World of Skwibo

The Mount Lemmon Series

2011-12-18T20:09:00.000-08:00

When I first arrived here in southern Arizona and began looking at the wildlife around me, I was struck by the layout of the landscape. Back in the Northeast, when I look into the wilderness, what I see is trees upon trees up on trees. The picture I see is like a symphony of flora as far as the eye can see. Here in the Sonoran desert, everything is farther apart. Rather than the rolling hills of Massachusetts, the mountains are rugged islands in a sea of sand and scrub brush.

What I really enjoy about the plants here (besides the fact that they are all pointy and want to kill you) is that they are spaced far apart like exhibits in a museum. As I hike along I'll see one mesquite tree standing out in the brush. Then a few steps farther a barrel cactus, then a small collection of cholla, and a ridge lined with Saguaros.

When I began the Mount Lemmon series, I wanted to capture this aesthetic, setting the subject of each painting against a simple abstracted background. Here are the first three of these paintings. They are very different from a lot of my other work. My aim is to show you how I see the Sonoran desert with my Northeastern eyes.

The Ed Burke Memorial Scratch Ticket

2010-12-24T12:14:00.000-08:00

I feel like everybody has an eccentric Uncle Ed. Mine was much shorter than yours. His small stature earned him the nickname “Ducky” as he could be found waddling from his lifelong home on Vernon Hill in Worcester, Massachusetts to downtown Worcester every day until shortly before he died. A daily 5 mile walking regimen likely accounted for the fact that he lived to be in his late 80’s despite several bypass surgeries.
Every day Ed would walk from his three-decker to the same newsstand in Worcester and spend the morning scratching lottery tickets. Then he would have lunch at a local diner and flirt with the waitress who was fifty years his junior. After lunch Ed would walk to the mall and read the paper at CVS (which he never bought) and read a book at the book store. He read a couple a chapters, then marked the page and returned the book to the shelf so he could continue the next day. After a quick nap in one of the comfy chairs, he began the trek home. On the way home Ed would stop at the Lithuanian-American Veteran’s club (he was 100% Irish) for a whiskey and a cigar. According to barroom lore, he stood the entire time because the stools were too high for him.
As a child Ed was my favorite uncle. Most of my relatives insisted that I earn every dollar that I receive, but Ed was happy to slip me ten and sometimes twenty dollars when my folks weren’t looking. He taught me the loaded handshake, where I could receive money right in front of my mother without alerting her to my newfound fortune. This was crucial since if we were caught, the money would disappear into a mysterious savings account that I still haven’t found. I hope that one day this skill will allow me to effectively receive bribes from people.
One holiday tradition in my family is to scratch lottery tickets between the main course and dessert. This was started by Uncle Ed who always came to dinner (and anywhere else) with pockets full of scratch tickets. We all chose one ticket and scratched away. Everyone had their turn winning money from these scratch tickets. Except me. I would lose every time. My relatives doubted my ability to understand the rules of the games ad would check the tickets, but eventually came to the conclusion that I was not cut out for the Massachusetts State Lottery.
I also liked that Ed was the first relative that I was taller than. I assumed that since I was as tall as an adult, I was pretty close to being an adult myself. Ed, at five foot one, allowed me this privilege at the age of 8. This was great because I felt I’d be a much better adult that a kid anyways. He was also responsible for my unfortunate sense of humor. He always listened patiently while I spouted off puns to him for an hour at a time over the phone when I was a little kid. And he inspired me in return with Limericks (and cash) with every holiday card I received. Incidentally, I also learned sleight of hand removing the cash from these cards under the watchful eyes of my mother.
The last summer I really got to spend time with my Uncle Ed was the summer of 1996. I was home from college and decided that I would go to church with Ed on Sundays in order to spend quality time with him. During the sermons Ed would take out a pile of scratch tickets from his pocket and scratch away. If he did not win, Ed tucked the losing ticket into the hymnal. When I first saw this, I laughed and asked Ed what his was doing. “I making them into winners,” he said.
After church, we would head over to the diner for bacon and eggs. This is where Ed taught me to love black coffee. He explained that if you drank coffee black, you never had to buy milk or sugar. This was a handy tip during the lean years of my early 20’s. He also taught me to flirt with diner waitresses.
Eventually, all good things must come to an end and Ed succumbed to old age. I came home for the wake and funeral. At the wake I sat next to my Uncle Bob, a Marine in World War II and he started talking to me about Ed. I knew that Ed was in the Navy, but Bob told me that Ed joined the Navy without knowing how to swim. He was made a Submariner which worked out well since he could not swim and could fit easily into the cramped quarters aboard a submarine. Bob told me that Ed’s submarine was following a Japanese warship into Tokyo harbor accidentally and was trapped for several hours under Tokyo harbor until they could follow a ship back out.
The next day, the priest delivered a disappointing eulogy remembering Ed as a man of faith, but missing all the things that made him hilarious. After the service, I walked over to the general area where Ed sat on Sundays. I opened the hymnals and found about a dozen losing lottery tickets throughout the books. The family got together at Ed’s favorite non-diner restaurant after the funeral. On the way there, I thought it would be a nice gesture if I bought scratch tickets for the whole family in Ed’s honor. I brought the scratch tickets to dinner and passed them out after the main course, as was the tradition. Silently, everyone scratched the silver goop off of the tickets and examined the numbers beneath. One by one each member of the family put their tickets down in defeat. Except me. I won $50 with my Ed Burke Memorial Scratch Ticket. I like to think that from beyond the grave, I received one last loaded handshake from my favorite diminutive uncle.

