrealist stage. The pastel tones soften the image, but that softness makes the tension more unsettling. It draws you in, then refuses to fully reassure you.

And then there is the cat.

Larger, seated, watchful. Its white coat suggests clarity, even innocence—but its face tells another story. The eyes are unmistakably human. One brow lifts, skeptical, aware. This is not a passive creature. It sees. It understands. It may even be the one in control.

The positioning matters: the woman behind, the cat in front.

The protector is not separate from her—it is her. Or perhaps it is what she becomes when the world asks her to remain soft while demanding her strength.

The space in the piece feels compressed, almost flattened. Depth gives way to symbolism. Everything is deliberate. Everything is watching.

The effect is quiet, but intense. The piece doesn’t demand attention, it holds it. And the longer you look, the more it feels as though you are the one being observed. Measured, not judged. Studied.

The feminine guardian is not just a nurturer. She is a strategist. A shapeshifter. A sentinel.

She gives, but not blindly. She feels, but not without awareness. Her tenderness is not automatic—it is chosen.

And that is where her power lies.

Not in perfection. Not in performance. But in presence.

As Clarissa Pinkola Estés writes in Women Who Run with the Wolves:
“A woman must be able to stand in her own truth and howl.”

This guardian does not howl aloud.

She lets the cat do that—silently, wisely, from behind the eyes.

MEDIUM: Watercolor on textured paper

DATE: 2025

The Guardian Within

As a child, age 6, I begged my mom, “I want to give you a kiss!” We were not a kissing family. Finally, she bent down to receive her kiss. I bit her cheek as hard as my little teeth could sink into her flesh. We both jumped back. “Oh mom! I am so sorry!” She recoiled, but she did not hit me, spank me, or say anything.

Many times, she had said, “I raised you as I raised my horses.” Some years later, I read that horses, at some time during their training, bite their trainer to show that they do not like their training and want their trainer to know this.

When I was age 6, I used to say to myself, “When I get big and am seen to behave perfectly, I will kill myself to let mom know how much I hated this training.” From ages 5 through 10, I worked on many pictures to make the eyes as mean as possible and the teeth snarling with jagged, sharp pieces.

And yes, those feelings are still here. This piece came out of me like a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

I had no plan—just a face, a feeling, and a need to articulate the contradiction I’ve been carrying: the tension between presence and protection. This is what emerged: A quiet human expression hovering over a roaring, uncontainable beast. Both are me. Neither though is the whole truth alone.

At the top: a face. Neutral. Almost serene. Painted in soft yellows, it radiates a quiet light. The red and yellow headband wraps across the forehead like a crown or a restraint, and I still can’t decide which. Maybe both. There's symmetry here, a suggestion of control. But I didn’t want it to feel too peaceful. There’s an alertness behind the eyes.

Below the chin, the form splits open into something primal. A mouth stretched wide, filled with jagged teeth and chaotic color. The creature that emerges is part mask, part memory, part myth. Its palette is raw red, blue, and white, outlined in thick, almost ritualistic lines. It looks ceremonial, but it’s also emotional. An exposed nerve.

The creature’s eyes echo the human's, intentionally. This isn’t a demon or an enemy, it’s an extension. A revelation.

Watercolor gives me a kind of contradiction that I love; it invites softness while demanding precision. The upper figure is loose, light-washed, the features fading in and out of clarity. It feels present but untouchable.

The beast, by contrast, is carved in ink. Its shapes are sharp, its lines assertive. I wanted it to feel like it was pushing forward breaking through the surface of the page to be acknowledged.

The edges of the piece are unclean, roughly torn. I kept them that way to preserve the immediacy. This wasn’t a painting I wanted to polish; it was one I needed to release.

This painting makes me feel seen by myself.

It captures the version of me that stays composed in the world, and the one that wants to scream beneath that stillness. Not out of rage, but out of recognition. Out of a need to say: I’m here too.

It’s easy to silence that inner guardian, to think of it as overreaction, or baggage. But sometimes, that force inside is the part of us that kept us alive, alert, intact.

This piece is a thank you to that part.

I used to think I had to choose to be calm or be fierce, be light or be shadowy. But this painting reminded me that real harmony comes from embracing both. The human and the creature. The face and the roar.

As I painted, this thought kept returning to me:

“You are not too much. You are just more than you were allowed to be.”
- Glennon Doyle

And that, I think, is the heart of it.

MEDIUM : Watercolor on paper

DATE : 2025

The Eye of God

High above, across the expanse of the cathedral ceiling, The Eye of God gazes down. It is not only a painting but a presence—an eternal reminder that every step, every prayer, every silence beneath is witnessed.

At the center of the ceiling, the divine eye dominates, vast and unblinking. Its iris spirals with cosmic depth, as though the heavens themselves are contained within a single gaze. Radiating outward, beams of light scatter into patterns that illuminate cherubic forms, angelic figures, and drifting clouds. The symmetry of the architecture frames the eye perfectly, making it feel at once anchored and infinite.

Shadow plays an equal role—around the edges, darker tones form clouded recesses, reminding us that divinity holds both clarity and mystery. Light and shadow, revelation and concealment: the balance is deliberate.

The central eye is detailed with precision, contrasting against the softer rendering of the surrounding forms. Architectural lines of the ceiling lead the viewer’s gaze upward, guiding the eye toward the divine center. The figures and clouds at the periphery are more fluid, suggesting the heavens dissolving into formlessness the further one strays from the eye’s direct vision.

Perspective was crucial here: no matter where you stand beneath the cathedral, the gaze seems to follow. It is designed to be inescapable.

There is majesty in standing below this painting, but also unease. The feeling of being seen is unavoidable, and with it comes both comfort and confrontation. Some may find reassurance in the idea of a protective gaze; others may feel the weight of judgment. Both experiences are valid, and both are part of the work’s intent.

The Eye of God teaches us that true vision is not selective—it sees us in our entirety, with light and shadow interwoven. To live under such a gaze is to be reminded that our actions, even the smallest ones,  echo beyond ourselves.

As the poet Rainer Maria Rilke once wrote: “Perhaps everything terrible is in its deepest being something helpless that wants help from us.” To be seen by the divine may feel overwhelming, but it is also a call—to live with integrity, to embrace the fullness of who we are, knowing nothing is hidden.

MEDIUM : Watercolor on paper

DATE : 2025

Medium: Watercolor on paper

Date : 1982, 2025

Mini Me's

By Jay Ells

This week’s piece, Mini Me’s, came to life in a quiet moment of reflection—one of those days when I felt all my different selves sitting with me in the studio. The joyful one. The tired one. The guarded, the ridiculous, the still-hopeful. I began to sketch, not with intention, but with intuition. What emerged was a surreal gathering of small beings—each one a fragment of me, yet each also something beyond me.

I went to my first therapist, friend of a friend, and of Jungian persuasion.  Due to heavy work assignments, I had not picked up a pencil to draw for seven years.  I said, “What can you do for me?”  She said, “We will find all the little people that live inside you!”  I went right home and drew the little people I thought we could find within me. This is Mini Me’s. I inked it in 1982, painted it in 2025.

This piece is a portrait of the inner multiplicity we all carry: the selves we perform, the ones we suppress, the ones we nurture and the ones we pretend not to hear. It’s soft and strange, gentle but charged, inviting you into a quiet constellation of odd familiarity.

Each figure in Mini Me’s represents an emotional archetype distilled down into a whimsical, childlike form.

In the top left, a tiny mouse peeks out from a spherical pot, nurturing a blooming stem crowned with balloon-like orbs. This is the nurturer, the innocent curator of joy. It speaks to the fragile optimism that insists on growth, even from enclosed or limited circumstances. The balloons—red, blue, and yellow—could be seen as playthings or distant planets, signifying both celebration and unreachable ideals. As a 5 -year old boy I was given an antique soup bowl with these balloons which I found exciting and memorable.

The large, active figure in the center—the robot—commands attention. With jointed limbs, yellow nodes, and a facelessly expressive design, this is the performer-self, equal parts machine and mime. Its exaggerated pose and blank face suggest forced exuberance. It’s animated, but emotionally hollow—dancing from habit rather than joy. A critique of the part of us that runs on routine, smiles on command, functions without feeling. I had daily spankings and one day without thinking I just bit my mom on the cheek as hard as I could. She raised horses who make their objection this way.  We were both surprised, but she did not scold me.

To the right, a clown-like figure stands rigid, holding a miniature replica of itself. This is ego observing ego—a surreal mirror. With its red heart-shaped hat, it appears almost ridiculous, yet its expression is stern, judgmental even. Here, we meet the self-aware critic, the one who watches us perform and asks: Why are you doing this? Who is this really for?

Below, a melancholic feline lies curled around a red ball. Its expression is weary, its body resigned. This is the tired wisdom, the self that has felt too much, seen too much, and now watches life with slow, skeptical eyes. Still, it clings to something small—something playful. A remnant of purpose? A memory of joy?

And in the bottom left, a large yellow dome with wide eyes peers out from the edge of the world. This is the subconscious observer, watching everything unfold but never speaking. It reminds me that not all parts of us are vocal—some are just silently witnessing.

I chose watercolor to preserve the softness of the moment. Each figure is outlined with minimal, almost whimsical ink lines, lending a naive clarity to their forms. The gentle pastels evoke nostalgia, while the empty background emphasizes isolation—the emotional distance between these selves.

I left large swaths of white to create a dreamlike stillness. These “mini me’s” don’t interact. They simply exist, suspended in their own emotional orbits. This negative space represents the disconnection between different parts of our internal identity—a visual depiction of inner fragmentation.

There’s a quiet absurdity to the designs: too odd to be comforting, too sweet to be frightening. I leaned into that contradiction, allowing the tension between humor and melancholy to lead the composition.

The piece invites a subtle, surreal discomfort. You may find yourself smiling at the figures, even as a twinge of unease settles in. That’s intentional. These characters aren’t meant to make you laugh—they’re meant to make you recognize.

We all carry versions of these mini selves: the robot who gets through the day, the cat who longs for softness of touch, the nurturer who still believes, the critic who never stops watching. They are simplified avatars of complexity, portraits of internal contradictions.

This piece doesn't offer resolution. It simply asks us to sit with ourselves—all of ourselves—and notice which mini me is speaking the loudest today.

In every one of us lives a quiet chorus of selves—some bright, some bruised, some still blooming. Often, we try to silence or exile them, hoping to become a single, coherent version of “who we should be.”

But maybe life isn’t about consolidation. Maybe it’s about conversation. Learning to coexist with our own internal audience—without shame, without hierarchy.

So this week, I invite you to notice your own “mini me’s.” Not to fix them. Just to listen.

"I am large, I contain multitudes." – Walt Whitman

And sometimes, those multitudes wear polka dots.

Medium: Watercolor on paper

Date : 2025

Solar Crown

This week’s piece emerged from a quiet space within me—one where symbols speak more fluently than words, and the boundaries between elements blur into something new. I call it “Solar Crown.”

Allow me to root it in a moment that deeply informed it. This reflection pertains to Jill Devlin’s farm near the Delaware Water Gap. Last week, I found myself meditating on the large pond at the center of the land; this week, my thoughts extended outward, across more aspects of the 120-acre sanctuary. Life shimmered there in subtle forms: Canadian geese gliding across still waters, white cranes lifting off in silence. One spring day, I set down my clothing and played Bach’s cello suites beside the pond for hours, seated in the grass, surrounded by an invisible audience of birds and breeze. Jill, with quiet kindness, brought me a glass of red wine as a reward for simply being. There were large cats—of every color—and I recall one, normally aloof, curling into Jill’s lap by firelight. Later, I watched her gently extract a large moth from the cat’s forehead, as if performing a rite. Afterward, that cat never left her side. The pond itself was a universe—home to flashing fish, biting turtles, and a vitality that shimmered just beneath the surface. This land, once William Penn’s, Jill eventually bequeathed to New Jersey, to be transformed into a state park. But to me, it remains an emblem of wild grace and quiet mystery. It lives in Solar Crown.

At the center stands a lion, golden and grounded, with flames for a mane. It came to me not as a beast of violence, but as an emblem of clarity—of conscious strength, of inner fire that does not need to roar to be known. I didn’t place it atop a mountain or in a field, but in a space suspended between two opposing yet harmonious entities: a white, spirit-like figure above, and a cool blue, oceanic creature below.

Symbolic Elements and Visual Design

Each figure in this composition plays a role in a triadic balance. The white form above—part bird, part celestial guardian—embodies the mental and spiritual realm. It watches, it hovers, it doesn’t interfere. It holds the lion’s mane.  The lion, the central force, stands between the ethereal and the emotional. Its feet rest on the blue creature below, anchoring it in both realms.

And that blue being—marked with a sun, despite being aquatic—symbolizes emotional depth, intuition, the waters of the unconscious.  I often find that the brightest insights come not from logic, but from the currents beneath the surface.

Techniques

I leaned into a minimal line style here—almost like stained glass. I wanted to give each form clarity, but also softness. Watercolor offered the perfect voice for that: it bleeds and blends, just like the ideas behind this piece. The palette is elemental: yellow for fire and life, white for the unseen, blue for intuition, and hints of red-orange to stir it all together.

Emotional Impact

There’s stillness here. Not inaction, but presence. The lion isn’t moving forward—it’s already arrived. And what I felt, while painting, was that quiet pride that comes from being fully yourself, standing in the middle of your own duality, held by the things that once pulled you apart.

Life Lesson

This piece reminds me that strength isn’t about pushing harder—it’s about standing in your truth, even when it’s born of contradiction. The lion is powerful because it draws from both sky and sea. We, too, find our truest power when we learn to hold both our light and our shadow with compassion.

“It is in the balance of contradictions that the soul reveals its true shape.”

Medium: Watercolor on paper

Date: 197? , 2025

Delicate Equilibrium

This week’s piece, Delicate Equilibrium, is a visual meditation on interdependence, tension, and balance—both within nature and the self. It is a vertical narrative, where each creature and element stacks upon the next in an improbable but necessary order. At the top: a spider, poised atop a radiant flower. In the middle: a wide-eyed frog, contemplative and almost human in its quiet resolve. And below: a whale-like fish, gliding through dreamlike waters. Everything is held together by a singular, snaking stalk—part stem, part umbilical cord, part lifeline.

The inspiration for this meditation lies, in part, in a friend’s farm pond in New Jersey—four acres in size, surrounded by 100 acres of woods and charming clusters of flowering bushes. It was a great place to visit and to swim.  The water was full of fish gliding against our legs.  Frogs were surrounding the edges of the pond using their loud voices. Across the pond were colored lotuses. Sometimes on the lotuses there were very large colored spiders. This was a beautiful balance of nature.  In the very near distance, we heard the water from the trout stream.  At little further on we could hear the waterfall tumbling down the side of the mountain. This was nature in its purest equilibrium: gentle under the warmth of summer, yet constantly in motion, vital and whole.

Symbolic Elements and Visual Design

The Spider and the Flower: The spider, traditionally a symbol of patience and cunning, rests unnervingly on a flower—an emblem of vulnerability, beauty, and fleeting time. Its placement atop the composition positions it as a paradox: danger nested in delicacy. The flower’s yellow and white petals radiate outward like a sun, suggesting life-giving energy, while the spider’s red-tinted legs inject a note of menace into the light.

The Frog: Positioned at the center, the frog is both observer and participant. Frogs are liminal creatures—living between water and land, transformation, and permanence. This frog, with its almost anthropomorphic expression and clasped hands, anchors the emotional tone. It seems to understand the risk of imbalance, the fragility of its placement between predator and deep sea.

The Whale-like Fish: At the base swims a serene blue presence, eyes wide with a kind of quiet awareness. Symbolizing the subconscious and the vast unknown, it provides a foundation for the rest of the scene. Yet even the depths are not free from the chain of connection—this creature, too, is entwined in the shared cord of existence.

The Yellow Stem: This single line links everything—the root and the reach, the water, and the sky. It twists through the composition like fate or time, uniting predator, prey, plant, and reflection into one surreal yet cohesive whole.

Techniques

This watercolor work relies on gentle washes and soft gradients, invoking a dreamlike quality. The careful outlining in fine ink holds the imagery together, acting almost as the "web" that prevents the surreal from dissolving into chaos. The palette is intentional: soft blues and greens for calmness, juxtaposed against warm yellows and reds for tension and vibrancy. The verticality of the composition adds to the sense of suspension—everything is both rising and falling at once.

Closing Reflection

There is a quiet anxiety under the surface of this piece. Everything is still—for now—but it could tip with the slightest shift. The frog’s expression becomes our own: a mixture of wonder, caution, and weary acceptance. It evokes that fragile moment of holding your breath, unsure whether the balance will hold. Yet there’s also serenity in the interconnectedness. Nothing exists alone. Each form supports the others, willingly or not.

Delicate Equilibrium reminds me that every existence is layered within another. We are suspended in a web of relationships—natural, emotional, spiritual—and the balance of one affects the harmony of all. Even in stillness, tension remains. But perhaps it is that very tension that holds the world together.

As M.C. Escher once said, “We adore chaos because we love to produce order.” And so I paint not to resolve the chaos, but to witness it—its beauty, its danger, and the fragile ribbon that ties us all.

Medium: Watercolor on paper

Date: 2025

Balancing  Opposites

This week’s piece is a meditation on forces that shape us—some loud and confrontational, others subtle and inevitable. At its heart, this painting is an exploration of the interplay between femininity and masculinity, not as rigid definitions, but as energies in motion, each pushing and pulling, challenging and complementing. And then, beyond this central struggle, a quiet but ever-present force lingers—one that doesn’t seek balance but simply flows.

In the foreground, I lie still, an observer and a participant in this surreal theater. Around me, movement and conflict unfold: femininity, embodied in a muscular, radiant figure, flexes its exaggerated limbs—playful yet commanding. Its power is undeniable, but it does not seek to dominate. Across from it, masculinity bursts forward in jagged, aggressive strokes, baring sharp teeth, fists clenched, radiating fiery intensity. These two entities do not destroy each other; they challenge and shape, locked in an endless negotiation of energy.

But beyond this physical battle, something deeper is taking place. Above them, at the peak of the composition, the struggle is mirrored in a new form—a cat and a bird, their bodies converging toward a single red dot. These creatures are not separate from the feminine and masculine figures below; they are them, reborn, stripped of their aggression and reforming into something new. The cat, sleek and instinct-driven, and the bird, weightless and free, come together at the red dot, which represents life and creativity itself—the fusion of opposing energies into something transcendent.

They stand atop a waterfall, perched on the edge of transformation. This waterfall is not merely a backdrop; it is a conduit, carrying the energy of their union downward. The water flows into the space that encloses me, the body of water in which I lie—a representation of the subconscious. The battle of femininity and masculinity does not exist in isolation; it is deeply connected to the waters of the mind, shaping my internal world, influencing the hidden depths beneath my waking self. The subconscious holds it all—the struggle, the resolution, the rebirth.

And then, watching from the background, are the faintly drawn faces of my family. My grandmother, on the left, a quiet yet undeniable presence, holds a space of wisdom and continuity. Above, my mother smiles with warmth, a guiding force even in abstraction. To the right, my father’s expression is more elusive, a subtle presence amid the chaos. They linger behind it all—not as passive observers, but as the very foundation of my being. Their presence is ancestral, woven into my subconscious, shaping me even when I am not fully aware of it.

Techniques: The Art of Controlled Chaos

For this piece, I allowed watercolor’s fluidity to dictate some of the motion, while ink defined the forms that emerged. The contrast between carefully outlined figures and the loose, almost uncontrolled blending of colors mirrors the thematic tension—some forces are clearly shaped and intentional, while others bleed into the background, undefined and ethereal.

The warm, glowing yellows of femininity contrast with the jagged, aggressive strokes of masculinity, while the cool blues and greens in my own form provide a resting point, a place of observation amid the storm. The cat, subtle yet purposeful, exists in a different rhythm, standing apart from the chaos. The bird, light and fleeting, moves toward the same destination. Together, they embody a shift—a transformation from battle to unity, from division to creation. The waterfall ties it all together, carrying the energy from above into the subconscious below.

Emotional Impact: A Personal Reflection

This piece speaks to cycles—conflict, transformation, and rebirth. I see myself lying there, aware of these forces, yet neither fully in control nor entirely at their mercy. Femininity and masculinity are not at war but rather in motion, in dialogue, shaping each other’s presence. And in their rebirth, they are no longer locked in opposition. As the cat and the bird, they come together in a single point—the red dot, the essence of life, the spark of creativity.

And in the background, my family watches—not as distant figures, but as intrinsic parts of this story. Their presence is quiet yet deeply felt, a reminder that the forces shaping me are not just internal but generational.

I created this piece in a moment of reflection, asking myself: Am I balancing my own inner dualities, or am I simply witnessing them? And what about the cat and the bird? Am I still fighting my inner forces, or am I moving toward their fusion—toward something new?