The Perfection Guild

2010-05-31T18:23:00.000-07:00

This story is fictional. Any similarity to real people or hangovers is purely coincidental.

The Perfection Guild

James woke up in a strange apartment with his face stuck to a dirty Persian rug and decided that it was time for a change. He had a vague recollection of coming to this apartment with a small group of people after the bar they were at shut down for the night. When he looked around he saw a heap of sleeping human on the tattered loveseat next to him. From another room, he heard a shower running. James realized that he had no desire to face these people this morning and tried to stand up. When he did a wave of sublime pain filled his head and he had to sit back down. He looked at the sofa and realized that there were two people sleeping there. One was a young woman, maybe 20 years old whose skirt was stuck just below her waist, revealing her ample bottom. Out of modesty he tried not to look. She was wrapped up in an unfamiliar bearded man. The shower suddenly stopped and James heard someone step out of the tub. This gave him an extra push to leave. He stood up with pained determination and exited the apartment just as the bathroom door opened.

James walked down the stairs and passed by an elderly woman standing in the door of her apartment. He nodded a greeting at her and she shook her head sadly. This suddenly filled James with an irrational shame. He thought back to the night before and analyzed each part bit by bit. He hadn't really done anything wrong except drink a bit too much but was still filled with a sense of guilt at the sight of the disapproving old woman. James left the building and was on a sunny sidewalk in Manhattan's East Village. His hangover made the world seem a little distorted and there was a terrible taste in his mouth, but he was happy to have the day off from work. He left the apartment behind and began his day.

The sidewalks were filled with happy couples pushing expensive strollers to brunch. James wondered what the secret to their contentment was. They were fit and smiling. Many of them seemed to be having important conversations on their cell phones. What kind of jobs did they have? How could James get one? What was wrong with James that he was just a cashier with a college degree, barely able to afford his rent? Why did James feel so horrible on this Sunday morning while all those people seemed so pleased with themselves?

Next James stopped at a cafe to use the restroom. He washed his hands and looked in the mirror at himself. Lines that weren't normally evident stood out on his face and purplish circles appeared under his eyes. It felt like a preview of middle age. He scrubbed his face to see if the face in the mirror would become more familiar. Then he wet his hair so that it would lie down on his head. It was getting rather shaggy and needed to be cut. When unkempt, James could tell that his hairline was beginning to retreat. James decided that as an act of renewal he would get a haircut.

Upon leaving the cafe James turned off the avenue onto a narrower street lined with staircases and small shops. It was almost identical to the surrounding streets, but there was something intangible that drew him to it. Maybe it was a little cleaner, maybe it was slightly quieter. There was a pleasant smell in the air, and the sound of piano music drifted from an apartment window. He followed the music which seemed like some sort of practice piece made up of simple scales, but it was played exquisitely. James found himself passing a barber shop and remembering his decision to get a haircut, he walked through the door.

The barber was seated in a chair and seemed to be in some sort of meditative state as James entered. When he was finished with his thought, he looked slowly up at James. The barber examined James carefully before saying anything. James was frozen by the man's stare. The barber looked at James from beneath huge eyebrows and heavy lids. He had dark, active eyes which seemed to collect everything they looked at. Then the man flexed his hands and said simply, "Haircut?"

James was broken from his trance and said, "Uh...yeah. Just a trim really, I guess maybe a little bit off the..."

"You look terrible," the barber interrupted, "Go to the Cafe across the street and drink a cup of coffee. I think you'll find the coffee there to be very good. You will feel better after you drink it. Then come back to see me. I'll be ready then."

The Barber's expression compelled James to follow his instructions. But as he exited the barber shop, he realized just how bizarre the situation was. He thought about going home and taking a nap, but stopped when he looked back into the barber shop and saw the old man staring at him. James crossed the street and took a seat by the window at the cafe.