A Life Lesson from the Canvas

We often see opposites as forces that must battle for dominance—strength versus softness, logic versus emotion, control versus surrender. But what if they were never meant to be enemies? What if their true purpose is not to win over one another, but to merge into something greater?

At the heart of all creation lies contrast—light and shadow, chaos and order, feminine and masculine. And when they finally come together, something entirely new is born.

And in the quiet corners of our lives, there are always those who came before us—watching, shaping, existing within us in ways we may never fully understand.

As Kandinsky once said, “Everything starts from a dot.”
Perhaps the real question is: Are you still fighting your dualities, or are you ready to transform them into something new?

Medium: Watercolor on paper

Date: 2024

The Feast

The Dinner Table Throne

I learned early on that the dinner table was not just a place to eat—it was a battleground of rules, expectations, and invisible tripwires waiting to be set off. My mother and stepfather ruled over mealtimes with quiet but suffocating authority, where every movement was scrutinized, every misplaced utensil a sign of failure. Sit up straight. Chew with your mouth closed. Use your fork, not your fingers. The list of unspoken laws was endless, and breaking even one could bring down their silent, simmering disapproval.

And then there was that night—the night the table flipped.

We had barely started eating when my older brother made a fatal mistake. He reached out—not far, not dramatically—just enough to graze a single green pea with his finger. Maybe he was distracted, maybe he was testing limits, or maybe, just maybe, he had simply forgotten the rules. But no, he knew the rules. The one pea was trembling on the fork. How could this nine-year old boy get that pea into his mouth without it falling off the fork?  He touched it.

But in our house, there was no forgetting. A sharp kick under the table was the reminder.

My stepfather’s eyes locked onto him, and for a second, everything froze. A single moment of stillness, the kind that happens just before a predator strikes. Then, with a sudden, violent force, dad flipped the entire table with a powerful kick from his steel-toed boot. My brother had moved his knee to avoid that kick that he knew was coming. Plates crashed to the floor, silverware clattered like falling swords, and food scattered in every direction. My mother gasped, my brother pushed back in his chair, and I sat there, gripping my fork, not daring to move.

The room was silent, except for the sound of a lone, rolling pea making its slow escape across the tile floor.

My stepfather stormed up off his chair, leaving us in the wreckage of what was once dinner. My mother, as always, moved quickly to clean up the mess, not saying a word. And we—my brother and I—just sat there, staring at the overturned dishes, the splattered food, the absurdity of it all.  What was worse was the kerosene lamp that lit the table.  The lamp chimney broke, but the glass base full of kerosine only cracked. We could have gone up in a blast of blazing fire. The kitchen was tiny with no possibility of escape.

I remember thinking, it was just a pea. A single, harmless pea.

But it was not about the food. It never was. It was about control. The dinner table was a throne, and any breach of its rigid order was a challenge to authority. The table flip was not a punishment—it was a demonstration, a reminder that we were always being watched, always being corrected, always at risk of sudden chaos.

Years later, I still flinch when someone slams their hand on a table too hard. I still feel that tightening in my stomach when a fork clinks against a plate too loudly. But I also remember that rolling pea, that tiny, rebellious thing that escaped the chaos and found its own path across the floor.

And in some strange way, I think we did too.

That moment has stayed with me, and it’s the reason for my featured painting this week: The Feast.

Symbolic Elements and Visual Design

That experience lingers in my mind when I look at my painting, "The Feast." The intertwining nagas are locked in an intricate ritual—eating together, sharing the same meal, yet caught in an unspoken tension. They are not at war, yet they are not at peace. Their elongated bodies coil and weave through the composition, suggesting a deep entanglement, much like the relationships we form around the dinner table.

At the center of it all is an asparagus, held in the jaws of the black naga. A seemingly simple object, yet it becomes a symbol of sustenance, power, and control. Just like that tiny pea that caused an uproar at my childhood table, the asparagus here is more than food—it is a catalyst, a test, a focal point around which dynamics unfold.

Each naga carries its own personality: the black one, looming and dominant, watches with split eyes—one looking ahead, one looking back. The blue one grins, amused or perhaps indifferent. The red nagas, their movements slightly restrained, still partake in the feast, their expressions unreadable. The entire scene vibrates with an uneasy balance, a moment stretched between harmony and conflict.

The yellow bursts in the background feel almost divine, as if some unseen force is illuminating the moment. Is it an ordinary meal, or a cosmic ritual? A gathering of kin, or a battle of wills?

Techniques

The use of watercolor lends a softness to the otherwise intense scene. The pigments bleed into one another, mirroring the way relationships—especially ones forged in strict households—can blur the line between love and control, authority and protection. The contrast between the dark black naga and the softer pastels of the others draws the eye to the hierarchy within the image, just as the clamped red naga suggests restriction, compliance, or reluctant participation.

The asparagus itself, rendered with delicate attention to texture, becomes almost absurd in its role as the center of attention. How many times have we given weight to something so small? A tiny rule, an insignificant gesture—yet, in the wrong moment, under the wrong eyes, it can flip the entire table.

Emotional Impact

There is something both primal and ritualistic in this painting. It speaks of hunger—not just for food, but for control, for structure, for understanding. It evokes the strange dance of family dynamics, of shared meals that are supposed to bring people together but sometimes serve as arenas of silent tension.

Looking at this piece, I feel the same sensation I had all those years ago—the weight of unspoken expectations, the tightness in my chest, the feeling of being watched. But I also feel something else: a kind of catharsis. The nagas are bound together, but they are not broken. They eat, they move, they continue.

Maybe, in some way, that’s all any of us can do.

Life Lesson

Eating together is one of the oldest human rituals. It is meant to nourish not just the body, but the bonds between us. And yet, the table can be a place of power, hierarchy, and control just as much as it can be a place of warmth.

This painting reminds me that even in shared spaces, there is tension. Even in rituals meant to bring us together, there are invisible rules. But just as food fuels us, so too does rebellion—the small, simple acts of defiance, like touching a single pea with your finger, like questioning authority, like refusing to be consumed by the roles others assign to us.

It brings to mind something Indira Gandhi once said:
"You must learn to be still in the midst of activity and to be vibrantly alive in repose."

As a child at that dinner table, I learned to sit still, to follow the rules, to avoid disruption. But stillness was not peace—it was survival. Only later did I understand that real power comes from knowing when to endure and when to resist, when to remain quiet and when to push back. The tension of the feast, whether among nagas or family members, is not just about hierarchy—it’s about navigating these choices.

In the end, we choose how much power we give to these moments. We decide whether we remain trapped in the cycle, or whether, like that lone pea rolling across the floor, we find our own way forward.

Fifty years later, a childhood friend said to my girlfriend, “Those boys were not happy boys, but they were much admired for their accomplishments.”

Or, perhaps, like the nagas in this piece—we simply kept eating.

Medium: Watercolor on paper

Date: 1967

The Red Devil at Dawn

My Own Life at Dawn

This marked the beginning of my creative journey: San Francisco, June 1966. Generals from the US Army in Europe praised my artwork, which significantly changed my life. I decided to pursue my passion for art beyond my military service. Accompanied by my girlfriend, we drove across the United States to Los Angeles, where we encountered her disapproving mother. Subsequently, we relocated to San Francisco. She eventually chose a monastic life, while I moved into a fourth-story rooming house for artists at the top of Fillmore Hill. Bob Dylan's music filled the airwaves, and the United States had transformed considerably during my three-year absence in Europe. Emerging artists, who later gained fame from the movie Monterey Pop, were just beginning their careers at the Fillmore, which later became known as Fillmore West. This period was characterized by a culture of free drugs and free love.

Our rooming house featured a communal kitchen: Elena, a stunning red-haired Italian painter, resided at the western end of the hall, while her rival, Georgine Garcia de la Blanch, lived on the eastern side, with her bay window merely three feet away from mine. On one occasion, I reached through her window and remarked, "None of that!" to her boyfriend, who was lifting her skirt. Drugs were new and easy to obtain, leading to various escapades. After a party, Rudolf Nureyev and Margot Fonteyn were arrested on our rooftop, crouched behind the chimney. The Opera House was conveniently located down the hill. Iris, our resident ballerina, urged me to stop painting and rush to secure a last-minute ticket to the Bolshoi Ballet. Having never attended a ballet before, I went and experienced one of the most memorable afternoons of my life, witnessing Maya Plisetskaya perform in Swan Lake. The entire audience, including myself, was moved to tears throughout the performance, costing me only a dollar to attend.

During a week spent painting billboards in a Pacific village, I encountered a retired diplomat who showed me the vanity table of Empress Carlota of Mexico—an item far removed from anything I had seen growing up on a farm in Minnesota. In December, the San Francisco Chronicle ran a headline: “Hippies Working at the Post Office!” Many of us were employed there for the Christmas season. One friend discovered a large chocolate bar filled with opium that had fallen out of a package. We questioned and laughed at the term "hippie," which none of us had ever heard before. That first summer boasted consistently beautiful weather. I resolved to stay indoors and paint, which proved fruitful as I sold a painting to the City of San Francisco on one such day.

Also in our rooming house, I met my first sleep-over girlfriend, and we explored the city together. And, yes, we discovered STDs. A friend who played the sitar mentioned practicing in the park alongside 17 other sitar players on a grassy hill. We were all experimenting with whatever intrigued us. By March 1967, I recognized that San Francisco was not conducive to selling art. I took a bus to New York City and found considerable success there. By May 1967, many of my friends had also relocated to New York. Drugs were no longer freely available, crime was on the rise, and the influx of flower children made us wary of staying. Elena's daughters, who had arrived at the rooming house the same day as I did in June 1966, left when I did on March 21, 1967. We reunited in New York and developed a lasting friendship. I had the pleasure of visiting them again in San Francisco in the summer of 2024!

It is from this formative time in my life that this week’s featured piece “The Red Devil at Dawn” emerges—not just as a surreal vision, but as a metaphor for the chaos, discovery, and transformation that defined those early years.

Symbolic Elements and Visual Design

At first glance, the composition feels like a dream unraveling—fragmented yet interconnected. The Head of Harlequin, with its sun-like rays and grinning face, contrasts sharply with the unsettling presence of the Red Devil, who seems to wield it like a trophy. This could symbolize the duality of comedy and tragedy, the mask of entertainment hiding something deeper beneath.

To the right, two bird-like creatures—Ducky and Big Mosquito—add to the uncanny atmosphere. Their exaggerated, almost grotesque forms challenge the viewer’s perception of innocence. The BRO Cat, with its sharp teeth and ambivalent expression, introduces yet another layer of contrast—familiar yet distorted.

Above the devil, a hovering skull-like entity watches over the scene, its mechanical or ritualistic appearance evoking thoughts of fate, control, or unseen forces guiding the narrative.

Techniques

The use of watercolor washes creates a soft, dreamlike haze that contrasts with the sharp, white outlines defining the figures. This technique enhances the feeling of an ephemeral, floating world where things may dissolve or shift at any moment. The color palette is warm yet chaotic—sunny yellows and fiery reds merge into cool blues and purples, suggesting the transition from night to day, or from order to entropy.

The outlining, which resembles chalk or etching, reinforces the feeling of a subconscious vision—something carved into memory rather than observed in reality. There’s a rawness in the rendering, as if the imagery was pulled directly from the depths of the mind without refinement, preserving its surreal potency.

Emotional Impact

This artwork evokes a mixture of amusement and unease, much like a dream that hovers between the ridiculous and the ominous. The devil figure, with its exaggerated mustache and wild expression, could be interpreted as a trickster—a force of disruption, challenging the structures of logic and expectation.

Yet, there is also a sense of control within the madness. The devil holds the sun-faced Harlequin firmly, as if dictating the narrative. Is this a creator orchestrating chaos, or chaos itself masquerading as control?

Life Lesson

This piece speaks to the interplay of forces in our lives—the balance between humor and darkness, spontaneity and structure. The Red Devil at Dawn reminds us that sometimes, chaos is necessary for transformation. The dawn itself is a moment of transition, where the remnants of night still linger, and the full clarity of day has yet to arrive.

As Picasso once said, “Art is a lie that makes us realize truth.” Perhaps this surreal vision of devils and harlequins, of birds with hidden menace and skulls with unseen influence, reveals a truth about our own dance with uncertainty.

Medium: Watercolor on Paper

Date: 1975, 2025

The Liminal Chorus

Symbolic Elements and Visual Design
This piece is an exploration of liminality—that threshold between worlds where nothing is fixed, yet everything pulses with potential. At first glance, the imagery may appear chaotic, but it reflects a deliberate interweaving of contrasting forces—playful and grotesque, organic and celestial. Faces emerge from both the anthropomorphic and the otherworldly, inviting us to question the boundaries of self and nature.

Leonardo da Vinci once told his students, “Look! There are faces and figures everywhere. Look in the mud! What do you see?” This resonates deeply with my process, where the act of discovery becomes a dance between imagination and observation.

The soft watercolors lend a dreamlike fluidity to the scene, emphasizing the interconnectedness of these forms. The caterpillar, spider, and serpentine shapes suggest transformation and fragility, while the sun and ghostly figures evoke omnipresence and ambiguity. The faces embedded in various elements challenge the viewer to find meaning within the absurdity. Are they playful spirits or harbingers of change? The diagonal grasses cut through the composition, acting as fragile bridges between realms—growth piercing through uncertainty.

In our previous blog, I quoted Paul Klee: “A line is a dot that went for a walk.” Carl Jung also said, “Follow the fragment, idea, or line, as far as it will take you.” Similarly, Disneyland’s Epcot Center celebrates creativity with its “Imagination” pavilion, where a small dragon named Figment leads visitors on a whimsical journey. These sentiments fuel my creative process. I keep drawing until the uncertainty satisfies a need I have inside, and the form feels right to me.

Techniques
I worked primarily in ink and watercolor, balancing fine, deliberate linework with loose, almost childlike washes of color. These delicate lines were drawn back in 1975, using penpoints that were available to me at the time. It wasn't until 2025 that I finally added color.

When I created this piece, I did what I usually do: I sat quietly and observed the paper. I often use Arches 140 lb. cold press rough paper, where the textured surface reveals tiny lines. I follow these lines, sometimes quickly but more often slowly, across days or even months. Every line must fit perfectly in place.

The five years leading up to this image were brimming with creativity. I have published six books with Holt, Rinehart, and Winston; one with Bomar; and contributed to Western (Golden Books), with about 350 illustrations to my name. In 1975, I was seeking a publisher for my masterpiece, Head like a Bear—Wings like an Eagle. This book opened countless doors. Beatrice de Schenk de Regniers, a renowned editor, described it as “astounding,” and it earned praise on WNBC and in The New York Times. It filled my mind with possibilities then, as it still does now. Today, I have six new books available on Amazon, a collaboration with Jesus Salvacion, whose digital illustration and design bring fresh life to my ideas.

Now, with decades of experience behind me, I could approach this piece with the sensitivity and confidence to bring out the nuances of the forms with soft, pastel hues.

The pastel palette creates an inviting atmosphere that contrasts with the bizarre, surreal forms. I intentionally left some areas sparsely detailed to evoke emptiness, allowing space for the viewer’s imagination to flow into the gaps. The overlapping elements create a slight disorientation, further reinforcing the liminality of the scene.

Emotional Impact
The artwork oscillates between whimsy and unease. The smiling faces feel mischievous, while the elongated tongues, staring eyes, and insect-like limbs hint at something uncanny. It reflects that moment of hesitation before stepping into the unknown mix of curiosity, fear, and exhilaration. The work invites viewers to embrace the discomfort of ambiguity and see it not as a threat but as an invitation to grow.

Life Lesson
This piece reminds us that liminal spaces—whether physical, emotional, or spiritual—are often uncomfortable, yet they are also the places where transformation begins. When we lean into the uncertain, we give ourselves permission to evolve, to shed old skins, and become something new.

As Wassily Kandinsky said, “There is no must in art because art is free.” and in the same way, life often flourishes in freedom when we stop clinging to certainties. What do you see in the liminal spaces?

Medium: Watercolor on paper

Date: 1982

The Particles of the Sun

I grew up on a farm, where my days began and ended with the sun. Its golden rays kissed the endless fields of corn where I worked alongside my family, soaking the land in light that seemed almost alive. I remember standing in those fields, barely tall enough to see over the crops, watching the sunlight scatter through dewdrops, bounce off leaves, and dissolve into the soil. Even as a child, I could feel its energy, flowing through the earth, the plants, and me—a quiet, universal force that connected everything.

Those early days shaped how I see the sun—not just as a source of light, but as a great giver of life. It seemed both distant and intimate, scattering its energy in all directions yet weaving everything together in perfect harmony. That realization planted the seeds of my fascination with contrasts—the way the sun could be chaotic yet precise, playful yet profound, vast yet personal. Its particles were everywhere, transforming and grounding life at every level.

And that’s the inspiration behind this week’s piece, The Particles of the Sun. This artwork is a visual ode to the sun’s infinite energy—fragmented, scattered, and reassembled into forms that reflect the diversity of life. Each layer of the composition captures a different aspect of solar energy as it transforms through the natural world: creation, movement, and eventual grounding in the earth. Let me take you deeper into its story.

Symbolic Elements and Visual Design

1. The Upper Layer: The Spark of Creation
Bathed in golden yellow, the topmost figures—one reminiscent of a face with an almost plant-like plume, the other a lion-like sunburst—embody the sun’s creative force. They are radiant and playful, brimming with vitality. This layer represents the first scattering of particles, where energy from the sun begins its cosmic journey, sparking life and imagination.

The cloud forms along the top edge suggest that even the sun’s brilliance must filter through veils of mystery, adding depth and softness to its otherwise raw power.

2. The Middle Layer: The Flux of Transformation
The creatures in the center hover in a transitional state, their birdlike and serpentine qualities evoking flight, movement, and metamorphosis. This is the realm where solar energy transforms—feeding plants, fueling weather systems, and sustaining animals. The muted tones of yellow and blue suggest both harmony and tension, capturing the delicate balance of this energy in motion.

The overlapping identities of the creatures here—part predator, part prey—remind us that energy is neither created nor destroyed, only passed from one form to the next.

3. The Lower Layer: Grounded Power
At the base, the horned bovine figure stands firmly within a serene blue wash, with humanoid faces nestled beneath it like roots. This layer represents the grounding of the sun’s energy into the earth itself, absorbed into soil, stone, and the rhythms of life. The red horns of the creature cut through the serenity, suggesting the raw, unyielding power that remains even in rest.

The ghostly faces beneath evoke ancestors, or perhaps the sun’s long memory of everything it has ever touched, a reminder of our connection to the past and the energy we carry forward.

Techniques

The soft, diffused watercolor washes echo the way sunlight scatters through the atmosphere. The choice of unbroken, whimsical linework reflects the interconnectedness of all life touched by the sun’s energy. The simplicity of the design invites the viewer to see both the macrocosm (the grand system of energy and transformation) and the microcosm (the personalities of each individual figure).

The restrained palette—yellow, blue, and subtle red—mirrors the sun’s daily journey, from the golden glow of sunrise to the cool descent into dusk.

Emotional Impact

The piece evokes a sense of wonder at the sun’s omnipresence and its ability to permeate every aspect of life. The faces and forms are simultaneously humorous and profound, encouraging us to see both the cosmic and the personal. There’s a joyful, childlike quality here, but also an underlying reverence for the forces that shape existence.

Life Lesson

The sun’s particles remind us of the nature of energy—it moves through us, shaping our lives and the world around us, only to return to its source.  Who are we ourselves?   Are we playful creators like the sunburst lion? Are we in a state of flux and transformation? Or are we grounded, drawing strength from our roots and the earth itself?

As Georgia O’Keeffe said, "Nobody sees a flower—really—it is so small it takes time...like taking time to have a friend."  The particles of the sun require attention to truly appreciate. We may take time to notice how sunlight transforms the world around us and within us.

Medium: Watercolor on paper

Date: 1969

Beauty of Growth

Frank Stella, a leading artist, said, “I don’t know what these forms mean or where they come from.” So true for my featured artwork this week. When I painted this picture and looked at it, I said, “This looks to me like a potato!”

On our farm in Minnesota, we grew potatoes in our garden. We cut old potatoes into chunks. Each chunk possessed an eye. From each eye, we hoped to grow a root that would become a large new potato with many eyes. Our black earth was thick, muddy, yet crumbly. The roots grew tangled and moist in this rich, dense, peaty soil. Later, it took quite a bit of washing to clean those roots of the stubborn dirt clinging to our new potatoes!

When I created this piece, I wasn’t just painting a potato growing roots—I was exploring the raw, almost violent beauty of growth itself. The deep crimson background became a stage for something primal, something alive. The pale, sinewy forms twist and stretch as if caught in a moment of desperate expansion, while the black voids interrupt their movement, like pockets of resistance or uncertainty.

I made this image in 1969 after coming home from a day’s social work, staying with four children at the Bureau of Child Welfare. There were three boys, ages 5 to 8, and a very mature girl, age 10, who acted as their mother. She carried safety pins, needle, and thread, and watched over their food and behavior. They all asked me to become their father, and I truly wanted to. However, I was required to place them in several orphanages. I painted this picture when I came home that day. I do believe now that there is a connection between the growth of those endearing children and my own childhood and work in the fields. This has always been my favorite painting from that year and the only one I kept.

Symbolic Elements and Visual Design

The pale, root-like structures became more than just roots—they felt like veins, pathways, or even fragile limbs reaching for something unseen. In those twisting, stretching forms, I see reflections of the children I worked with—each one fragile yet resilient, reaching out in search of stability, connection, and care. The blue circular nodes, like the eyes of a potato, became symbols of hope and potential, tiny energy points anchoring these chaotic forms to something steady.

These shapes also remind me of my own childhood—of hands sunk into rich soil, of roots stubbornly pushing through the dense earth, seeking light and nourishment. Just as the roots in the painting grow despite resistance, those children and I grew through circumstances that often felt confining and uncertain. These forms, both fragile and powerful, are caught in a suspended moment of transformation—much like the lives of those children and the memories of my own youth.

Techniques

I leaned into bold outlines and flat, saturated colors. Every curve or sharp angle was deliberate. Each line carries tension and intent. The textured red background, with its subtle tonal shifts, is a universe in itself. It is a space where these root-like shapes have no choice but to push, stretch, and grow.

Emotional Impact

When I step back and look at this piece, I feel quiet chaos, suspended in time. There is a discomfort here—a sense of struggle—but also a strange beauty in how these forms cling to their space, refusing to let go. It speaks to the resilience we all carry in moments of uncertainty, the way growth often feels both necessary and impossibly hard.

Life Lesson

This painting reminds me that growth is rarely graceful. It is messy, awkward, and often painful. But it is also unstoppable. Roots do not ask permission—they push through whatever they must to reach what they need.

Although Paul Klee once said, “A line is a dot that went for a walk,” the lines in Beauty of Growth do not just walk—they dance, stumble, and claw their way forward. In that raw movement, I see a reflection of every moment I have had to grow, even when it felt impossible.

Medium: Watercolor in paper

Date: 1976

Singularity

This week’s piece, Singularity, is an exploration of convergence—the merging of disparate elements into a single, harmonious whole. At first glance, it might seem deceptively simple, but beneath its minimalistic form lies a dialogue about unity, perception, and transformation.

As I share this with you, I have so much to celebrate. Just recently, I turned 86 years old—a milestone that feels both surreal and profound. I’ve published my 6th children’s book, which also happens to be my very first hardbound book, and this marks my 74th blog post. This year alone, I completed two large painting canvases while continuing to finish a third and continue to maintain my website and webstores and keeping up with all my social media platforms: YouTube, Threads, Instagram, Facebook, and TikTok. It’s been a transformative time in my life. After everything I’ve experienced—the ups and downs, the uncertainties, and the hard work—I’ve come to a place of celebrating who I am and what I have become. Every piece I create, including Singularity, feels like a reflection of this journey and the immense gratitude I hold for it.

Symbolic Elements and Visual Design

At the center of the composition, a single-eyed creature emerges, carrying a blooming flower. The flower becomes the focal point, radiating and symbolizing growth, renewal, and potential. Its glow speaks to the energy and life that the creature carries with quiet determination.

The creature itself is surreal, blending animalistic and abstract qualities. Its singular yellow eye suggests focused awareness, the ability to perceive deeply or to look beyond the surface of things. The flower it carries elevates the creature’s purpose, turning it into a bearer of something precious—something greater than itself.

The muted pastel palette—dominated by soft pinks and yellows—enhances the sense of gentleness and harmony. These colors create an almost dreamlike atmosphere, adding a feeling of lightness to the piece. Yet, the creature’s peculiar anatomy and its unblinking gaze remind us of the tension inherent in singularity: it is both a point of clarity and a space of mystery.

Techniques

I approached Singularity with an intentional simplicity of form and color. The thin, precise linework contrasts against the soft washes of watercolor, emphasizing fragility and balance. The glowing orb of the flower was created with a delicate gradient, making it feel almost sacred, like a beacon of light and warmth.

The creature’s asymmetrical anatomy disrupts the otherwise harmonious scene, reminding us that perfection is not necessary for purpose. Its limbs—sturdy yet strangely shaped—give it a sense of weight and grounding, while the glowing flower lends it a celestial quality.

The composition uses negative space to isolate the central figure, allowing the viewer to focus entirely on the act of carrying. This emptiness around the creature amplifies its singularity, making it feel suspended in a moment of timeless importance.

Emotional Impact

This work evokes a duality of emotions: calm serenity and subtle unease. The soft palette and the gentle curves of the flower radiate peace, while the creature’s piercing eye demands attention and introspection. It asks a quiet question: what does it mean to carry something of such significance?

For me, Singularity is about the weight of responsibility and the beauty of purpose. It’s a reminder that every journey, no matter how strange or solitary, carries the potential for profound meaning.

A Life Lesson

Singularity reminds us that life is full of converging paths, and while we often strive to simplify our existence, true clarity comes when we accept its inherent complexity. To borrow the words of Rainer Maria Rilke:
"Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves."

This week, may you find comfort in the questions and strength in the singular moments of transformation.

Medium: Watercolor on paper

Date: 1976

Bridging Longing and Fulfillment: A Journey Through Art and Experience

This piece is an intimate exploration of the tension between desire and fulfillment, both as an abstract concept and a deeply personal experience. Through the fragmented, emotive forms, it speaks a universal language of isolation, longing, and the human yearning for intimacy. Confined within a circle, the artwork’s visual elements echo a time in my life when I was searching for something intangible yet profoundly necessary.

Visual Elements and Symbolism

At the heart of the composition are two contrasting eyes, symbolizing the dichotomy between yearning and fulfillment. The red eye radiates intensity, its vivid color and irregular form representing raw, unrestrained emotional desire. It gazes outward with vulnerability, desperate to connect. In contrast, the half-lidded eye on the right exudes cool detachment, detached from the cry for connection. Together, these eyes form the emotional crux of the piece: one eye exposed, seeking; the other, inward, distant, and unattainable.

Below, fleshy, layered forms pulse with unmet desire, their organic curves evoking lips—poised to speak, kiss, or cry out, yet silenced.  The surrounding black amplifies the isolation of these elements, representing the emotional chasm that separates longing from fulfillment.

The Personal Connection

This artwork is deeply intertwined with a chapter of my own story. By the age of 30, I had never been kissed or hugged. Despite this, I had achieved financial independence with my writing and illustration earning enough money to sustain me for the rest of my life. Yet, I longed for something I couldn’t quantify—loving touch—even though I didn’t fully understand what it meant.  Now I had several dozen new painting that I wanted photographed.  I hired a professional photographer who was also a long-time friend. Around this time, I sought advice from a former priest and WPLJ advisor who told me:
“If you’ve never experienced loving touch, you may need to return to your emotional beginnings and start over, even if you are successful in other areas of your life.”
He repeated, “To experience loving touch, you might need to start over emotionally.”

Reflecting on my upbringing, his words struck a chord. I grew up on a remote farm, isolated in many ways. Later, I joined the largest religious group at the biggest university in the United States, where we were warned, “No kissing before marriage.” My parents’ divorce decree contained the stark phrase, “Inhuman treatment to children,” and after I turned 10, my stepfather stopped speaking to me entirely. These experiences left me yearning for connection yet unsure how to find it.

The photographer, in contrast, embodied everything I associated with sophistication and worldly experience. He had worked for Look Magazine, been married to a Martha Graham dancer and next to an Austrian textile designer, and spoke multiple languages—French, Italian, Spanish, and German. He had even spent a year studying fresco painting in Florence. His life seemed brimming with the international urban culture I desperately craved.

Yet despite my attempts to learn from him, our relationship revealed the emotional gaps I still needed to bridge. “You know everything about the numinous but nothing about the passionate,” he once exclaimed, frustrated.

This painting, created in 1976, captures my curiosity, frustration, and longing to reconcile my intellectual and emotional worlds. The tension between these elements both sexual and emotional—mirrored in the artwork—became a defining struggle of that period in my life.

Emotional Impact

This piece evokes a bittersweet ache. The unresolved contrasts—the open vulnerability of the red eye, the cool detachment of the sphere, and the pulsing fleshy forms—create a visceral emotional resonance. It invites us to sit with our own feelings of incompleteness, to explore the spaces between connection and isolation.

A Life Lesson

This piece and the story behind it remind us that longing is not just about what we lack, but also about the spaces it creates within us. These spaces, though painful, can lead to growth and deeper understanding. The interplay of yearning and fulfillment teaches us that vulnerability can be a bridge to clarity and connection.

As the poet John O’Donohue so aptly wrote, “The hunger of longing can make us more sensitive to the treasures that presence offers.” In both art and life, it is through our exploration of incompleteness that we find unexpected lessons, beauty, and, ultimately, a path forward.

Medium: Watercolor in paper

Date: 1993

Self-denial

This week’s featured art piece is one I created in 1993, during a turbulent chapter of my life. At the time, I had rented a small, beautiful workspace, intending to use it as an office—though in truth, it was an escape. I did not go there to find inspiration or focus; I went there to get away from myself. It was a time of profound stress and internal conflict, but I created three books there and several small paintings and one large painting named “The Twins” which is about the two sides of myself. 

The piece you see here titled “Self-denial" emerged during one of those moments of confrontation—or avoidance, depending on how you look at it. It is raw, unapologetic, and deeply symbolic of the inner chaos I was wrestling with. I had crossed myself out, in more ways than one, and the result is this visual exploration of the denial of myself. 

Let us dive into its meaning together. 

Visual Elements and Symbolism 

The face features two asymmetrical sets of eyes, emphasizing an overwhelming duality. The upper eyes are faint and obscured by the white X, symbolizing suppression, and willful ignorance, as if they are crossed out and unable to fully see. The lower eyes, bright yellow and cat-like, are vivid and piercing—a symbol of raw instinct or suppressed clarity. Together, these asymmetrical pairs illustrate a fragmented identity, torn between suppressed truths and raw instincts. 

The jagged teeth in the open mouth feel aggressive yet muted. The black-and-white contrasts here amplify the sense of anguish: a scream is implied but never heard, reflecting the frustration of silenced emotions. Meanwhile, the green, organic shapes around the ears symbolize blocked channels of communication—representing either an inability or refusal to listen to one’s inner voice. 

The pastel background provides a deceptive sense of calm. Its smooth gradients and soft colors suggest an outer façade of peace, in stark contrast to the chaotic, fractured interior of the face. This duality reinforces the theme of denial, where the external self appears composed while the inner self is in conflict. 

Techniques 

The artist employs bold contrasts—stark blacks against bright whites and muted pastels—to emphasize the conflict between suppression and expression. The sharp, graphic lines of the X and the exaggerated facial features create tension, drawing the viewer’s eye to the central struggle of the composition. 

Soft gradients in the background and the green shapes provide a visual counterpoint, reflecting the creeping nature of repression. These fluid elements seem to clash with the harsh edges of the X and the face, mirroring the push and pull of self-denial: the organic self-versus the imposed control. 

Emotional Impact 

This fusion of symbolism and technique creates a visceral discomfort, compelling the viewer to confront their own moments of denial and repression. The bold contrasts and fragmented imagery force a recognition of the dissonance within—what we silence, what we suppress, and what is left to fester when we deny parts of ourselves. 

Life Lesson 

Self-denial, while often a protective mechanism, fractures the self over time. This piece reminds us that facing uncomfortable truths is the only way to achieve wholeness. As Carl Jung said, "What you resist not only persists, but will grow in size." This artwork challenges us to stop resisting—to listen, see, and embrace the full complexity of who we are. 

Medium : Watercolor on paper

Date: 1969

The Chorus Within 

This week's piece is a striking dive into the surreal—five distorted, grinning faces merge into a single creature, each one a slight variation of the other, yet all held together in a grotesque harmony. The color palette is bold and intense: vivid pinks and reds command attention, set against a rich, deep crimson background. This intensity in color pulls you into a scene where the boundaries between playfulness and menace blur.  

I created this piece back in 1969. I had just come home from work when a sudden, almost inexplicable urge to draw took hold of me. I can’t recall the specific inspiration that triggered this image—perhaps it rose from the depths of my subconscious, or perhaps it was an instinctual reaction to some unspoken feeling. Looking back now, I see it almost as a premonition, a glimpse of the artistic identity I would come to embrace. It’s as if, in this piece, I captured the essence of my creative voice before I even knew it consciously existed. 

Visual Elements 

Each face has its own expression, from sly winks to wide-eyed stares, but they all share those exaggerated teeth and dripping tongues. Their forms are exaggerated and cartoonish, almost comically misshapen, yet there’s an underlying tension in their eyes and smiles. The bright pinks of their bodies contrast with the darker red background, creating a dichotomy between the warmth of their hues and the underlying eeriness of their expressions. 

Techniques 

In this work, I used bold, minimal outlines to delineate each head, letting the simplicity of line amplify the piece’s surreal feel. Watercolor or ink washes appear to have been layered for that vibrant pink and crimson background, achieving a slightly textured, almost pulsating effect. The repetitive forms create a rhythm, a visual echo that suggests movement or even a chorus of overlapping voices. 

Symbolism and Emotional Impact 

These creatures feel like avatars of multiplicity within a single mind—each face perhaps representing a different emotion, impulse, or facet of the self. The shared body reflects our innate interconnectedness, the way our seemingly separate personalities and thoughts ultimately form a single entity. This piece could speak to the inner chaos of a divided self, where humor, anger, and curiosity intermingle in a single being. It’s a portrait of how we are never truly one thing, but a chaotic blend of many. 

The initial reaction might be one of amusement; these faces, after all, have a cartoonish quality. But there’s a disquieting undertone, a sense that something is amiss behind those crooked smiles. This duality aims to evoke a mix of curiosity and unease, leaving the viewer torn between laughter and caution. I want the piece to feel like a snapshot of the inner dialogue we often keep hidden—a mix of playfulness, absurdity, and even a hint of darkness. 

This piece reminds me of the quote by Walt Whitman: "Do I contradict myself? Very well, then I contradict myself, I am large, I contain multitudes." We are complex beings, capable of embodying both joy and sorrow, courage and fear, sincerity and sarcasm. Embracing the multitudes within us means accepting the contradictions, the chaos, and the beauty of being wholly, messily human. 

Medium: Watercolor on paper

Date: 1992

A Dialogue of Silence

This piece, seen through the lens of an individual embodying both masculine and feminine energies, speaks deeply to the inherent duality we all carry within. The large, overarching head becomes a symbol of the unified self, a being that contains both genders, both energies, in delicate balance. The two smaller figures—one seemingly more masculine with sharper features, and the other softer and more feminine—represent these dual forces at play within us.

Visual Elements and Symbolism:

The central figure—the looming face above—represents the whole self, an entity that harmonizes both masculine and feminine energies. Its serene, meditative expression suggests a higher consciousness, where gendered aspects of the self coexist peacefully. Soft pastel colors delicately embody this equilibrium, as neither masculine nor feminine dominates, symbolizing a subtle, balanced unity. Below, two smaller, intertwined figures embody subconscious projections of this unified self. Their proximity hints at an ongoing dialogue—a fluid, continuous interplay essential to the whole.

These two smaller figures face each other, representing masculine and feminine energies constantly in conversation. This duality is dynamic, blending assertive, logical, outward-focused masculine energy with intuitive, nurturing, inward-focused feminine energy. Rather than opposites, they are complementary forces shaping our actions, decisions, and emotions. A fluid line connects these figures to the larger head above, symbolizing an integrated whole, where each part contributes to the growth and evolution of the self.

The neutral expression of the larger figure, with a tree-like symbol across its forehead, conveys that this balance is essential for growth and self-actualization. The organic form on its forehead symbolizes how the harmony of masculine and feminine energies enables inner development. Positioned over the forehead, this symbol also speaks to the higher consciousness, insight, and wisdom that arise from this balanced state.

Techniques:

The contrast between the stark ink lines and the soft watercolor washes mirrors the contrast between the masculine and feminine energies themselves. The ink, sharp and defined, can be seen as the masculine aspect—clear, structured, and assertive. The watercolor, in contrast, is fluid and emotional, representing the feminine energy—softer, more intuitive, and expansive. The decision to let these two visual techniques coexist without overwhelming each other is a reflection of the theme itself: the daily interplay of both energies in balance.

Emotional Impact:

On a deeper emotional level, this piece evokes the quiet struggle and harmony we often experience within ourselves. The large central head suggests the calm exterior we present to the world—seemingly balanced, neutral, and at peace. But below the surface, these two energies are in constant dialogue, sometimes harmonizing, sometimes clashing. There is a tender tension between the figures, one that suggests the ongoing work of finding balance in our identities and how we express them.

This interpretation taps into the lived experience of navigating life as both masculine and feminine—whether through gender identity, roles, or internal drives. It acknowledges that the interplay is not always easy, but also that it is a necessary and beautiful part of being whole. The larger figure’s calmness suggests that through embracing both aspects, we can find inner peace and understanding.

Life Lesson:

This piece reminds us that we are not just one thing—we are both masculine and feminine, logic and intuition, structure and fluidity. Every day is an opportunity to recognize and balance these forces within ourselves. By engaging in this inner dialogue, we honor all parts of our being, rather than suppressing one in favor of the other. As Carl Jung once noted, “The masculine and feminine energies are not simply opposites, but two complementary aspects of a greater whole.” To live fully, we must allow both energies to guide us, and through this delicate balance, we grow into our fullest selves.

Ultimately, this piece serves as a reminder that harmony does not come from choosing one energy over the other, but from allowing both to coexist and work together as we move through our lives. In doing so, we embody a more integrated, balanced way of being in the world.

Medium: Watercolor on paper

Date: 1985

Blog 69: Fight!

This week’s featured artwork draws me deep into its primal energy. I created this piece in 1985, during a time when I was deeply immersed in teaching Karate and at the peak of my physical strength. It reflected the energy and discipline I embodied then, which is why I titled it “Fight!” The dominant figure, a three-headed, wolf-like creature wielding a sword and donning a bold red X across its chest, stands poised above fallen silhouettes. The juxtaposition of animalistic power with human form invites me to reflect on the duality of our nature—the clash between our civilized selves and our raw, untamed instincts.

Visual Elements

The stark minimalism of the figure’s outline, accentuated by the soft pastel background, contrasts sharply with the aggression symbolized by the sword and fallen bodies. The creature’s three heads symbolize the complexity of thought—a mind divided, reflecting multiple viewpoints or internal conflicts. It straddles different worlds or perspectives, embodying both unity and dissonance. The red X across the chest pulls focus immediately—it stands as a symbol of rejection, danger, or negation. But for me, it also suggests a crossroads, a point where paths meet in opposition, forcing choices and confrontations.

Symbolism

Wolves have always fascinated me with their dual symbolism—revered as loyal pack animals but also feared as relentless predators. In merging the wolf’s primal nature with a humanoid form, I wanted to convey the internal conflict between survival and destruction, two forces we all carry within. The sword—long a universal emblem of struggle—emphasizes the violence often required to confront life’s challenges. Meanwhile, the X shield on the creature’s chest represents resistance, defense, or perhaps the denial of deeper truths we might avoid facing.

The fallen figures beneath the creature symbolize my own battles—vanquished foes representing the trials and challenges I’ve overcome along the way. Each hurdle I’ve faced, each failure, and each success is like a trophy lying at the feet of the creature, marking victories on my journey. These figures aren’t just remnants of defeated obstacles; they’re reminders that every struggle—whether painful or triumphant—has enriched my art and my life, adding depth to my creative process.

On a personal level, this piece also reflects my struggle to simplify my life in the pursuit of art. I arrived in New York City in 1967, young, fresh, and bursting with energy for the life I wanted to create. From the very beginning, it was always about my art. I’ve devoted my entire life to this passion, but the road has been anything but smooth. There were countless challenges and detours, as if I were walking a beam—balancing risk and safety at every step. The search for equilibrium between chaos and order is a never-ending pursuit, but every setback, every hard-fought victory, has added to the richness and complexity of my creations.

Techniques

The soft, almost ethereal color palette contrasts with the creature’s aggressive stance, emphasizing the tension between brutality and vulnerability. I kept the lines intentionally minimal—sketchy and sparse—to leave room for the viewer’s imagination to engage with the piece and fill in the gaps. The boldness of the red X stands in stark contrast to the softer hues, making it the symbolic focal point of the artwork. The imperfect, hand-drawn lines give the image a raw, visceral quality, as though it emerged directly from a place of instinct and emotion.

Emotional Impact

This piece stirs a profound sense of conflict in me—a tension between vulnerability and threat. The creature, though triumphant with its sword raised, remains exposed and almost defenseless except for the X shield. This mirrors the ongoing battle between my instinctual self and the expectations that society places on me. The fallen figures symbolize the parts of myself that I’ve had to sacrifice along the way—losses that, like victories, have shaped who I am today.