From his perch James watched the old man hone his scissors carefully, and then oil them. He examined his comb, closed his eyes and took a deep breath. James thought he saw the barber performing hand exercises when his coffee was delivered. "Smells good," he said to the waitress.

"It's perfect," she said firmly then flashed a friendly smile and walked away.

Sure enough the coffee was perfect. For the first time James was able to discern the subtle complexities of flavor that TV commercials advertised and epicureans droned on about. Suddenly his head ceased to hurt and his thinking became fluid. He was now ready for his haircut.

One interesting thing about a haircut is that it is difficult to leave in the middle of one. You can walk out of a movie or play and not feel too bad, but our vanity makes us a prisoner in the chair of a barber. James realized this after the first hour of his haircut. Up until that point the barber shop was completely silent with the exception of the mechanical squeaking of the scissors. The old man didn't stop the scissors once during the entire process, yet things were progressing very, very slowly.

"So, is this going to take much longer?" asked James. His voice shocked him as it disturbed the perfect silence. There was a noticeable absence of usual barber banter.

"You can leave now if you like," said the barber sternly. James was a prisoner in the barbershop chair.

"No, no it's okay."

"You'll see it's better than okay."

"Okay."

"Was last night unusual for you?" asked the barber casually.

"Excuse me?" exclaimed a surprised James.

"Don't move your head. I move it for you. Do you often drink like that?"

"I suppose every once in a while. Maybe once or twice a week."

"Why?"

Not even the coffee had prepared James for this line of questioning.

"I don't know, why not?"

"Does it make you feel good?"

"No, not really."

"But you had a really good time last night."

"Not particularly."

"Then why?"

James had no answer. He wanted to get defensive but was afraid of what the barber would do to his head. The barber grabbed James firmly by the chin and positioned his head in an unexpectedly comfortable position.

"Do you drink to escape?"

"What do you have against drinking? Don't you ever partake? Are you a recovering alcoholic?"

"I drink sometimes, but I never smell like you do right now. Hold still!"

"I don't know. I guess after a week of work, I just like to let my hair down. You must do the same, in some way."

"I do celebrate each completed day with a bit of grappa. But, my weeks don't end. I work every day."

"Oh man, I'm sorry. That must be tough. New York rents and all."

"No. I own this place; the whole building as a matter of fact. I just don't believe in weeks ending. The secret is to make your living at something that you don't want a break from. For me it's cutting hair. I cut the hair of Senators. Since televised debates began, I've helped decide elections. Business men pay me fortunes to cut their hair before board meetings."

"Wow. Then why do you have this little shop?"

"I like cutting hair. Not every politician or robber baron deserves a good haircut. It gives me a place to work with everybody."

"And you deemed me worthy for a good haircut."

"You're different. It's not that you're worthy of a good haircut, it's that you needed one."

The barber pulled James' head into another ergonomically correct position. James looked for a clock. The time was now slipping by very quickly as the old man painstakingly cut his hair. The scissors never ceased their quiet squeaking and clicking. James seemed to feel individual sections of strands of hair fall away from his head. The shadows outside had visibly shifted and James stomach began to make angry noises.

"Perfection takes time James," the barber scolded. "James, did you like that coffee you had earlier?"

"Yes. It was great actually...it was..."

"Perfect."

Squeak click squeak click squeak click.

Silence.

"James. You drink to escape from a life that you find uninspiring. I was once like you. Then an old man introduced me to Perfection. He was a short order cook who made the best food I've ever eaten. It was perfect. Always. Like you, I assumed that he must hate his job. But he showed me that he loved it through the food he made. I ordered breakfast and didn't receive it until one in the afternoon. But, when it was served, it changed my life. I grew up cutting the hair of my 8 brothers and sisters. I liked it a lot but grew up and got a job at an ink factory. It was miserable work and I wanted to escape just like you want to escape from your job. I was on a path of destruction, the booze, the girls, the emptiness...but then that short order cook explained to me this lifestyle.

"I gave up everything and devoted my life to cutting hair. I sold all of the furniture in my apartment and bought a barber's chair. I invited my friends over and I cut their hair for free, but eventually they began to find me strange. After a while they stopped hanging around me…or maybe I stopped hanging around them. I went back to the cook and while he was making a perfect milkshake for me he explained that the road was difficult and sometimes lonely. Then he pointed at an empty shop across the street from his diner. It was this shop. The previous tenant moved out and he had arranged for me to have the shop. So, I quit my job and moved my barber's chair into the shop.

"Business was brisk as word spread quickly about my skills as a barber. The other people in the neighborhood were very supportive. Eventually I stopped seeing my old friends all together. But I never felt lonely because of the other shop owners and because I concentrated on my work. I became better and better, but was never satisfied. I began to lose customers because as I reached harder and harder for perfection, my haircuts took more time. But as the number of customers declined, the ones I kept were all important people...artists, captains of business, great scholars, statesmen...