Life Lesson

This artwork reflects the battles we all face between our wild, authentic selves and the roles we feel pressured to play. Suppressing one’s instinctual side comes at a cost, just as unchecked wildness can lead to chaos. The real challenge lies in knowing when to unleash the wolf within, fierce and untamed, and when to sheathe the sword and find peace. I’m reminded of Nietzsche’s words: “One must still have chaos in oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star.” This piece reminds me that chaos, struggle, and even loss are essential parts of the creative process—and ultimately, they lead to growth and wisdom.

Medium: Acrylic

Date: 2024

"Azazel: The Bearer of Burdens"

For this week’s blog, I am thrilled to unveil my latest mural—a larger rendition of a piece I first created last year. Expanding on the original, this version captures the same intensity but on a grander scale, inviting deeper reflection on its meaning.

When I created Azazel, I found myself in the ancient ritual from Leviticus 16:8, the story of the scapegoat—the creature chosen to be sent into the wilderness, burdened with the sins of the community. This figure, cast out at Yom Kapur and yet essential to the process of atonement, stirred something deeply personal within me. In Azazel, I sought to capture that tension, the haunting reality of being both necessary and forgotten, both burdened and abandoned.

My family suffered harsh disappointment from the failure of their ambitious goals. They needed something or someone to blame because their suffering was too great to bear. I became the scapegoat. For years, my mother would often look at me with contempt, sneering, "You are a terrible person." My father, on the other hand, chose silence, only offering looks of disdain—his lips curling in disgust as he snorted and turned away. Just like Azazel, they drove me to the Greyhound bus, sending me to the desert of evil: New York City, the place for Azazel, a demon of sin destined for destruction. As I write this I am mindful that it is the week of Yom Kippur, a time for reflection, atonement, and the bearing of burdens.

Visual Elements:
Azazel dominates the canvas with his twisted, almost serpentine body, coiled as if in perpetual motion. His form is stretched, elongated, as though weighed down by forces unseen. I wanted to feel his struggle, to sense his wandering, trapped between two worlds. His face, divided cleanly into two halves, demanded my full attention. I chose deep crimson for the left side, a visceral representation of sacrifice, suffering, and the bloodstains of sin. The right, in cold blue, mirrors the isolation he feels, the emotional distance of exile. And that grin—oh, that unsettling grin—it both mocks and laments the role he has been forced into, revealing sharp teeth as if to suggest he is not just a victim but also capable of something darker.

The stark yellow background serves as the wilderness in which he roams—a space that is more concept than landscape, meant to be oppressive in its emptiness. Yellow is often considered a color of optimism or energy, but here it’s something harsher. It’s the desert of abandonment, a reminder of the unforgiving fate Azazel carries with him.

Symbolism:
Azazel is my personal exploration of what it means to carry others’ burdens. In the biblical ritual, the scapegoat is essential—without it, there can be no full atonement. But there’s something profoundly tragic about being necessary in this way. The red half of his face represents the sins and sacrifices he must bear—sins not his own. It’s the pain of bloodshed, of violence inflicted on others but absorbed into him. The blue half, however, is the coldness of isolation. It’s the exile he suffers because he is not allowed to return, not permitted to be among those who sent him away.

The hand clutching his own body—this was deliberate. It’s both a gesture of protection and imprisonment. I wanted to show that even though Azazel carries the sins of the world, he is also deeply alone in holding them. There’s no escape from what he’s been given. He must hold it in, always. And that’s the paradox I wanted to explore—how we all, at times, become the bearer of burdens, both by choice and by circumstance.

Techniques:
My technique with Azazel was intentionally fragmented. His body, while solid in some areas, is incomplete in others, fading into the background. It was important to me that he feel as if he’s dissolving into the wilderness, becoming part of it. He’s both present and vanishing at the same time. The contrast between the harsh, bold lines of his face and the lighter, almost hesitant strokes on his body was a way for me to express that duality—he is strong in his purpose, but weak in his isolation. The background, a flat plane of searing yellow, is meant to be uncomfortably simple, emphasizing the harshness of his environment. It’s a space with no escape, no refuge.

Emotional Impact:
Azazel is a creature of discomfort. I wanted viewers to feel both pity and unease when they look at him. His eyes, each expressing something different—madness and resignation—are meant to confront you with the weight of his burden. What I hope lingers in your mind is not just his suffering, but the sense of inevitability that comes with it. He is condemned, yes, but there’s also something powerful in how he holds onto his fate. He doesn’t shy away from it. He grins through it. There’s a kind of strength in accepting one’s role, no matter how difficult.

When I painted that twisted smile, I thought about how we often grin through our own suffering, how we carry the weight of things not entirely ours, because we have no other choice. There’s pain in it, but also a kind of dark pride.

Life Lesson:
Azazel, for me, represents the scapegoat in all of us. We each carry burdens—whether they are our own or placed upon us by others. The question becomes: can we ever truly escape them, or do they simply transform, following us like shadows through the wilderness of our own minds? Azazel’s journey is one of isolation, and through him, I confront my own fears of exile—both physical and emotional. He reminds me that the things we try to cast away have a way of staying with us. We might send our guilt into the wilderness, but it remains a part of us, waiting in the distance.

Picasso once said, "Art is a lie that makes us realize the truth." And with Azazel, I realize this: we cannot escape the burdens we carry; we can only learn to bear them with a strange kind of grace, as Azazel does—grinning, but always walking forward into the endless expanse.

Medium: Watercolor on paper

Date: 1979

For this week’s blog, I am excited to introduce “The Duality of Becoming,” a profound personal piece that captures my reflections on a transformative journey to Japan in 1979. As a guest of the Japanese government, I was immersed in the country’s rich cultural landscape, exploring everything from serene temples to the dramatic arts of Kabuki and Noh. These experiences were profound and multifaceted moments of quiet, subtle beauty juxtaposed against sudden, startling bursts of intensity. This artwork is a response to those encounters, an exploration of the complex interplay between chaos and calm, destruction, and creation. It is a visual meditation on how opposing forces shape us, just as my time in Japan reshaped my understanding of art, architecture, and the self. 

"The Duality of Becoming" 

Visual Elements: 

I created this piece shortly after returning from Japan, where I was invited as a guest of the Japanese government alongside museum curators and prominent American architects. This journey profoundly influenced me, exposing me to the strong yet subtle beauty of ideas and constructions in some of the quietest, yet most startling places. The artwork captures the contrasts I experienced—split into two distinct halves that reflect my encounters in Japan. 

On the left, jagged red and black shapes explode outward like a solar flare, a violent burst of energy encircling a dark void—a black hole that consumes light, reminiscent of the chaos I witnessed at the Kabuki Theater. During a 6.7 earthquake, I found myself trapped in a third balcony seat, watching the massive red walls of the sets flap violently as actors in fabulous costumes scrambled to save them. The flurry of movement, the frantic energy, and the raw panic of that moment are all captured in the aggressive strokes and fiery colors of this side. It symbolizes not just the earthquake’s physical violence but also the sudden upheaval of the human spirit in moments of crisis. 

In contrast, the right side of the artwork is a muted, ghostly hemisphere that feels like a half-formed moon. I drew inspiration from the quiet yet profound experience of attending the Noh play "Kaki Tsubata," my favorite. The play, written in poetry, unfolds on the themes of the iris flower robe from a long-past event of love. This ancient theater, with its mysterious and deeply touching meditative pacing, leads slowly to an explosive climax that lingers in the soul. Here, I used faint, skeletal lines to sketch birds or spirits, suggesting the ephemeral and the transformative. It is a quieter, introspective side that captures the slow, deliberate beauty of Noh—the long meditation before its sudden, breathtaking release. 

Symbolism: 

The left side represents the primal forces of creation and destruction, drawing directly from the violence I felt during the Kabuki earthquake—a metaphor for how quickly our constructed worlds can crumble. The spiked forms and swirling void reflect the fear and chaos of that moment: actors hurrying, seats teetering on collapse, and the feeling of being trapped in a beautifully constructed yet precarious reality. The eye at the center is a dark void, symbolizing introspection, the unknown self, and the confrontation with forces beyond our control. 

On the right, the pale, delicate forms evoke the subtlety of inner transformation, much like the slow and poetic unfolding of "Kaki Tsubata." It speaks to the quiet, yet profound emotional journey of the play—a slow build of tension that culminates in a powerful release. The ghostly lines suggest the quiet persistence of memory and spirit, an echo of the themes of love and longing that resonated deeply with me. This side is about the delicate, almost spiritual process of becoming, reflecting the introspective nature of Noh theater and its ability to hold space for both beauty and sorrow. 

Techniques: 

I employed sharp, angular strokes on the left, using bold reds and blacks to capture the intensity of the Kabuki earthquake scene. Each line is aggressive and raw, breaking the boundaries of the canvas, echoing the panic of that flapping red set and the frantic energy of actors trying to maintain control. On the right, I softened my approach, drawing with a light hand to create an ethereal, almost ghostly quality that mirrors the slow, deliberate pacing of Noh. The subdued creams and faint yellows create a sense of incompletion, as if these forms are still in the process of emerging, much like the quiet spaces that Japan revealed to me. 

Emotional Impact: 

This piece is a dialogue between the chaos of outer turmoil and the quiet intensity of inner reflection. It evokes a powerful tension—the uneasy balance of confronting both external calamities and the softer, more hidden transformations within us. It speaks to my personal journey in Japan, witnessing the startling contrasts of theatrical violence and meditative stillness, and finding harmony between these opposing forces. 

Life Lesson: 

"The Duality of Becoming" captures how our identities are shaped by the interplay of destruction and creation, chaos, and calm. It reflects my deeply personal experiences in Japan—from the violent beauty of the Kabuki earthquake to the meditative quiet of Noh theater—reminding us that we are forged in the dance between passion and reflection, the fierce and the fragile. As Carl Jung said, "One does not become enlightened by imagining figures of light, but by making the darkness conscious." This artwork challenges us to acknowledge and harmonize the dichotomies within us, finding our true selves in the ever-evolving dance between chaos and stillness, fragility, and strength. 

Medium: Watercolor in paper

Date: 1976

My Friend and the Guardians of Silent Despair

For this week’s blog, I present a piece that feels like staring into the heart of the unknown—a confrontation with the shadows we try to avoid. This piece is called "My Friend and the Guardians of Silent Despair". 

Visual Elements 

The central figure, a monstrous, greenish entity, looms above everything with vacant, yellow eyes and unsettling pink lips that seem to hover between silence and speech. Below it, a cluster of smaller, shadowy beings emerges, each with mouths wide open, revealing surreal, vibrant worlds inside: a peaceful river, a butterfly caught in its fleeting freedom, and fragments of distant, dreamlike skies. These miniature landscapes are stark contrasts against the darkness, like beautiful secrets trapped within grotesque forms, giving a haunting vibrancy to the shadows that try to consume them. 

Symbolism 

I see the main entity as both a guardian and a gatekeeper, a representation of all the unspoken fears, repressed emotions, and silent judgments that weigh down on us. Its impassive expression contrasts sharply with the smaller, more animated figures below—creatures that scream in silence, their mouths revealing hidden worlds as if they’re desperately trying to release or perhaps hold onto something precious. To me, this is a metaphor for the complex emotions we bury inside: a mixture of hope, despair, and fragile innocence, all trapped within layers of darkness. The butterfly, fragile and free, symbolizes fleeting beauty and the delicate nature of joy, while the serene landscapes hint at an inner peace that is constantly overshadowed by the larger, darker forces at play. 

Technique 

I used a soft, velvety texture to create a dreamlike atmosphere, blending gradients of muted greens and blacks with vibrant reds and blues. The creatures’ forms are defined yet deliberately ambiguous, merging into the background as if they’re part of the darkness itself—inseparable and haunting. The precision in the internal scenes within the creatures' mouths contrasts sharply with their shadowy, undefined bodies, emphasizing the hidden, vibrant worlds that lie beneath a surface of despair. I wanted the bold outlines of these internal landscapes to draw the eye, making the viewer feel the tension between what is seen and what is hidden, what is dark and what is colorful. 

Emotional Impact 

This piece invites an uneasy introspection, like being watched by something that is both alien and painfully familiar. I wanted it to provoke a visceral reaction, pulling the viewer into their own hidden fears and the beautiful but often inaccessible realms within themselves. Each creature feels like a mirror to our most guarded inner landscapes, screaming silently for acknowledgment, yet suppressed by the overwhelming presence above. It’s this constant battle between beauty and monstrosity, hope and despair, that drives the emotional core of the artwork. 

A Personal Reflection 

Creating this painting was deeply personal—it’s a conversation with my own past and a reflection of the struggle I faced trying to help a friend who was drowning in their own darkness. I saw them in those smaller creatures, vibrant worlds hidden beneath a shroud of despair. I tried so hard to bring light to those inner landscapes, to break through the silence and the shadows, but the looming figure—the embodiment of their relentless sorrow—always stood between us. No amount of compassion or effort could diminish its hold. As I painted, I realized I was losing myself in their struggle, slowly being drawn into their darkness. There came a moment when I knew I had to step back, not because I wanted to abandon them, but because I was on the verge of losing my own sense of self. This painting captures that painful realization: sometimes, the kindest thing we can do, both for others and ourselves, is to let go. I had to protect my own light, even if it meant walking away. It was a decision that still haunts me, but also one that saved me. 

Life Lesson 

"My Friend and the Guardians of Silent Despair" is a reminder that within our darkest emotions lie vibrant, untapped worlds. We all carry these inner landscapes—narratives of pain and beauty, longing, and hope. Embracing these silent guardians of our fears allows us to reclaim the unspoken worlds they protect. As Vincent van Gogh once said, "I put my heart and my soul into my work and have lost my mind in the process." This quote resonates deeply with the journey of trying to save someone else at the cost of losing oneself. The vividness within the darkness urges us to explore our hidden depths and find harmony within our personal dichotomies. And sometimes, when faced with another’s consuming darkness, the greatest act of love we can show ourselves is to preserve our own light—not as an act of abandonment, but as a quiet, necessary survival. 

Medium: Watercolor on paper

Date: 2024

The Annunciation: A Reflection in Watercolor 

For this week's blog, I wanted to explore a theme that has always held deep, personal significance for me, both as a spiritual event and as an artistic inspiration: The Annunciation. As I recall from my Bible studies, “The angel of the Lord came down to Mary to tell her that she will conceive and bear a child who will be the Son of God, whose name will be Emmanuel or Christ the Lord.” Furthermore, God would sacrifice His son to cure the sins of mankind. This moment, steeped in spiritual significance, has always resonated with me, inspiring both my faith and my artistic endeavors. 

This divine moment has inspired countless artists throughout history. I've particularly admired various Annunciation images created in the 15th century, especially those by Simone Martini and Andrea Verrocchio, the latter featuring the delicate touch of Leonardo da Vinci, who painted the peacocks. These works have long captured the sacred and solemn nature of this biblical event. As I reflected on these historical depictions of the Annunciation, I found myself drawn to the theme in a more personal and vivid way through a dream that would eventually shape my own artistic interpretation. 

One night, I dreamed of orange flowers with large yellow centers glowing across a dark blue sky. In my dream, I recognized these flowers as angels. The imagery was so vivid that I felt compelled to capture it on paper. As I began to draw, a large angelic face emerged, full of sympathy and concern, gazing downward. Beneath this cloud of angels, I painted a sea, where a young woman floated, seemingly sinking into the water. This evoked in me the image of Ophelia, as painted by Lord Leighton in the 19th century. The young woman I depicted bore a sad and concerned expression. I thought, “Could this be Mary, being told she was to bear the Son of God, knowing He would in early manhood be sacrificed on a cross for the sins of mankind?” 

As the artist of this piece titled "Annunciation," my approach was to blend symbolism with a dreamlike interpretation of a spiritual moment. In creating this watercolor, I sought to capture the essence of a divine message being delivered, a theme deeply rooted in the concept of annunciation. 

Techniques and Composition: 

I employed a soft watercolor technique, allowing the colors to bleed and blend naturally. This approach creates a sense of fluidity, representing the ethereal nature of the subject matter. Watercolor, with its delicate and unpredictable nature, allows for a unique interplay of light and shadow, making it particularly suited to capturing the intangible qualities of the divine. The warm tones of yellows, oranges, and pinks are contrasted with cooler blues and greens, symbolizing the warmth of divine light against the calm of earthly existence. 

The central figure, a small childlike figure on a large face, symbolizes innocence and the humility of receiving divine wisdom. The surrounding flower-like faces represent celestial beings, each expressing different emotions. These faces are intentionally abstract, inviting the viewer to interpret them as they see fit—whether as angels, spirits, or representations of different facets of the divine message. 

Symbolism: 

The large central face, adorned with a crown-like halo, is a depiction of a divine presence, possibly a motherly figure or a deity. The face exudes a calm and nurturing expression, symbolizing the compassionate nature of the divine. The smaller faces surrounding it are manifestations of the various aspects of the message being delivered, each face conveying a different emotional response, from joy to contemplation. The childlike figure represents not only innocence but also the pure receptiveness required to receive divine wisdom, mirroring Mary's humble acceptance of her role. 

The use of circular shapes and flowing lines reflects the continuous and unending nature of spiritual guidance. The horizon, depicted in soft blues and greens, grounds the scene, indicating that this moment of divine revelation occurs within the human experience, connecting the heavenly with the earthly. 

Life Lessons: 

Creating this piece taught me about the subtlety of communication—how profound messages are often delivered in the quietest moments and how important it is to remain open and receptive to these moments. The process of painting "Annunciation" was a meditation on the nature of divine inspiration and how it manifests in our lives. As the watercolor bled and blended unpredictably, I realized how much this process mirrored the nature of divine messages—often subtle, always profound, and requiring a balance of control and surrender. 

Through this work, I learned the value of patience and intuition in the creative process. Watercolor, with its unpredictable nature, mirrors life itself—where control is limited, and outcomes are often a blend of intention and chance. This piece, like many of my works, is a reminder that beauty and meaning are often found in the unexpected and the delicate balance between effort and surrender. 

The Moment Captured: 

The moment I sought to capture in this painting, titled "Annunciation," is deeply introspective. It embodies the profound mixture of emotions that Mary must have felt. “Great are you among maidens!” the angel said. While Mary had to accept this great honor, she also knew it would bring a life full of challenges—honor and glory on one hand, and on the other, a deep personal despair that would pierce her heart. This is the essence of the moment captured in this picture. 

The angel's words are represented as a transparent path and bubble from the angel’s mouth to Mary’s ear, symbolizing the divine communication and the gravity of the message being delivered. 

As I continued to develop the painting, I filled out the angels, placing their faces in the large yellow centers. These are hardy angels, some joyous, others reflecting the sorrowful awareness of the pain Mary would endure. They have come to honor her, to serenade her, and to witness this profound moment of divine intervention. 

For every great thing I’ve received in my life, I’ve also found an equal opposite—not necessarily bad, but something that brings wisdom, though not always a choice I would have made. This is the idea of the thorn with the rose. I’ve been surprised that some people, upon seeing this painting, immediately recognize the subject of the Annunciation. This confirms to me that the message, like the one conveyed to Mary, resonates deeply, transcending time and medium. 

This painting, like the Annunciation itself, invites each viewer to bring their own experiences and emotions to the interpretation. What does this divine moment stir within you? 

Medium: Watercolor on paper

Date: 1987

The Meaning of What-Nots: Embracing the Whimsy Through Art 

Art, at its core, is an exploration of emotion, imagination, and the human spirit. For this week’s blog, I am featuring a watercolor diptych that holds deep personal sentimental value, representing my mom and grandma as fantastical creatures. These whimsical beings are more than just artistic expressions; they are deeply tied to my personal history and the cherished memories of my family. 

Grandma and the What-Nots 

During our parents’ divorce, my brother and I lived with our grandparents for six months, and occasionally during the next ten years. Grandma had a lot of what-nots, and an entire glass-enclosed cupboard filled with China and cut glass. After our afternoon naps, Grandma would take us to the China cupboard, select one piece, and tell one of her jolly and fascinating stories about it. She might hold it up to the light in the window, showing us how we could see her hand through a painted plate with its great story. These were very troubled times, and these pieces of China, along with their stories, became a kind of love for me. These what-nots were the love we knew. World War II had begun, and we knew that many of these kinds of what-nots were being destroyed. 

Mom and Her Quirks 

Mom grew up on a prosperous farm. Her papa built her 12 treehouses where she could read her favorite authors: Emerson, Thoreau, Hawthorne, and Shakespeare. After World War II ended, Mom remarried and bought 40 acres a few miles from town—a flat land with no trees and no neighbors. To create her romantic cottage, she purchased a chicken house, to which my new dad attached a hog house. He had a well dug for water, but we had no electricity or plumbing. The cottage was covered with tar paper. For two years, we were very happy in the cottage, the whole family playing gin rummy while my dad read Treasure Island and sang pirate songs. Mom read us all of James Fenimore Cooper’s books. Last of the Mohicans was my favorite. 

Mom had grown up with hired help (mostly Danish and Norwegian immigrants). My brother and I became the new immigrants in our household. Washing dishes involved pumping water from the well, hauling it into the cottage, heating it on the kerosene stove, and later throwing the water out. Mother liked pretty dishes—gold-edged ones with embossed borders of pheasants running in long grass, hand-painted flowers, etc. We had three sets of dishes, and we only washed them once a week. I washed; my brother dried, and Mom heated the water. The dishes were very pretty and precious. The embossed borders were often covered in dried-up egg yolk from Dad’s sunny-side-up eggs. A lot of care was necessary to avoid breaking the dishes. Ours was a solitary household with no relatives, neighbors, or adult friends visiting. After two years, Mom got Dad to stop drinking through an ultimatum. He went from being an ideal stepdad to being the meanest person we had ever known. 

Grandma and Grandpa had inherited good antique furniture and what-nots, much of it “brought over in 1846 by Great Aunt Sarah.” There was the settee that King Edward VII had sat on, for instance. Grandma was a “Daughter of the Civil War” and a “Daughter of the Revolutionary War.” Mom was, too. As our lives became more troubled, Mom retreated into the stories of the furniture and what-nots. There was a family tree going back to 1400 with stories, and these stories, along with the pieces of furniture and glass squeezed into our cottage, became our friends. Their lives became our lives. We talked to them and examined them daily. Did they speak to us? Maybe. Some were sold. This was like parting with a pet. We never touched each other except for daily corporal punishment, but we lovingly stroked the tables and caressed what-nots. I developed an attachment to them. 

A Journey into Childlike Wonder Through Watercolor 

In 1967, I moved to New York with the clothes on my back, a rucksack of my paintings, and the blanket I traded for a bottle of wine when I took the bus from San Francisco. I created this painting of what-nots 20 years later. I had many friends whom I loved but no committed relationship. There was loneliness. When I saw these what-nots at Sotheby’s, I responded unconsciously. I wanted some, so I made some. I was happy with them. What-nots are the love I knew. 

The whimsical creatures in my watercolor diptych, representing my mom and grandma, are an extension of this deep connection to the past. The first creature in the diptych is a delightful, horned animal that might remind you of a friendly, mythical beast. Its body is adorned with large, soft circles, almost like polka dots, adding a layer of innocence and charm. The creature’s gentle smile and welcoming expression invite you to see it not as a fearsome being, but as a comforting companion from a storybook world. On the other side, we meet a plump, cat-like creature, bursting with personality. With its exaggerated round body, irregular spots, and a slightly mischievous look, this figure radiates a playful energy. 

In creating these creatures, I embraced a style that harks back to the simplicity and wonder found in children's illustrations. The choice of pastel colors—gentle yellows, blues, and pinks—was deliberate, crafting a serene yet joyful atmosphere that makes the creatures appear as approachable and kind-hearted figures. The soft, rounded lines and smooth curves reflect a desire to create a sense of warmth and softness. There’s something comforting about a world where everything is soft to the touch, where edges don’t cut but cradle, where even the strangest creatures are friendly and inviting. 

Life Lessons from a Playful Canvas 

The process of creating this watercolor piece was more than just an artistic endeavor—it was a reminder of some of life’s most valuable lessons. 

Embrace Your Quirks: The exaggerated features and playful expressions of the creatures are a celebration of uniqueness. They remind us that it’s okay to be different, to have quirks, and to stand out from the crowd. In fact, it’s these differences that make life interesting and beautiful. 

Find Joy in Simplicity: The childlike style of the artwork serves as a reminder that joy often lies in simplicity. In a world that can sometimes feel overwhelmingly complex, there’s something incredibly freeing about stripping things down to their essence—soft lines, gentle colors, and playful forms. 

Nurture Your Inner Child: Perhaps the most important lesson of all is the importance of staying connected to our inner child. Creating this artwork was an exercise in slowing down, in savoring the process rather than rushing toward the end result. It was about finding happiness in the act of creation, in the playful exploration of color and form. 

Final Thoughts 

Art is often seen as a reflection of the artist’s mind and soul, and in this piece, I found myself reflecting on the beauty of embracing whimsy, simplicity, and joy. The creatures I created aren’t just figures on a canvas—they’re representations of the life lessons I strive to live by: embracing uniqueness, finding joy in the simple things, and nurturing the playful spirit within. So, the next time you pick up a brush, a pen, or whatever tool you use to create, I encourage you to tap into your inner child. Let go of perfection, embrace the quirks, and find joy in the journey of creation. After all, it’s in these moments of playful exploration that we often discover the most profound truths about ourselves. 

Medium: Watercolor in paper

Date: 2024

Garden

This watercolor picture was finished in June 2024. It is the latest addition to my collection of garden-themed images, a subject I've explored since childhood, starting with a drawing of a chicken in a garden. 

The essence of this picture reflects the vibrancy of life outdoors and the intricate connections among flora, fauna, and insects. My journey into this world began when I started working in the fields of Minnesota at the age of seven. In 1946, I agreed to work for 25 cents an hour. My brother, who wanted 50 cents an hour, questioned my decision, saying, "How can you work so cheaply?" I replied, "I need every quarter for the bus fare to get to New York City!" 

This early experience gave me an up-close introduction to plants, insects, and small animals. How do these creatures live? While they do consume each other, their lives are filled with birth, courtship, reproduction, and industry. We delighted in collecting caterpillars, placing them in jars with the food they had been eating. Monarch caterpillars, in particular, were stunning, with their white bodies and bright, colorful threads. Eventually, they spun cocoons, which later hatched into butterflies. They thrived on the abundant milkweed that was prevalent at the time. My job was to hoe the numerous Canada thistles that threatened our corn and soybeans. Occasionally, I would sit down in the field, eat my sandwich, and drink from the jar of water in my shoulder bag. On the ground, I observed an army of brightly colored bugs, busily interacting with one another. This is the inspiration behind my picture, "Garden." 

In this artwork, the creatures are imaginary, yet they carry the essence of the life I once observed in nature. I started to create and ink this drawing around 2006 when I returned to the farm to help move my mother into a nursing home. As I sat on the ground, memories flooded back—recollections of the creatures I had once observed in the fields and gardens of my youth. However, by this time, much had changed. The widespread use of defoliants and DDT, which began in the early 1950s, had drastically altered the landscape. Many of the wildlife species I once marveled at were now gone. Farmers no longer needed to hoe thistles, and with the disappearance of those weeds came the loss of the wildflowers and butterflies that had thrived among them. The vibrant life that had been so integral to my early years had largely vanished, leaving behind a quieter, emptier world.  

In this image I remember those tiny creatures. The central figure is a fantastic caterpillar, representing the many varieties of insects I remember from my youth. There were many kinds and colors, as many as the colors of the butterflies that emerged from their cocoons.  Some cocoons were adorned with bright metallic gold. I looked for their faces. For me everything was alive. On the upper left corner are dew drops that seem to have a life of their own, each drop animated with tiny expressions —a nod to the beauty found in the smallest details of the natural world. I often looked for the vibrance of life in the world around me. 

Surrounding the caterpillar are various whimsical creatures, each one unique and teeming with life. A large blue bird with an eye that seems to peer deep into the viewer’s soul flanks the caterpillar, symbolizing the omnipresence of nature and its watchful eyes.  The twisted forms and bright colors capture the energy and dynamism of a world teeming with activity, where every creature, no matter how small, plays a part in the grand tapestry of life. 

As a teenager at a picnic, I lay on my back, gazing up at a tree, and noticed the branches were moving alive with leaves. I became aware once more of the life around me. With the heavy work we did on the farm I had lost the energy to look at and be aware of nature. I stopped being aware for many years. In my early twenties, while serving in the U.S. Army, I had time to myself and once again appreciated the simple, profound beauty of a snowflake. It had been years since I had taken the time to observe a snowflake. This was a moment of great joy and rediscovery. Later, on a spring day in Germany, I was on my back, watching the clouds. To my amazement, I saw several clouds come together to form an image—my first "vision." This vision was of a pig with wings and a ring in its nose. I eagerly drew this vision, excited by the experience. I perceived that my artistic gifts were connected to nature. Nature is life, life begets art. I concluded that nothing is more important in my life than my art. I didn’t realize that this was the beginning of my life as an artist. 

This vision of a garden, intertwined with memories from my early life, was recently completed. It is a source of joy in my life now, in my 86th year. I hope you enjoy my sharing of these memories. Thank you for reading and for watching! 

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Medium: Watercolor on paper

Date: 1975

Mom and Stepdad  

Art had always been a profound medium for expressing the intricacies of human relationships and emotions. I am thrilled to share a very personal piece, titled "Mom and Dad." This painting represented a symbolic depiction of my mom and stepdad, capturing the essence of their unique personas and the dynamics of their relationship. 

As Pablo Picasso once said, "We all know that Art is not truth. Art is a lie that makes us realize the truth, at least the truth that is given to us to understand.” This quote resonates deeply with my experience in creating "Mom and Dad." Through the artistic process, I uncovered and expressed deeper truths about my parents and their relationship—truths that might have been difficult to confront directly but became clearer through the lens of art. 

I made these two watercolor pictures around 1975. I was exploring my feelings about the farm where I grew up in Minnesota. I had not been there for about 10 years. Mom had visited me in New York 5 years before. A friend had said as a joke, “The angry one looks like your mother.” I thought of the angry one as my dad, but now I think they were both angry! 

Creating "Mom and Dad" was filled with deep contemplation and careful execution. 

The initial idea was to merge two distinct personalities into a cohesive piece that represented their individual traits. The choice of elements like the rose and the black panther was deliberate to symbolize their contrasting natures. 

I started with light pencil sketches to outline the basic structure of both faces. This stage involved careful consideration of symmetry and balance to ensure both sides blended seamlessly. 

For my mom’s side, I used light watercolors, focusing on soft shades to bring out the delicate and nurturing aspect. My stepdad’s side involved bold colors and sharp lines to create a striking contrast. The black panther’s fur and the snake were detailed with fine brushes to bring out the textures and depth. 

Incorporating symbolic elements like the rose and the snake required thoughtful placement to ensure they conveyed the intended message without overwhelming the main subjects. 

“Mom and Dad" encapsulated the essence of how two very different individuals could coexist despite their differences. It highlighted their unique qualities while acknowledging the challenges and complexities they brought into each other’s lives and the family.  

After I came home from 3 years in the US Army, I felt I could explain my feelings to my mom. I told her that she and Dad had reminded me of iron birthday cakes: attractive as colored frosting but solid as iron on the inside, without a successful way for me to make contact. She said, “How terrible!” 

Mom 

The left side of the painting was a tribute to my mom, the frosted birthday cake, illustrated with delicate, unfinished lines that signified her growth and evolution. At the center of her forehead was a rose, symbolizing her nurturing nature and the beauty she brought into our lives. The rose, a universal symbol of love and compassion, highlighted her gentle spirit and caring nature. However, the mask she is wearing hides her selfish nature, a facade that concealed her true intentions and desires. The use of soft pastel colors symbolized her calm demeanor, kindness, and the subtle yet profound impact she had on everyone around her, creating an illusion of tranquility and selflessness. 

Stepdad 

In contrast, the right side of the painting featured the fierce and protective nature of a black panther, representing my stepdad.  

The stepdad picture has sharp pointed edges, a snake for that famous eye in the middle of the forehead, and black and gold colors. The first two years into our lives, he was the greatest stepdad ever. After that time, he became the meanest person I have ever encountered. 

My parents were angry and frustrated that their dreams had not been successful. They were like iron cakes, oftentimes hiding their feelings under frosted appearances. We were the recipients when these feelings broke onto the surface. She often told me, “You are a terrible, terrible person.” 

 They were in their late 30s when my brother and I were teenagers. Mom, an aspiring writer, had struggled to sell any of her true romance stories. She once mentioned that an editor had written to her, “You write well, but you lack sympathy for your main characters.”  

My stepdad harbored dreams of starting a trucking business. After returning from his Army duty in Asia, he married Mom and spent the first two years working hard to fund his dream. Despite several businesspeople telling him it was unrealistic, he remained undeterred. We moved to a field just outside our town and lived in a chicken house. Stepdad dug a well for us, and although we had no phone or electricity, we did have fresh water. 

Stepdad worked extremely hard, taking on a garbage business in addition to his trucking endeavors. When I was 8 years old, I rode in the back of the truck, stomping down the garbage. Stepdad picked up heavy boxes, furniture, and farm implements from the trains and delivered them to businesses that hired him for pickup and delivery. On Sundays, Stepdad, my brother, and I also moved furniture. We owned an old truck, and Mom spent one day a week collecting money from the businesses. 

After about five years, she told him the trucking business was not paying off, but he refused to believe her. We spent two more years trucking before we had to sell our land, our chicken house, and our furniture to help pay the debts from the failed business. Dad eventually got a job in a hardware store in town. He was angry. 

My brother and I were very good students in school. My brother was the star half-back in football. We were very active in church. We played our violins on the radio and got our names and pictures in the local paper. Mom stopped going into town. Dad did not care to see our school performances. 

Mom visited me twice in New York before she declared, “I am not coming again until I get a book published.” She spent nearly 20 years working on her novel. The last 100 pages were a discussion between the two main characters. The heroine, who had always valued trust and honesty above all, came to realize by the end of that lengthy dialogue that what she truly valued were sex and money. After that, Mom never wrote another novel. 

Many years later, Stepdad found success in the machine business and taught at a college. Mom managed to get a book published when an interesting man hired her to write his life story, which was sold at his museum. She always insisted that we should only write about what we know. Her publication was titled "Big Game Hunting Around the World."  

Once, I asked her, “Why did I get so many spankings?” She replied, “You teased me!” Ok. I am sure I did, and time is a great healer and therapy helps of course.  

MEDIUM: Watercolor on paper

DATE: 1991

Medium: Watercolor on Paper

Date: 1978

Donkey Rider 

Exploring Duality and Imagination: This Week's Featured Watercolor Painting 

Welcome back to my weekly art exploration! This week, I am excited to feature a watercolor painting that delves into duality, balance, and imagination. This piece is a blend of figurative elements, inviting viewers on a journey of interpretation and reflection. I called this piece "Donkey Rider." 

Personal Inspiration 

As a nine-year-old child, I spent many evenings in Juarez, Mexico, during the summer of 1948. At that time, the city was a beautiful, vibrant place full of intense colors and romantic images, vastly different from the rural farms of Minnesota and Iowa where I lived, which lacked plumbing and electricity. I remember vividly the donkeys' carrying riders, adorned with multicolored rugs and enormous hats, sparkling with silver, gold, and precious stones, and sometimes playing guitars. These scenes captured my heart and fueled my imagination. 

The intricate carved wood, the heavy, twisted ironwork around gardens and over windows and doors, and the lush trees and plants on the streets and in the gardens were unlike anything I had ever experienced. My next adventures would not come until my years in the U.S. Army in Europe as an adult. This picture encapsulates the vivid mix of stimuli from that early, unforgettable time. 

Duality and Balance 

In "Donkey Rider," I split the face in the painting into two contrasting halves: one deep blue and one white. This dichotomy symbolizes the concept of duality, representing opposing forces or complementary elements such as night and day, conscious and subconscious, or reason and emotion. The balance between the two sides suggests harmony and the coexistence of these dual aspects within a single entity. This theme of duality also reflects my childhood experience in Juarez, where the vibrant cityscape full of intense colors and romantic images contrasted sharply with the simplicity and rustic life of the rural farms in Minnesota and Iowa. 

Playfulness and Imagination 

The colorful circles and abstract shapes adorning the face add a playful quality to the painting. These elements symbolize creativity, imagination, and the diversity of thoughts and ideas that reside within a person. The exaggerated features and geometric design emphasize a departure from realism, inviting viewers to embrace the unconventional. This playful imagination was sparked in Juarez, where I encountered a vivid and colorful world that fueled my creativity. 

The Donkey’s Presence 

Including the orange-brown donkey below the face adds a layer of intrigue. Donkeys are often associated with qualities such as humility, resilience, and hard work. However, in this context, the donkey's mischievous expression and sideways glance introduce an element of curiosity and perhaps a hint of subversion. This could represent the idea of hidden depths or unexpected characteristics within oneself or others. The donkeys in Juarez, adorned with vibrant rugs and carrying riders, inspired this element, reflecting the rich and multifaceted culture I witnessed. 

Surreal Juxtaposition 

Combining a human-like face with the body of a donkey creates a surreal and thought-provoking image. This juxtaposition symbolizes the blending of human intellect and animal instinct, highlighting the dual nature of beings. It also invites viewers to consider the interconnectedness of various aspects of identity and the fluid boundaries between them. This concept also echoes my experiences in Mexico, where the blend of traditional and modern elements created a surreal and captivating atmosphere. 

Symbolism of Colors 

• Blue: Often associated with calmness, wisdom, and introspection. The blue half of the face represents the contemplative, rational side of the personality. 

• White: Symbolizes purity, simplicity, and potential. The white half signifies openness, new beginnings, and the unmarked potential within each individual. 

• Orange-Brown: This color evokes warmth, earthiness, and stability. The donkey’s color grounds the image, providing a connection to the physical and practical aspects of life. 

The vibrant colors in the painting draw inspiration from the vivid hues of that city, where intense and romantic imagery left a lasting impression on me. 

Overall Narrative 

With "Donkey Rider," I aimed to create a painting that encouraged me to explore the interplay between different facets of existence. It suggests a narrative where imagination and reality coexist, where each part of the image contributes to a greater, unified whole. My childhood journey in Juarez, filled with contrasting elements and vibrant imagery, served as a foundation for this exploration. 

In summary, this watercolor painting is a meditation on the multifaceted nature of identity, the harmony between opposing forces, and the rich, imaginative world that lies within and around us. The playful yet thought-provoking imagery invites viewers to engage with their own interpretations and reflections, much like my own time in Juarez. 

Medium: Watercolor on paper

Date: 1965

Number One 

My featured painting this week is called “Number One.” This painting was the first of my new adult life. I did not know that then. I only knew that this was the most excitement I had felt since I saw my vision of the flying pig in the clouds in the summer of 1964 in Würzburg, Germany. This was the defining moment. 

A year later in autumn, 1965, I was out of the army. In the last month of my service, I had heard of the Rhode Island School of Design (RISD) the most important art school in the USA. During my time in the army, I found the first free time in my life and used it to draw observations of the buildings, plants, and landscapes around me. My work attracted the attention of officers who asked me to draw their wives and children and create presentations for visiting Pentagon generals. I also drew mascots for the battalions they inspected. At that time, we had as many divisions in Germany as the USA had in Vietnam, keeping me busy with various materials like paint, tile, plastic, leather, and wood. Someone remarked, “You could make money doing these figures on the Outside,” and I was informed about RISD. I needed to apply within six months of leaving the army to fit RISD's age timeline. I found myself at a crossroads, wondering what direction my life would take. 

Reflecting on the past, I asked myself why I had joined the Army. I had spoken with our Methodist minister from our Minnesota farm town, expressing that I had done everything I was trained to do and felt incomplete. I had worked my way through college with off-the-books jobs, sending money home to my parents, as many farm kids did. I graduated with honors and secured a prestigious job at Hallmark Cards, achieving my college goal of making money. I bought everything on my wish list, including original paintings from famous artists, a sports car (a TR3), and had a rich girlfriend who wore 34 diamond rings. I even brought her from Kansas City to Minnesota to meet my parents. At Hallmark, I was labeled the “Golden Boy” and received raises in salary. However, despite these successes, I felt unfulfilled. I decided to get an army deferment and return to graduate school to read the many things I did not have time for during my first four college years. The minister advised, “You have made your life too small. Open up, do everything you have denied. Just always be alert to what you are doing and what you are feeling.” Minnesota was very conservative at that time; no kissing before marriage, no drinking beer, and no beer could be sold within a mile and a half of the University, at that time purportedly the biggest campus in the USA. Following the minister’s advice, I decided to join the army to explore and see the world and encounter new experiences. 

I was hoping to learn Chinese and go to Asia but instead, I was assigned to army intelligence and sent to Europe. This was unexpected but a welcome event. For my first two years in Germany, I did not drink beer because of the restrictions in Minnesota. Eventually, I began to draw during my time off and, after two years, had my first beer. Two generals sent me personal letters praising my art talent, and I was named “Model Soldier of the Army.” In Minnesota farm country, education was still not highly respected, and art was a no-no for boys. This was a tremendous change. A beer-drinking artist! Although I still did not want to be labeled an ‘artist,’ I knew art had to be in my future. 

My devotion to art was my secret. I had done what was expected: worked hard on the farm, sent money home, graduated with honors, secured an excellent job with a good salary, and received praise from generals. I had been a model soldier and satisfied the community approved goals. But what about my private goals of art, my secret love? I never wanted anyone's opinion on my art; it was mine. Ultimately, I decided against RISD and planned to go to New York City. One of the loves of my life invited me to visit her in Mississippi. We drove to Florida and then to San Francisco. She eventually entered a convent to become a nun, while I started painting every day. I even sold a picture to the City of San Francisco. However, I saw no future in California among the group the newspaper called ‘hippies,’ so I left for New York in the spring of 1967 after nine months in California. 

Combining my vision in Würzburg with what I achieved in Number One laid the foundation for the many sculptures I created in New York. I discarded masses of pictures that did not work for me. Then, guided by advice from the Castelli Gallery, I found success with my first seven children’s books, despite being rejected by 100 publishers. 

In New York, I met an RISD graduate who said, “You do everything wrong, but it comes out right! I cannot figure out how you do it!” 

I have cherished this painting, my first, my Number One. At the time, I did not realize the lessons it was imparting to me, but now I understand them. These lessons are multifaceted and profound. While I have absorbed their wisdom, applying them consistently remains a challenge; nevertheless, I no longer produce masses of work to discard. 

This painting symbolizes the beginning of my true journey as an artist. It represents the moment I embraced my devotion to art and the path it laid before me. Each brushstroke in Number One is a testament to the exploration of my potential and the breaking of conventional boundaries. It reminds me that the journey of creativity is as important as the destination, urging me to continue pursuing my passion with unwavering determination. 

Medium: Watercolor on paper

Date: 1985

“The Four-Eyed Blackbird of Dawn”: A Surreal Exploration

Art for me is the gateway to the magical. A way of venturing into realms beyond the ordinary, offering glimpses into the depths of my imagination and the mysteries of the human condition. One such piece that encapsulates this exploration is my watercolor painting, “The Four-Eyed Blackbird of Dawn.” This is my featured artwork for this week. This work invites you to immerse yourself in a landscape filled with symbolism.

The Inspiration

In my teens during the Minnesota summers, my brother and I made our daily trip to work in cornfields forty miles from home. We left at 5 A.M. in a car full of guys. The sun was rising and in the center of the intense whirling brightness, I could see black. It might be a black bird, I thought. This memory is the heart of this watercolor picture. Through the car window, I saw the beginning of the first shine of intense yellow at the edge of the dark straight horizon. The land in that part of Minnesota was very flat but punctuated with farms every few miles. The farmyards were surrounded by packs of tall trees, appearing dark blue gray in the early part of the day. I looked forward every morning with excitement to seeing the dawn, the rising edge of the sun, and the solid dark blue shadows along the trees. It was very beautiful.  Within the groves in the dim light, I could see farmers feeding their animals and many animals awakening. After I created this painting, I discovered that early Chinese observers also saw a black spot in the sun and interpreted it as a blackbird. My bird, however, is a dancer with four eyes. The extra eyes were essential for capturing the intensity of my feelings as I gazed out of the car, speeding toward our day in the cornfields.

Unveiling the Canvas: A First Look

When I created “The Four-Eyed Blackbird of Dawn,” I aimed to make the image clear to myself. I used vivid colors and dynamic composition. The central figure, a blackbird with four eyes, immediately draws attention. Its expressive face, adorned with a halo of fiery yellow and orange, contrasts starkly against the cool blue backdrop. This contrast not only highlights the bird but also creates a sense of balance and harmony within the chaos.

The Central Figure: A Symbol of Perception

The blackbird, with its additional pair of eyes, symbolizes heightened perception and vision. In many cultures, eyes represent knowledge, awareness, and insight. I envisioned the four-eyed bird as a being that sees beyond the ordinary, perceiving hidden truths and mysteries. Placing the bird at the center of the composition makes it the focal point of this surreal narrative.

The Sun and the Serpent: Duality of Life

To the left of the blackbird, the sun radiates with a bright yellow glow, housing a serpent-like figure within. The sun, a universal symbol of life, energy, and enlightenment, contrasts with the serpent, often associated with mystery, transformation, and sometimes danger. This juxtaposition hints at the dual nature of existence, where light and dark, known and unknown, coexist and shape our reality.

The Dreamlike Surroundings: A Landscape of the Mind

Surrounding the central figure are various creatures and faces, each contributing to the painting’s dreamlike quality. These elements, rendered in soft blues and whites, seem to emerge from the background like fragments of a forgotten dream. Among them, a duck, a cow, a dog, a pond, and several human faces can be discerned, each adding to the narrative’s complexity. These figures represent facets of the subconscious mind, each with its own story and significance, merging into the unity of farm life.

The Watercolor Technique: Fluidity and Ethereal Beauty

Choosing watercolor as the medium enhanced the surreal effect I sought to achieve. Watercolor’s inherent fluidity allows for soft gradients and blending, creating an ethereal atmosphere. The delicate transitions between colors and the subtle textures add depth to the scene, making it appear as if it is constantly shifting and evolving.

Interpreting the Themes: Insights and Reflections

“The Four-Eyed Blackbird of the Dawn” is a rich tapestry of themes and symbols. At its core, it explores ideas of perception, transformation, and the duality of existence. The blackbird’s additional eyes suggest a quest for greater understanding, urging you to look beyond the surface and explore the hidden layers of meaning. The surrounding elements, with their enigmatic presence, encourage introspection and invite you to ponder the nature of our own subconscious mind.

Conclusion: A Surreal Masterpiece

In “The Four-Eyed Blackbird of the Dawn,” I aimed to create a piece that transcends the boundaries of reality and delves into the realm of the surreal. Through vibrant colors, dynamic composition, and symbolic imagery, this painting offers a glimpse into a world where perception is heightened, and the mysteries of life are laid bare. It stands as a testament to the power of art to evoke contemplation and inspire a deeper understanding of the human experience. As Thomas Merton aptly said, "Art enables us to find ourselves and lose ourselves at the same time.

Whether you are an art enthusiast or simply someone who appreciates the beauty of the unknown, I hope “The Four-Eyed Blackbird of the Dawn” leaves a lasting impression, urging you to embark on your own path of discovery and reflection.

Medium: Watercolor on paper

Date: 2007

The Tree of Life

Art has always been my way of exploring the deeper meanings of life, often beyond the realms of reality. Surrealism, in particular, allows me to venture into the subconscious, blending dreams with reality. Today, I will share my watercolor painting titled "The Tree of Life." This piece encapsulates the essence of life through vivid imagery and symbolism.

In 1992, my therapist at the time was giving a 3-day workshop in Providence, RI. He asked me to do a cover illustration for the notebooks he had prepared and suggested some kind of tree. I wanted to be comprehensive, so I created a tree also showing its roots. In my view, the roots are as important, if not more so, than the tree itself because without roots, a tree will not survive. This worked fine for him. Years later, in 2007, I came across this illustration in my wastebasket. It spoke to me, begging me to do more with it before I tossed it out. So, I gave it a second chance and started with the new idea of a flower with roots.

"The Tree of Life" combines elements of nature, science, and the animal kingdom to create a thought-provoking image. This piece invites you, the viewer, to explore its layers and interpret the interconnectedness of life.

The Foundation - The Tiger

At the roots of this “tree,” a tiger roars fiercely, symbolizing raw power, strength, and the primal instincts that lie at the core of all living beings. The tiger's open mouth, roaring into the ground, signifies the foundation of life, rooted in the primal and untamed aspects of existence.

The Tree Trunk

The trunk of the tree rises from the tiger's mouth, merging the primal with the cultivated. It stands for growth and the journey from basic survival to higher consciousness. The trunk, depicted in shades of green, symbolizes life and vitality, firmly grounded yet reaching upward.

The Blossoms

At the ends of the branches, delicate flowers bloom. These blossoms represent beauty, growth, and the fruits of life's journey. The vibrant pink and red hues of the flowers contrast with the darker tones of the tiger, highlighting the duality of life – the balance between ferocity and beauty.

The Light and Laboratory Equipment

Encased within a glowing orb at the center of the tree is a depiction of a light  and laboratory equipment. This symbolizes knowledge, discovery, and the quest for understanding. The light, often associated with ideas and enlightenment, represents human curiosity and the endless pursuit of scientific exploration.

The Background

The background transitions from a deep, dark blue at the top to a bright, warm yellow at the bottom. This gradient signifies the passage from night to day, from darkness to light, reflecting the cyclical nature of life and the continuous journey from ignorance to knowledge.

"The Tree of Life" is a visual narrative that explores the essence of existence. Through the connection of primal instincts and intellectual pursuits, it portrays the multifaceted journey of life. I invite you to spend time with this piece, to find your own meanings within its surreal layers.

Art allows me to express the inexpressible, to explore the boundaries of my imagination. "The Tree of Life" is one of my attempts to capture the complexity of life through imagery that may not always be found together. Albert Einstein said, "Look deep into nature, and then you will understand everything better."  I hope it inspires you to look deeper, to appreciate the intricate connections that bind us all, and to celebrate the beauty of life's journey.

What are your thoughts on "The Tree of Life"? How do you interpret the symbols within this painting? Share your insights and interpretations in the comments below! Let's start a conversation about the meaning of life through art.

Medium: Watercolor on paper

Date: 1985

The Pyramid of the Rising Sun

Welcome to this week's art feature on my blog! I'm thrilled to share with you a watercolor piece that has been a labor of love and a profound exploration of the surreal. As an artist, I strive to create works that not only captivate the eye but also engage the mind, prompting viewers to delve into the deeper layers of meaning and emotion. This piece is no exception, offering a vivid tableau that examines the interplay of dichotomy, complexity, and unity.

The Mastery of Technique

Watercolor is a medium that demands precision and control, and in this piece, I aimed to push the boundaries of what can be achieved with it. The vibrant and dynamic composition showcases a combination of sharp contrasts and smooth gradients, achieved through the wet-on-dry technique. This method allows for the creation of distinct, crisp edges, particularly in the detailed feathers of the blue bird and the fiery central figure.

Each brushstroke is deliberate, contributing to the overall cohesion of the work. The meticulous blending of colors and careful delineation of forms ensure that every element, no matter how disparate, feels integral to the composition. This unity through technique underscores the thematic exploration of harmony amidst complexity.

Symbolism: Layers of Meaning

Symbolism plays a crucial role in my art, and this piece is rich with multi-layered imagery that invites multiple interpretations:

1. The Bird and the Fiery Figure: Dominating the upper portion of the canvas, a large blue bird with outstretched wings takes center stage. This bird, a symbol of freedom and transcendence, is juxtaposed with a central fiery face that radiates intense energy and transformation. Together, they represent the balance between liberation and power, hinting at the duality of the human spirit that seeks both freedom and control.
2. Pyramid and Rainbow Colors: The pyramid, colored with the full spectrum of the rainbow, stands as a beacon of enlightenment and ascension. Pyramids often symbolize a connection between the earthly and the divine, suggesting a journey toward higher understanding. The rainbow colors within this structure emphasize diversity and inclusivity, implying that enlightenment encompasses all facets of existence.
3. Aquatic Creatures: At the bottom of the piece, serene aquatic creatures introduce an element of tranquility. These creatures, seemingly at peace in the water, represent the subconscious mind, the hidden depths of our psyche that coexist with our conscious thoughts. Their calm presence beneath the fiery and airy elements above highlights the balance between the known and the unknown, the visible and the hidden.

Color as a Narrative Tool

Color is a powerful tool in conveying the emotional and symbolic undertones of this artwork. The palette is both vibrant and strategic:

• Blue: Dominant throughout the piece, blue represents calmness, depth, and expansiveness. It connects the sky, the bird, and the water, creating a sense of continuity and unity across different elements.
• Red and Orange: These fiery hues around the central figure symbolize energy, passion, and transformation. They stand out against the cooler tones, drawing the viewer’s eye and emphasizing the central theme of dynamic change.
• Rainbow Spectrum: The inclusion of the rainbow within the pyramid suggests unity in diversity, reinforcing the idea that all parts, though varied, contribute to a harmonious whole.

Dichotomy, Complexity, and Unity

The interplay of dichotomy and complexity is a hallmark of this watercolor piece. By juxtaposing elements of fire and water, air and earth, freedom and containment, I aimed to explore opposing forces coexisting within a single composition. The bird and fiery face embody freedom and power, while the tranquil aquatic creatures symbolize serenity and the subconscious. This balance of opposites invites reflection on the dualities present in our own lives.

Complexity is evident in the intricate details and layers of symbolism. Every element, from the bird’s feathers to the textures and patterns within the pyramid, adds depth to the piece. This complexity is not chaotic but rather meticulously structured, contributing to the richness of the artwork.

Despite the diverse elements and bold colors, the piece achieves a remarkable sense of unity. The recurring use of blue ties different parts together, while the central pyramid anchors the composition. This unity amidst diversity suggests a coherent journey toward enlightenment, where all aspects, no matter how contrasting, find their place within the grand tapestry of existence.

Conclusion

As an artist, my goal is to create works that resonate on multiple levels, inviting viewers to explore the balance of opposing forces, the complexity of existence, and the unity that binds diverse elements together. This surreal watercolor piece is a vivid exploration of themes that resonate deeply with human experience. Through precise technique, rich symbolism, and a vibrant color palette, I hope to inspire a deeper understanding of ourselves and the universe we inhabit. Thank you for joining me in this journey, and I look forward to sharing more of my art with you in future features.

Medium: Watercolor on paper

Date: 1985

Echoes of Color: Experiencing Puerto Rico through Watercolor

As a travel and art enthusiast, I've always believed that the true essence of a place transcends its physical boundaries, spilling over into the experiences it fosters and the memories it creates. This belief was profoundly reinforced during my trip to Puerto Rico in 1985, where I embarked not only on a journey through its landscapes but also through its sounds—a sensory exploration that culminated in a series of watercolor paintings. This piece I've titled "Sounds of a Tropical Night."

On our porch next to the rainforest, my friend Nicholasa and myself sat naked on big straw chairs in the extravagant heat and watched as the sunlight faded into dusk. As we felt the warm spray from moisture of the cooling breeze on our skin, we were slowly submerged into absolute silence.  The sounds of the day were finished. For a moment, there was total quietness that lasted for about a full minute.  As the evening grew darker, we gradually heard new sounds, the fresh sound of the insects and animals who just awakened to live for the night.  The sounds got louder and louder until they became as large as a John Philips Sousa band. What we thought would be a quiet evening became a symphony in the jungle. This was our biggest surprise and the greatest joy for our first tropical night.

Enveloped by the soft blanket of darkness, we were greeted by a chorus of sounds that seemed almost orchestrated by nature itself. Inspired, I set out to translate these auditory sensations into a visual format. This painting is not just a representation of what I saw, but an interpretation of what I heard and felt.

In the upper left corner of the painting, sharp, spike-like forms burst forth with vivid colors, mimicking the piercing calls of nocturnal creatures that cut through the night. These could be the high-pitched chirps of crickets or a sudden screech from a night bird—sounds that demanded attention amidst the serenity.

The body of the painting is dominated by swirling greens and yellows, curves that evoke the gentle, almost musical rustling of leaves and underbrush, stirred by the warm breezes. This movement is akin to a soft melody, a baseline that underpins the night’s chorus, providing a soothing continuity to the sharp sounds.

Near the bottom, softer, flowing lines in shades of blue and green suggest the distant sounds of water, perhaps a stream or the gentle lapping of waves, mingling with the whispers of the land. This part of the painting feels like a calming lullaby, comforting and continuous.

A bold streak of red and a rainbow arc cut through the composition, symbolizing the vibrant, unexpected flashes of life and energy that tropical nights unleash. These elements reflect the bursts of intensity that punctuate the otherwise serene soundscape.

"Sounds of a Tropical Night" is more than a painting; it’s an invitation to viewers to hear the lush, dynamic atmosphere of a Puerto Rican night through vibrant watercolors. Each stroke and hue are a note in the larger melody of the island's nocturnal life, a melody that I hope resonates with others as deeply as it did with me.

My journey through Puerto Rico became a process of deep connection with the environment. Each day, as I explored more of the island’s rich culture and landscapes, I collected sounds and sights that later transformed into colors and shapes on my canvas. This artistic process became a daily ritual, where the experiences of the day were distilled each night into a visual diary. Through this, I hoped to not only capture the beauty of Puerto Rico but also to understand and internalize the rhythm of its natural and human-made worlds.

Reflecting on this creative endeavor, I realize that art and travel are profoundly intertwined, each enhancing the appreciation of the other. As I shared my work with locals and visitors, their reactions and interpretations added new layers of meaning to the painting. This interaction reminded me that art, much like travel, is a communal experience—it grows and evolves with each shared perspective. "Sounds of a Tropical Night" is not just a snapshot of a time and place; it is a living piece of art that continues to evolve with every viewer’s engagement, echoing the continuous and ever-changing chorus of the tropical night that inspired it.

This exploration of Puerto Rico through my art has been a reminder of how deeply we can connect with a place when we fully engage all our senses. Marcel Proust, the renowned French novelist and probably one of the most influential authors of the 20^th century said, “We travel not to seek other places, but other eyes.”  As I hope to continue to travel and create, I invite you to join me on this sensory adventure, discovering places not just through their sights but through the sounds and stories they offer, each one painting its unique stroke on the canvas of our experiences.

Medium: Watercolor on paper

Date: 1998 

Fight: Exploring the Surrealism and Symbolism

The Enigma of Combat and Duality

For this week's featured artwork, I take you back to 1998, to a piece close to my heart that I titled "Fight”. This piece is an intriguing watercolor painting that captivates me with its blend of surrealism and evocative symbolism. The artwork depicts a figure, remarkable for its three-headed form, each head resembling a different animal. This multi-headed warrior wields a sword, poised as if ready for combat. The background is a subdued yellow, enhancing the foreground’s drama and the simplicity of the creature's form.

Symbolic Interpretations

The tri-headed figure in "Fight" serves as a powerful visual metaphor for the internal struggles and the complex layers of human identity. The presence of three distinct heads on a single body can be interpreted as an embodiment of the multifaceted nature of the self. Each head might represent different facets of one's personality—the emotional, the rational, and the instinctual. These are often in conflict, yet they are part of the same being, constantly vying for dominance and control. This internal battle is a universal human experience, making the artwork deeply relatable.

Moreover, the weapons carried by the figure—a sword and shield—further enhance the theme of conflict and defense. The sword could symbolize the aggressive, confrontational side of our nature, always ready to fight and assert dominance. On the other hand, the shield might represent the protective, defensive aspect of our personalities, highlighting our need to guard against external threats and internal turmoil. Together, these elements suggest a perpetual state of readiness, whether to face one's inner demons or external adversities.

Expanding on this, the composition and stance of the figure also play a significant role in conveying the message of the painting. The stance, aggressive yet guarded, underscores the constant tension between facing our fears and protecting ourselves from harm. This dynamic reflects the ongoing struggle within every individual as they navigate the complexities of life, balancing their primal instincts with rational thought and emotional understanding. Such imagery invites viewers to reflect on their own lives, encouraging a deeper engagement with the themes presented in "Fight." To illustrate, a friend of mine who immigrated from Asia embodies this struggle vividly. Raised in poverty, each step of his life has been a relentless battle to carve out his place in the world and secure his survival. Fear and the pressure to constantly defend himself are ever-present companions. His journey is a powerful testament to the resilience of the human spirit and sharply mirrors the themes depicted in "Fight." While his story is uniquely his, it serves as a compelling reminder that we all face our own battles. This artwork encourages us to contemplate our personal struggles, inviting a deeper connection with the challenges we encounter and how we navigate them.

Artistic Techniques

The use of watercolor in "Fight" adds a softness that contrasts sharply with the sharp angles and defined outlines of the figure. This technique allows for subtle color variations and a dreamlike quality that suits the surreal nature of the painting. My choice of a minimalistic style focuses my attention on the symbolism and emotional impact of the piece, rather than intricate details.

Conclusion

"Fight" offers a profound exploration of psychological turmoil and the ongoing internal quest for balance. It invites me to ponder my own inner conflicts and the complex facets of my personality. The painting stands out not just for the technical skill evident in its watercolor execution, but for its capacity to delve into and visually represent intricate human emotions and thoughts through stark, impactful imagery. This work is a compelling testament to art's ability to probe deep into the human psyche and illuminate the struggles that lie within.

Medium: Watercolor on paper

Date: 2007

The Runner

Introduction

Martial arts aren't just about self-defense; they're about shaping a mindset geared towards survival and awareness. For 22 years, my journey through various disciplines has not only taught me how to fight but also how to navigate life's myriad challenges with grace and vigilance. This week's featured art piece, titled "Runner," is my watercolor painting from 2007 that beautifully symbolizes this journey. It depicts a lone fighter skillfully sprinting over creatures with fearsome, tooth-filled mouths—a perfect representation of the constant alertness required in both dojos and on the streets.

The Essence of Survival

Throughout my years practicing martial arts, I've learned that the skills acquired extend far beyond physical combat. They foster a mental sharpness akin to that of a fighter in the ring—always ready, always aware. This painting, with its central figure dynamically poised, serves as a daily reminder of the necessity of this awareness. Whether navigating the bustling streets of New York City or the unpredictable alleys of Southeast Asia, the same principles applied: Be aware, be ready, be light on your feet—like running over a trail of dangers without getting bitten.

Anecdotes of Vigilance

My readiness to face danger can best be illustrated by two specific incidents. In 1978, in Brooklyn, the subway stopped unexpectedly. I was alone in my car, reading, when three teenagers entered. One approached me, demanding my gold ring. When I refused, claiming I had found it on the street just last week, he struck me with brass knuckles. Outraged, I sprang up in a karate fight stance, and inadvertently, my elbow smashed a subway window. The loud crash sent the assailants fleeing. Passengers from the next car rushed over, and a kind lady offered me tissues to clean the blood. At that time, I held a green belt in karate.

Years later, in 1995, Paris presented a different challenge. Just arrived and headed to our hotel near the Eiffel Tower, my friend and I lingered too long checking a subway map, attracting the attention of two men. As we ascended a three-story escalator, they followed. One swiftly positioned himself in front of me as we disembarked. Reacting instantly, I kicked him forcefully and shouted, then grabbed his jacket and used him as a shield against his accomplice. Both surrendered. With all our valuables on us, including a significant sum and a precious ring from Hong Kong, losing them was not an option. My black belt skills in karate were crucial in swiftly neutralizing the threat, ensuring our safety and the security of our belongings. My alertness thwarted two more incidents during that Parisian weekend. These experiences underscore the profound importance of martial arts training—not only for physical defense but for preparing for any unexpected confrontation.

Reflections on a Fighter's Path

Each confrontation, each narrow escape, and each moment of fear echo the dynamic scenes depicted in my watercolor painting. Like the 'Runner' dodging dangers with athletic precision, I've learned to apply my martial arts training to real-world scenarios. These lessons have been invaluable not just in protecting myself and others, but in fostering a proactive, prepared approach to life's unpredictable challenges. I am grateful for the skills I have acquired.

Conclusion

Though I have averted many dangerous situations in cities like New York, Bangkok, Hong Kong, Singapore, and Siem Reap, living the life of a martial artist extends beyond the dojo. It encompasses a comprehensive approach to life that emphasizes readiness, resilience, and quick thinking. Reflecting on my experiences and the vivid portrayal of the runner in the painting, I am reminded that every step taken with awareness is a step towards fighting for survival. Whether on the mats or the streets, the essence of martial arts pervades every aspect of my vigilant journey.

Medium: Watercolor on paper

Date: 1984

Puerto Rico: A Watercolor Reflection

The first day I stepped onto the vibrant soil of Puerto Rico, I was captivated. There was an energy in the air, a rhythm to life that I hadn't felt before—an undercurrent of excitement and a rich tapestry of culture that enveloped me. It was this pulse of life, this colorful blend of tradition and nature, that moved my hand across the canvas, giving birth to a watercolor painting I would simply call "Puerto Rico."

As I brushed the first stroke of color onto the canvas, I felt the warmth of the island sun. With each hue that followed, I found myself translating the essence of Puerto Rico onto paper. The monsters in my painting, each with a set of stark white teeth, began to represent more than just imaginative creatures; they became a lively homage to the myths and folklore that the island whispered to me through its winds.

The orange in my work recalls the fiery Puerto Rican sunsets that I watched in awe, their beauty a canvas in itself. The blues are the whispers of the Caribbean Sea, calm and soothing, yet full of depth and mysteries untold. The greens are drawn from the lifeblood of the island's flora, the vibrant heart of Puerto Rico's natural wonders.

In the watercolor's fluidity, I found a kindred spirit to the island's own—just as the colors on my canvas flowed and mingled, so did the rhythms of salsa in the streets, the blending of cultures, and the fusion of flavors in every dish that delighted my taste buds. My painting became a dance of color, echoing the vibrant steps taken on cobblestone streets, under the glow of aged streetlamps.

This piece is more than a painting; it's a sensory journey. It encapsulates my first day in Puerto Rico—the taste of the rich cuisine, the nightly serenade by the coqui frogs, the colorful display of colonial architecture, and the embrace of a culture that is as inviting as the island's gentle seas.

Naming my painting "Puerto Rico" was a tribute in itself. It wasn't just a geographical marker but a narrative of my encounter with the island's indomitable spirit. Like the uncontainable nature of watercolors, Puerto Rico's culture cannot be confined. It resists, flows, and soars beyond the canvas of expectations.

And now, as this painting finds its place, it stands as a vivid reminder of that first day—a day that has etched itself into my memory, vibrant and alive, a lasting emblem of an island that dances to its own beautiful rhythm.

Walking through the streets of Puerto Rico, I found inspiration in the faces of the people. Their smiles, as warm as the Caribbean sun, seemed to cast a spell of joy over the island. These encounters, these snapshots of daily life, imbued my painting with a deeper layer of connection. The creatures in my art, while fantastical, began to embody the spirit of resilience and joy I saw in every individual I met. Each stroke became a wordless conversation, a shared moment of humanity that transcended language.

There was also music, a constant companion that followed me through plazas and beaches, old fortresses, and bustling markets. The sounds of Puerto Rico—guitars, drums, and the ever-present salsa rhythms—infused my painting with a musical score of its own. As I painted, I realized that the undulating lines and the crescendos of colors were harmonizing with the island's melody. My artwork became an echo of Puerto Rico's soundtrack, a visual representation of its symphony of sounds that resonates with anyone who has ever heard its call.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, the colors of the sky melted into one another, creating a watercolor masterpiece that no brush could hope to capture fully. Yet, it was this very sunset that I attempted to bottle on my canvas. The fading light brought a calm to the island and to my work, ushering in the cool blues and purples of twilight. This natural transition from day to night reminded me of the constant evolution of art and experience, a reminder that both are never truly complete but continue to grow and change with each passing moment.

With every new day in Puerto Rico, my painting evolved, as did I. The island taught me that art is not just a process of creation but a journey of discovery. With "Puerto Rico" as my guide, I explored the hidden alleys of creativity, found joy in unexpected corners, and learned that every splash of color, whether on canvas or in life, tells a part of a story that is always unfolding.

This painting, a witness to my first day in Puerto Rico, now hangs as a narrative tapestry of the island's life. It stands as a testament to the boundless creativity that travels with us, long after we've left the shores that inspired it. It's a conversation piece, a visual diary entry, and above all, a celebration of the place that, even if for a moment, I called home.

In the end, my watercolor painting titled "Puerto Rico" has become more than a static image—it is a living memory. It is my homage to the island, a heartfelt 'thank you' captured in the language of watercolors. For it was in Puerto Rico that I rediscovered the power of art to immortalize the fleeting moments that define the beauty of our existence.

Medium: Watercolor on Paper

Date: 1984

The OWL: Igniting Creativity, the Symbolism in Watercolor Art

Watercolor painting is an ancient art form known for its subtle nuances and the ability of its translucent hues to convey deep emotions and concepts. It’s a medium where light and pigment dance on paper to express something ineffable, something that speaks directly to the heart. Today, we’ll delve into an evocative watercolor painting that serves not just as a visual treat but also as a springboard for a deeper conversation on symbolism and creativity.

Exploring the Central Image

At first glance, the central figure of our featured painting offers a visage of radiant joy. The smiling face, basked in hues of golden yellow, could very well be the artistic representation of the sun – the life-giving, ever-present celestial being. The face is encircled by dynamic strokes of color that suggest a corona of light. This central burst of joy is compelling; it might remind one of the infectious warmth of a hearty laugh or the first rays of dawn breaking through a morning mist.

The genesis of this piece, however, stems from a moment of personal strife. On the day this painting was born, the sun inside me was eclipsed by the shadow of discord. A harsh exchange with a friend left me navigating a sea of inner turmoil, so profound that I sought refuge in the aimless journey of the Staten Island Ferry, back and forth, as time stood still. I was torn, a battle raging within between the darkness of resentment and the light of forgiveness.

In that introspective voyage, as the city's silhouette ebbed and flowed against the horizon, a transformation unfolded within me. The struggle gave way to clarity, and from the depths of my despair, a resolve surfaced: to let joy reign supreme, to rise above the pettiness of conflict. It was this triumphant return to joy – the kind that can illuminate the darkest of hearts – that I poured into my painting.

This creation is a testament to that victory, a reminder that even in our bleakest hours, joy can be a choice, a defiant act of rebellion against the despair that seeks to engulf us. It's a visual ode to the power of a positive spirit, a celebration of the human capacity to find light amidst darkness.

The Power of Animal Symbolism

Tucked in each corner of the painting are creatures, seemingly in the shadows of this bright central figure. There's a regal quality to these sketches, each animal poised with an inherent grace. They are unfinished, like ideas not yet fully realized, or dreams still taking shape in the dawning light of consciousness. Each animal brings with it a wealth of symbolism. An owl might stand for wisdom, an eagle for freedom, a lion for bravery, and a bull for strength and stability. Together, they form a quartet of virtues, an embodiment of the noble characteristics we aspire to.

Contrasting Elements

The painting is a study in contrasts. The stark, white figure of the owl at the top of the painting seems to burst forth, defying the dark void behind it. This interplay of light and shadow could be seen as an allegory for hope prevailing against the backdrop of adversity. Or perhaps it is a representation of enlightenment, the owl a symbol of higher thought or spiritual ascension emerging from the abyss.

Artistic Technique

The technique employed in this watercolor work deserves as much attention as its content. Notice the way the colors bleed into one another, without a clear boundary, much like the fluidity of emotions or the blending of experiences in our lives. The layering of paint creates a sense of depth and complexity, just as our individual stories are layered and multifaceted.

Invitation for Interpretation

What do you see when you gaze upon this painting? Does the central figure evoke a sense of calm and clarity, or does it stir a different emotion within you? What do the creatures in the shadows speak to your soul? Art is subjective, and the true beauty of it lies in our personal interpretations. I invite you to share your thoughts and reflections on this piece.

Conclusion

This watercolor painting, with its bright center and its dark, detailed peripheries, reminds us that joy can often be found amidst the complexities of life. It prompts us to look closer, to appreciate the layers, and to find our own meaning within the interplay of light and shadow.

So, I leave you with a question to ponder or perhaps to discuss: What symbols in your life reflect the vibrancy depicted in the center of this painting, and what might the creatures in the shadows represent for you?

Call-to-Action

I hope this discussion has opened a window into the world of symbolism in art for you. If it has inspired you, why not pick up a brush and let your own creativity flow onto a canvas of possibilities? Share your artwork and insights with us. Let's celebrate the diversity of interpretation and the unity of our collective appreciation for art.

Medium: Watercolor on paper

Date: 1981

The Young King: A Vision of Youth and Royalty

This week, I delved into an exploration of my artwork titled "The Young King." Through this detailed analysis, I aim to uncover the layers of youth and royalty embedded within its composition, inviting my audience to peer deeper into the essence of what makes this artwork profoundly significant.

Unveiling Youth

What marks the figure before us as a young man? His visage blooms with the vibrancy of youth—rugged black hair and a beard, lips a bold red revealing a white smile, skin glowing with health, and eyes that sparkle with an unwavering confidence. This portrayal isn't just about the physical attributes; it's the composition's youthful spirit that captivates us. The image radiates balance and vitality, from the dual red spheres adorning his head and beard to the harmonious reflection of the headdress's eyes with his own, down to the symbolic markings on his cheeks. Each element contributes to a narrative of health and vigor.

Royalty Defined

How do we discern his kingship? Beyond the assertive gaze that seems to question, observe, and understand all, it's his attire that speaks. Crimson and royal blue are colors of sovereignty. The headdress is not merely an accessory; it's a testament to his authority. This balanced interplay of spheres and eyes once more whispers a tale of calm confidence, a signature of true leadership.

Deciphering Symbols

The symbols of the king demand our attention. Prominent among them is the bird crown, a motif echoing the power and mystique of avian crowns from diverse cultures—from Egypt's ancient dynasties to the ceremonial attire of the dowager empress of China, and even the ornate bird helmet of Bhutan's monarchy. This allusion to flight symbolizes a transcendence beyond the ordinary, a reach for the extraordinary.

The concentric circles, present in both the headdress and beard, are not random; their colors—red, yellow, black, and green—are a deliberate choice, each pair exuding balance and echoing a lineage of power that traces back to the use of precious stones like lapis lazuli and carnelian in ancient Egypt. These circles are more than decorative; they are emblems of cyclical power and eternal return.

A Personal Journey Intersected

As this image took shape, so did a pivotal chapter in my life. Serving as the head of fundraising and publicity for one of the United States' largest art museums, I celebrated the launch of a solo museum exhibition that garnered acclaim from the most coveted critics. This professional high was punctuated by a whimsical realization overheard from my secretary, “You can’t interview anybody who shows here.  They are all dead!”

This realization came just as I was embarking on a new adventure, stepping into a role at one of the world's most prestigious museums. However, life's unpredictable nature soon became evident through a sudden illness—a rare bacteria, unknown in New York until then, confined me to a hospital bed. It was here, in this unlikely sanctuary, that the young king came to life through my sketches, a creative testament to resilience and the enduring power of art to heal and inspire.

Life Lesson: The Duality of Existence

The creation of "The Young King" during a time of personal adversity underscores a profound life lesson: in the duality of existence, beauty and growth often emerge from the depths of challenge and change. Just as the young king embodies the virtues of youth and leadership, symbolizing power and vision, so too does our journey through life present us with moments where we must navigate the dichotomy of struggle and triumph. This experience reminded me that creativity can flourish under constraint, and adversity can become a crucible for transformation and insight. In recognizing the transient nature of both our challenges and our successes, we find the resilience to continue our creative pursuits and the courage to embrace the unknown paths ahead.

Medium: Watercolor on paper

Date: 2023

Introduction: The Intricacies of Giftedness

Living with the aspects of oneself or one's family that diverge from the norm can be a formidable challenge. My featured artwork this week is all about gifts. The gifts of nature, those unique talents and capabilities bestowed upon us and our relatives, transcend the mundane aspects of daily existence. Yet, this deviation from conformity often means these gifts do not seamlessly integrate into our lives. They stand apart, sometimes uncomfortably, from the routine rituals that define our existence.

The Nature of Gifts: A Double-Edged Sword

Gifts from nature are akin to a double-edged sword, offering benefits and drawbacks in equal measure. Imagine, if you will, the burden of a child, gifted beyond measure, resting heavily on the slender shoulders of a thin, older figure dressed in yellow. This figure, a representation of myself, symbolizes the weight of responsibility and expectation that accompanies such gifts. These are not without their demands; much like the mythical poisonous snakes, these gifts can both protect and peril. My recent musings on the nagas, creatures of dual nature, capture this duality perfectly. Sacred or profane, their symbolism runs deep, much like the cobra that has adorned the ancient Egyptian crown for millennia.

The naga, with its complex dichotomy, serves as a perfect metaphor for the nature of giftedness. Just as the naga can be both protector and destroyer, so too can gifts from nature uplift or overwhelm the human spirit. This complexity underscores the notion that while we all possess gifts, the magnitude and intensity of these gifts vary greatly among individuals. The existence of such a gift can elevate or condemn a person to the fringes of society, adoration, or isolation, sometimes leading to extreme outcomes such as imprisonment or even death.

The Burden of Giftedness

In the visual narrative, a child, endowed with extraordinary talents, becomes a literal burden to their parents. This child, engaged in playing a flute, wearing a ballet slipper, and surrounded by an ethereal melody, represents the consuming nature of exceptional abilities. The red and black hues of the child's attire, symbols of revolution and change, beg the question: Why cannot this child traverse life's path unaided? The answer lies in the overwhelming nature of their gifts, which demand every ounce of their energy and focus.

The Consuming Nature of Gifts

Gifts of a significant magnitude are not merely possessions; they are vocations that demand pursuit and expression. They may manifest early in life or emerge in later years, with some developing rapidly and others maturing slowly over time. Yet, when the call of the naga — the call of one's innate gift — resounds, it cannot be ignored without consequence.

To heed the call of one's gift is to embark on a journey of self-discovery and fulfillment. The artist who acknowledges and embraces their unique talents, guided by an unseen force, is indeed fortunate. This path, while fraught with challenges, offers unparalleled rewards.

The Role of Champions in Nurturing Gifts

Equally fortunate is the artist who finds a champion in a parent, teacher, or mentor. These guardians of potential play a crucial role in nurturing and protecting the fragile seeds of talent from being trampled underfoot by the harsh realities of skepticism and rejection.

Perseverance Through Rejection

The journey of a gifted individual is often punctuated by rejection and misunderstanding. Consider the author from Minnesota whose work faced 432 rejections before finally being acknowledged and celebrated as the Best Book of the Year. My own first books were rejected one hundred times and called most worthless book the head editor had ever seen before finally being called “the most original and creative books we have found in 25 years.” This narrative is not unique but a testament to the resilience required to transcend the frequent dismissals that accompany unique visions and ideas.

Conclusion: The Value of Gifts Despite Challenges

The path of the gifted is strewn with obstacles, not least of which is the specter of rejection. Yet, for those who persevere, the rewards can transcend material success, offering a profound and unique perspective on life. Whether or not a gift leads to financial prosperity, its true value lies in the fulfillment and understanding it brings to the bearer and, by extension, to the world at large. The journey of nurturing and expressing one's gifts is a noble endeavor, worthy of the effort and sacrifices it entails.

Medium: Watercolor on paper

Date: 2023

In the dim glow of a silvery moon, the untold tales of "The Boy Who Became a Hotel" find new life in its sequel. This is the story behind my featured artwork this week.

In this image, a new entity emerges—a monster whose form has yet to dance before my eyes, who’s meaning to me remains an enigma.

This central creature is not just an addition to the narrative; it is a reflection, a manifestation of growth, unpredictability, and the wildness of life's nature. In the predecessor story, a boy relinquished his very essence to the creatures of the forest, becoming a sanctuary embodied—a hotel shaped like a seated Buddha, replete with steps ascending to his core.

The sequel picks up under a starry night sky. A lone wolf, bathed in moonlight, emerges from the hotel. It lets out a powerful howl that echoes through the night, a call to the wild heart of the jungle. Its fur gleams, and the howl seems to beckon the unknown.

This image of the silver wolf is a symbol of the boy's evolution. Once a giver of life and shelter, he now embodies the vigor and the restless spirit of the wolf. The full moon's silver light heralds his new journey in the muted world—a world rich with life's humidity and murkiness.

And in response, the monster appears. Not unlike the creature captured in vibrant hues of red and blue in the accompanying illustration, it stands as the embodiment of life's fervor and its potential for rage. It perches upon the coils of a serpent, a spider lurking nearby under the full moon's watchful eye—a display of nature's enigmatic canvas.

It stands as a monolith to nature itself—wild, mysterious, and charged with the essence of both masculine and feminine, suggesting both imbalance and the potential for choice and transformation. It represents the maturity and untamed essence of life—a dichotomy of wildness we all possess within us.

The ensuing clash between wolf and monster, a spectacle of primal struggle, rages for hours until, exhausted, they collapse into a singular being at dawn's first light. Transformed by the sun's touch, they arise not as two, but one—a boy of twelve, at the cusp of manhood.

The convergence of boy and monster is a dance of duality: Maturing versus Nature. Their struggle, intense and exhausting, gives way to unity as the sun's rays interweave their forms into a single young soul.

With a host of animals at his side, the boy crafts a raft upon the river's edge. Together, they embark upon the water's path, collecting new companions along the way. Drifting beyond the jungle's embrace, they glimpse the city's silhouette through the mist—a beacon of the new lives that await them.

As night descends, they camp by the river's song, nourished and weary, dreaming of tomorrow. It is there, in the liminal space between the wilds they've left and the civilization that beckons, that their adventure towards the unknown continues.

Medium: Watercolor on paper

Date: 2008

My featured artwork this week is an intricate portrait that emerges from the tendrils of smoke encircling a man—myself—caught in a moment of repose and reflection. The smoky haze, with its hidden images, leads me on a journey through the valleys and peaks of creativity. At the forefront, a naked baby gargoyle floats, a symbol of the birth of my ideas, naked and unshielded.

Creativity is my subject, and it's a subject that's as much a part of me as the blood in my veins. My canvas teems with figures, 'ma and pa', their faces etched in surprise and fear—emotions I've seen mirrored in the eyes of those who've witnessed my art and life choices.

I am the 'smoking dude', the one with the four eyes representing an intense, multifaceted focus. Eyes that have seen the world through lenses of reality and imagination, and often, through the bitter sting of judgment. As a boy, when I first wove stories out of thin air, my mother's disbelief at my tales was a sharp contrast to her encouragement. "That could never happen," she'd say, but to me, everything could happen.

Years later, her words turned into a challenge: "I am never coming to see you again until I get my own book published!" Visits after that were cold, her words stinging, "You're a terrible, terrible person!" These words still echo, just as I see her, the woman in the leopard hat running and screaming across my painting—a specter of maternal expectations unmet.

Turning to the Dad figure, growing up in rural Minnesota taught me that men and art didn't mix. When I cried for the shame of having painted at fifteen, it was a cry for my spirit, fighting against the bonds of tradition. It wasn't until I donned the Army's uniform and received letters of praise from Generals that I began to accept that maybe, just maybe, it was okay to love art.

And yet, amidst the praise, there lurked a shadow—'All artists are GAY,' a whisper as condemning as any crime in the era of my youth. I fought this shadow with the same fervor with which I memorized speeches denouncing communism for the State Speech Contest, not knowing I was fighting a part of myself. For the National Methodist Temperance Society, I memorized "The Fatal Glass of Wine," a cautionary tale of a woman whose single glass of wine led to a family tragedy. The absurdity of it—her husband and children's leap, followed by her own, all for a glass of wine. Who got the rest of the bottle? That was the lingering question—unanswered, much like the misconceptions about artists that society clung to.

On the evening I sold my pictures, earning enough to sustain me indefinitely, I toasted myself as a commercial artist. But the old specter returned—was I fulfilling the prophecy that all artists must be gay? That night, with my two editors, I found myself in a bar, witnessing an intimate moment between two men. It was a crossroads of sorts, a moment where I pondered whether my art was intrinsically linked to my sexuality. "So is it true what they say?" I wondered if my success was an admission, a declaration of an identity the world assumed I had.

Yet, as the night grew older and the bar's neon lights flickered like the uncertain beat of an artist's heart, a realization dawned upon me. My art, my creativity—it wasn't a declaration of who I loved; it was a testament to how I loved. Fiercely, boldly, without boundaries. This revelation was liberating, like a canvas washed clean, ready for a new stroke of genius that would be unapologetically mine.

In that dimly lit bar, among strangers and the clink of glasses, I found a piece of my truth. I wasn't there to claim an identity forced upon me by societal stereotypes; I was there to reject the notion that my art dictated my personal life or my personal life dictated my art. The only truth that mattered was that I was an artist, and my work was a product of my soul, not my orientation. The labels that the world tried to affix to me were as transient as the smoke from my cigarette, disappearing into the air but leaving a lingering impact.

Leaving the bar that evening, the crisp night air felt like a baptism, a new beginning of sorts. It was a moment of rebirth, not into a stereotype, but into freedom. The freedom to be and create without the shadow of preconceived notions. And as I walked home, the cool breeze whispered possibilities, each step a defiance of the old fears and a stride towards an emancipated future.

Creativity, as I've learned, often comes wrapped in a shroud of shame. I think of Hermann Hesse, who abandoned his life in a picturesque town for the solitude of the Swiss mountains. "I cannot be both a burger and a fantasie Mensch," he declared. I understand his conflict intimately.

Post-Army, as a designer of stained-glass windows, I was again confronted with disdain. "What's there to design? They all look alike," my stepdad scoffed. A coworker's sneer at my aspiration to be an artist still rings in my ears: "Artist!! That's the lowest thing there is!"

But there's redemption. When an accomplished architect marveled at the nude figure in my painting, I felt vindicated. His appreciation was a balm to the wounds of years of dismissal and misunderstanding.

This painting is a mosaic of my life's journey as an artist—a journey fraught with societal scorn yet also graced with personal triumphs. It's a declaration that my creative spirit cannot be tethered by others' perceptions or my own doubts. It is an embodiment of my defiance against the narrow confines of identity and the unwavering pursuit of my art.

My journey is far from over. Like the figures within the smoke of my painting, I continue to evolve, to confront the specters of the past with the colors of the present. This evolution is my art, and my art is my legacy, my life—unfettered, unconfined, and undeniably mine.

Medium: Charcoal

Date: 1965

As the London January dawn cast its foggy cool light onto the steps of the British Museum, my army buddy Yo and I nestled into a cozy tea shoppe to wait for the museum to open.  We were on a 14-day leave from the US Army Nurnberg, 1965.  We had visited Amsterdam and now had a week in London and would be in Paris for a few days. We were right away served a pot of tea and scones.  We had an hour to wait. I was sketching everywhere we went.  I pulled out my sketchbook and pencils to sketch Yo for the first time on this trip.

The first portrait used mostly soft HB pencil, soft enough for light grays and sharp enough for details.  I worked for about forty-five minutes.  Yo was a little tired from travel.  I was the eager relentless tour guide.  Yo liked going to all the places his parents had been, but after a week in London he asked, “Who came first?  Queen Victoria or Queen Elizabeth?”  He was content to drink tea and moved very little.  He was always glad to wait while I sketched.

As the city around us stretched and yawned into life more folks came in to fill the shoppe.  This tea shoppe had a dozen tables with red and white flowered tablecloths and also matching tea-cozies.  Yo and I had never seen a tea-cozy before.  We asked for more short-bread scones with the tiny berries.  Yo was six foot four inches and weighed 250 pounds. He wore a 54-inch sized coat and had a 30-inch waist below his beer gut.  He was twice as large as me five foot three inches, 130 pounds; I was the more active.  Yo moved just as far as me but with a much longer stride.  ‘Yo’ was the army nickname for his last name ‘Johanson,’

The café was getting crowded.  The museum was getting ready to open.  I wanted to do one more sketch.   I took a 6B pencil, soft and dark not good for details, but very bold.  I did this portrait for Blog 45 in about 5 minutes.  Now as I look at it, I think it is the best sketch I ever made.  Years later three other friends whose portraits I was going to do thought this sketch was one I made of them.  They could identify themselves with his handsome verve.

Yo’s handsome features here had come alive.  His gaze was a moment of quiet reflection as the city outside was waking up we hurried across the street into the British Museum full of the treasures I had studied and really was aching to experience. Yes, I carried with me in my sketchbook the portraits of Yo, 1965, from the ephemeral beauty of our foggy London morning when we had scones and discovered the tea-cozy.  Nothing sets up my feeling for a day better than a successful drawing freshly made.  The thrill of seeing the Book of Kells and cases of Chinese pottery was deeply satisfying, things up to now I could only dream of seeing.

The museum's vast halls now welcoming us, the contrast between the silent anticipation outside and the echoing footsteps within struck me profoundly. The sketches were tucked away, but the images lingered in my mind, vivid against the backdrop of history and art that surrounded us. The halls of the British Museum were like arteries, leading us through the heart of human civilization. Each exhibit, a

whisper from the past, seemed to resonate with the energy of our morning creation, as if Yo's portrait had unlocked a deeper appreciation for the artifacts that now demanded our attention.

In the Egyptian gallery, under the watchful eyes of ancient stone gods, the connection between our simple sketches and these millennia-old relics became unexpectedly clear. Here, too, were creators who had left their marks for posterity, their stories etched in hieroglyphs carved in sandstone. As my fingers traced the glass that shielded a pharaoh's visage, I felt a kinship with those long-gone artists, a lineage of expression stretching through time. Our own morning artwork was a very humble yet living addition to this continuum, a new layer of humanity resting atop the old.

As the day unfolded and the museum filled with visitors, the intimacy of our early morning endeavor seemed to swell and blend with the collective hum of shared discovery. Each room held echoes of creativity, from the Rosetta Stone's inscribed declarations to the Elgin Marbles' still living Greek dramas. I realized then that our sketches were not merely pastime but part of a grander narrative, one that spanned across ages and civilizations. The museum, with its corridors of culture, had become a larger canvas, and our morning's work a single brushstroke within a masterpiece of collective human endeavor.

Medium: Watercolor on paper 

Date: 2023

The Enigma of the Moon Goddess: A Journey into Symbolism and Feminine Divinity

The moon has long stood as a beacon in the night sky, a symbol of mystery and a guardian of the nocturnal realm. Throughout history, various cultures have revered lunar deities, attributing to them the qualities of femininity, motherhood, and mystique. The painting "Moon Goddess" is a contemporary ode to this celestial icon, capturing the essence of the moon’s connection to the divine feminine.

Unveiling the Moon Goddess

At first glance, the painting presents a calming array of pastels, creating a soft background that feels both tranquil and otherworldly. Dominating the canvas is a central figure composed of a complex array of faces and crescent moon shapes, all interwoven into a harmonious design. The color palette is subtle, relying on muted tones to evoke a sense of peace and introspection.

Faces of the Divine Feminine

In "Moon Goddess," we see not one, but several faces. Each seems to express a different demeanor, from serene to somber, as if representing the multifaceted nature of womanhood or the various goddess archetypes that span cultures and mythologies. The presence of multiple visages invites us to ponder the complexity of the goddess's identity and her roles.

The Crescent Moon and Its Mystique

The crescent shapes adorning the painting are reminiscent of the waxing and waning phases of the moon, symbolizing growth, renewal, and the cyclical nature of life. These crescents cradle the faces, perhaps signifying protection or the nurturing aspect of the goddess.

The Abstract and the Spiritual

"Moon Goddess" leans into abstraction, freeing us from the constraints of literal interpretation. This artistic choice beckons viewers to delve into their spiritual insights, finding personal connections to the divine. Abstract art often acts as a mirror, reflecting our innermost thoughts and emotions.

The Moon Goddess in Historical Context

From Artemis to Chang'e, moon goddesses have been etched into the annals of mythology as protectors, hunters, and symbols of purity. This painting may draw inspiration from such deities or perhaps seeks to redefine or challenge traditional depictions. It stands as a testament to the enduring legacy of these celestial figures.

The Moon Goddess's Relevance Today

In contemporary society, the figure of the moon goddess has been embraced by new-age spirituality and feminist movements alike, symbolizing empowerment and the reclaiming of female space. "Moon Goddess" plays into this narrative, presenting a deity that is both timeless and timely, echoing the voices of women past, present, and future.

Personal Reflections

As we stand before the "Moon Goddess," we are compelled to reflect on our own place within the cosmos. What does the divine feminine mean to you? Do you find solace in the moon's constant presence? Or does its ever-changing nature resonate more deeply with your own life experiences?

Moreover, the "Moon Goddess" invites us to consider the role of intuition and inner wisdom in our lives. The moon is often associated with the subconscious, the tides of emotion, and the ebb and flow of our inner worlds. How does this painting speak to your own intuitive powers? Does it stir within you a lunar-like pull towards introspection or creativity? This piece challenges us not only to appreciate its beauty but to also embrace the lunar qualities within ourselves — those aspects that are powerful, cyclical, and often shrouded in mystery.

In contemplating this artwork, take a moment to acknowledge the phases of your own life, the transitions, and transformations you've experienced. Like the moon, our lives are full of phases, some bright and full, others dark and hidden. The "Moon Goddess" serves as a serene reminder that there is beauty to be found in all these phases, and that each phase brings its own form of wisdom.

Conclusion

The painting "Moon Goddess" is a cryptic composition that opens up a realm of interpretation. Its significance lies in its ability to transcend cultural boundaries, celebrating the universal allure of the moon and its goddesses. In this piece, the artist has created not just a visual spectacle, but a spiritual journey that beckons us to explore the depths of our own souls.

What does the "Moon Goddess" evoke in you? Share your thoughts and feelings in the comments below. Perhaps this discussion will inspire you to visit a gallery, seek out a painting, or explore more works that delve into the realm of the divine feminine.

Medium: Watercolor on paper

Date: 2023 

My latest art feature is not merely a static image; it is a prelude to a narrative. As the artist behind this watercolor painting, I stand at the intersection of fear and fascination, surrounded by the nagas of my creation. This artwork is a testament to the unpredictable beauty of life, a snapshot of the surprise that grips us when confronted with the unknown. It is an acknowledgment that we must trust in the journey, in the tools we are given, and in the life that pulses within us. The nagas, with their humorous eyes, beckon us to embrace the good, to be wary of the potential for harm, and to see within every surprise an opportunity for growth. This is the essence of my art, the heart of my stories, and the spirit that I hope will linger in the minds of those who gaze upon the yellow-dogface and its entwined companions.

Yellow dog face and the Naga-snakes

The art piece started with my bright yellow face surrounded by colored naga-snakes. My face is a dog’s face with big, pointed ears. When I awoke from my dream, I put down on paper the dog face. I am comfortable with dogs, and yellow is my favorite color. I added the naga-snakes one by one as I recalled each one: first, the red naga, which then grew two heads; second, half of the double black naga; then a yellow naga, which gradually became the green naga with feathers; finally, the second half of the double black naga; together, they look like a highway. Two blue nagas grew later. These nagas have fun in their eyes. The colors show various kinds of nagas.

Sacred Snake with Feathers

I wanted to depict a snake that bore the sacredness of feathers. The ancient artisans of the Hongshan culture, dating back to 4000 BCE, channeled their spiritual vision into jade carvings, rendering snakes with delicate feathered outlines. Similarly, the Aztec civilization revered the feathered serpent, a deity that soared the heavens, borne aloft by the mighty eagle. My artistic journey has been a continuous quest to capture this mythical synergy on canvas. The allure of these legendary beings is irresistible, and my devotion to their form and story remains unquenched. Within the bounds of this particular painting, I have realized my rendition of the feathered serpent, a personal milestone in my exploration of these enthralling mythical creatures.

Surprise! Naga of Technology

The gaze of the yellow dog in my painting is one of bewilderment, reflecting the shimmer of something new. There is a spark of curiosity, a glimmer of the unknown that captivates its eyes. Perhaps it's the glint of a new device, as enigmatic and alluring as a naga slithering into view. For the dog, and indeed for myself, the encounter with modern technology—a cell phone, a labyrinth of new codes, the ritual of updating passwords—is akin to stumbling upon a mythical creature. It's an unexpected marvel, a puzzle that eludes comprehension, leaving us both in a state of surprise.

In the intertwined cables that power our lives, I perceive the essence of nagas, pulsating with vitality. These serpentine forms of technology are dual-natured: they are the carriers of innovation and progress, yet they possess the potential to ensnare us in their complexity. Just as the naga can be a force of benevolence or a harbinger of malice, our technology holds a similar power. It is a testament to duality, to the polarity that defines our existence. In these lines of energy and information, we find the embodiment of potential and peril, a reflection of the nagas' dualistic spirit.

Naga Story on the Farm

The narrative of extreme energies found in my dreams, imaginations, and intuitions mirrors the dual nature of the nagas, symbolizing the profound contrasts and balances within nature and our own lives. Nagas, embodying both benevolence and malevolence, parallel the stark contrasts between my desire to feel the scorching heat of the sun and the biting cold of frozen Arctic ice. These serpentine deities encapsulate the essence of elemental forces — as unpredictable and powerful as the weather patterns of my youth.

Once on a Greyhound bus coming out of South Dakota, two men near me talked. The first said his daughter said to him, “Dad, why don’t you write some stories about your childhood?” The second replied to the thought, “I have been asked to recall my childhood, too. All I really remember is the weather. The weather is so violent, so cold in the winter. The solid snow drifts driven by particles of ice into solid masses of cement of ice. Our difficulty was to find an open road into town. The heavy rains—once 12 inches in 20 minutes. The mud where we were stuck for 5 days and when I lost my boots pulled off by the sucking mud. In the summer, the great cracks in the dry earth where I lost toys. The summer sun that grew enormous trees of corn and cockleburs and forests of these growths to run through and get lost as a child and later the cornfields to work in as a teenager and later to fill the canning factories for the corn where we worked our way through school. The weather was overwhelming always in life both great and exhausting.

Just as the conversation on the Greyhound bus reflects a man's vivid recollections of weather's extremes — from brutal winters to suffocating summers, from snow that binds to mud that traps — the naga represents life's inherent unpredictability and its capacity to shape human experience. The weather, in its ferocity and beauty, becomes a metaphor for the naga's dual aspects: its ability to bestow fertility and abundance, akin to nourishing rains and sun that coax life from the earth, or to unleash destruction, reminiscent of storms and droughts that ravage the landscape.

This story, centered around the profound impact of weather, serves as a poignant reminder of the naga's symbolic significance. It underscores the duality of existence — the constant interplay between creation and destruction, growth, and decay — and the human resilience in facing nature's vicissitudes. Just as the weather leaves an indelible mark on the memories and lives of those who endure it, the naga stands as a testament to the enduring power of nature and the spiritual reverence it commands, challenging us to find harmony within these extremes.

Naga Story in the City

My friend Nicholasa wrote stories about the diaspora of Puerto Ricans in New York City. Her books are full of people interacting in their homes, at their bodegas, scuffling, and partying in the streets. Racism, police activity, loving connections between people, and bad connections within families or with strangers were the subject of her stories. She said to me, “What are your stories about? They seem to be about nothing. Why don’t you write about people?”
I replied, “My stories are about nature, the weather, about myths of people who lived close to the earth. Nature will kill you. It can be glorious, too. This clash is what I have in my imagination. We worked on the land. Our food was from the land. Nature sometimes destroyed our food for the year. Our poverty came through the land, not, as in a city, from hiring and firing between people. My images are about the mystic connection I felt as a child with Nature. Your memories are from people.”
I see country life and city life as a dichotomy, two sides of the same thing. Nagas is the same. Nagas can symbolize the essence of life.

Nagas and the Spiritual

Why do we worship the snake? Nagas stands for a spiritual dichotomy of nature. Snakes are mysterious with their slithering movement and their ability to act quickly with a strike to what frightens them or to what they want to eat. Snakes slough off their skin and are renewed, reborn it seems. Perhaps because of their mystery and their danger to us, long ago snakes became Nagas, creatures that could bring us danger and can be worshipped to avoid this danger. In India and Southeast Asia, China, and Japan, “snake” morphed to “naga,” the spiritual snake.

Feathered Snakes

Birds have the mystery of flight and the mystery of feathers. How they soar through the sky remains a subject of awe and scientific study. How does flight work? Look at the colors and patterns the colors have. Some ancient societies did worship birds. Birds are not frightening; a bird may take our life. We are drawn to them by their mystery. We are not drawn to worship them in order to avoid the danger. Their feathers do not often appear on images of snakes. Sometimes they do. Feathered nagas can fly. They can represent what we cannot understand and what we fear, even a better reason to pray to them. Ancient civilizations did not just observe birds; they deified them, drawing connections between their flight and the divine.

Buddha and the Nagas Temple, Yangon

A spectacular temple called Buddha and the Nagas is in Yangon. It is on the map of Yangon but not on any tourist itinerary because there is another reason to venerate the naga: male erection. In the temple, sculptures of colorful men in red or blue dance happily with their erections. These guys are life-sized sculptures prancing in the audience area in front of this very large (30-40 feet tall) Buddha, which has a screen carved in teak wood standing behind it. The subject of this magnificent screen is intertwining snakes. Come to think of it, the tools of human reproduction are totally essential to our life. Outside of our bodies proper, a snake is the closest live creature in appearance to the tool we need for reproduction. We do worship our continuing life. Don’t we worship life, too?

Bible Snake

In the Bible, the snake wrapped around the tree of knowledge. Eve pays attention to the snake. The snake offers fruit from the tree to Eve. Eve accepts the snake’s offer. Eve offers this fruit to Adam. He accepts her gift. They leave the innocence of Paradise, Adam and Eve begin their family and their hard life. There is an enigmatic allure to the serpent- a creature shrouded in the duality of danger and desire. In its story, we grapple with our own vulnerabilities, the innate human tension between temptation and morality. The serpent's power, which once evoked fear, now compels a deeper understanding, perhaps even reverence, as if by honoring it, we might temper its influence over us.

Angkor Wat

At Angkor Wat in Cambodia, there are huge nagas protecting this temple. Nagas is part of this enormous holy place. Nagas on the bridges and on the terraces keep the temple safe from those who could damage the shrines, steal the wealth, and injure the holy dancers and priests.

Trust Life and Trust the Tools for Life

In my picture, the yellow dog is surprised and looks frightened. Yellow dog does not know what to do, yet he is a strong yellow and will trust life. The nagas have humor in their eyes that reflect their contained energy. Reflectively, I think of our technology today as a naga energy which can be for great good, but also can be dangerous. That dichotomy of great good with the real possibility of great negativity is the pull of attraction. This is the unconscious draw of the nagas in my pictures.

As these narrative winds to its close, we reflect on the dichotomy that the naga embodies. These creatures, be they of myth, earth, or technology, represent the dual nature of existence. They symbolize the ever-present balance between creation and destruction, between the nurturing warmth of the sun and the biting cold of the Arctic ice. The tales spun within the confines of a Greyhound bus, or the bustling streets of New York City are not just stories; they are the essence of life's perpetual dance, a dance where every step is a moment of living, every movement a note in the symphony of our days.

The journey through the landscapes of sacred snakes, feathered serpents, and technological marvels culminates in an understanding that life, in all its forms, is a force to be revered and respected. In temples and texts, through the lenses of cultures spanning continents and eras, we find reverence for life's tools, be they biological or spiritual. The snake by the tree of knowledge, the naga on the temple bridge, they are more than symbols; they are reminders of our intrinsic connection to the world around us, of the power that lies in renewal, transformation, and the continual cycle of rebirth.