"I was still a young man at the time and while my work consumed me, I still could be swayed by a pretty face. One day a senator's daughter walked into the shop looking for her father while he was getting a haircut. He still had about three hours left to his haircut. What impressed me was that she sat and watched the whole thing. She studied me while I worked and talked with her father. She even offered to get me coffee, though I declined because it makes my hands shake. By the end of those three hours, I was smitten.

"When we went out on our first date, the florist from down the block made me a bouquet of flowers from her private greenhouse behind her shop. It was made up of both the rarest orchids and the most common flowers in the city. But they were arranged perfectly. I brought her to the restaurant two doors down where we were served tasting menus which amounted to a symphony of tastes and textures combining foods which the average person could not imagine placing together, but each dish was simple with the freshest ingredients. During the meal, the pianist who lives above the cafe improvised exquisite music which transcended all genres. The tempo and melody changed with each course, providing a perfect soundtrack to our conversation.

"We were married six weeks later."

"To a Senator's daughter?"

"To Jill. Hold your head still."

"Was Jill perfect?"

"Jill was perfect to me. But my peculiar lifestyle wore on her. At first she was content to sit in my shop with me and to watch me work. But, because I don't talk when I work she became frustrated. At night I went home and was still thinking about the haircuts of that day and the haircuts I would give the next day. I had no stories to share with her. She became bored. The one vacation I took with her, I brought her to Buenos Aires with me to cut the president's hair. She wanted to go to the beach, but I got caught up giving haircut after haircut for days on end to prominent Argentines. She finally blew up at me and screamed at me in the middle of a haircut. Startled, I almost made a mistake, and I looked at her in such a way that she got on the next plane back to New York. We were divorced soon after.

"When I returned, the other shopkeepers were waiting for me outside of my shop. They took me to the cafe across the street and we opened a bottle of grappa. Each person took their turn telling me a similar story. They also told me stories of other people who had stopped working on the street because they fell in love and didn't want to sacrifice that for this lifestyle. I found that these people are my family. We take care of each other and keep each other company at the end of the day. We are the Perfection Guild."

James had nothing to say after this unbelievable story. He remained silent for the last hour of his haircut. And sure enough, when it was finished, it was perfect. Before he could reach into his pocket to pay the Barber, the man asked, "There is no charge for this haircut. Just go home and think about what you want from life. Maybe you have a passion that you want to commit yourself to. Maybe you don't. Just think about it."

"I can't think of anything that moves me that much." said James with a tremolo of shame in his voice.

James stumbled out onto the street, made clumsy by his hangover or the profound state of thought the conversation with the barber put him in. When he got to the next avenue, he turned out of the cruel sunshine into the soothing darkness of an open bar. The shame and nagging search for purpose that had plagued James earlier that day melted into relief that he was not cursed with the desire for Perfection.

$21 a Month

2010-05-18T22:18:00.000-07:00

I don’t like to think of myself as someone who is easily manipulated by marketing. Advertisements normally don’t even register with me. But one day about two years ago, a few well chosen words would make me part with just over $21 every month for the last two years. It came in the form of a guilt trip and it went something like this. “If you feel that National Public Radio is a part of your life then don’t you think that you are a terrible bastard if you don’t give us some money?”

I’m paraphrasing of course, but one of those famous pleas from public radio station WNYC in New York City really hit home for me. This is because, the more I thought about it, public radio was a part of my life. Nothing was more soothing than waking up in a Sunday haze and turning on the radio to hear soothing voices provide the news about the media. I lived in a four room railroad apartment at the time and positioned a radio at either end of the dwelling so that I could wander freely around, puttering while listening to the deeply nerdy and hilarious game show “Wait Wait Don’t Tell Me!” During the times when I left my day job in favor of a life tending bar, trying to scrape together a career in fine arts and loafing, WNYC would keep me company as Brian Lehrer kept me up on the news in New York, the City I loved so deeply. Saterius Johnson woke me up every morning. How many people can say someone named Saterius wakes them up? Nine million.

But that wasn’t enough to make me call the station and hand over my credit card number. I was sure that plenty of other people, richer than I were reaching for their wallets and pocketbooks to support public radio. Hmmm…public radio. I began to think of my introduction to jazz.

I did a little radio myself back in college. The show I’m most proud of was my stint on a show called the Jazz Oasis. I learned to love jazz when I was in high school. There was a DJ named Eric in the Evening on WGBH in Boston who provided a solid base of knowledge. I was searching through the lower part of the radio dial for a college radio station because I was an angsty teenage product of the nineties. Then from out of the static and Spanish language stations I heard a heavenly voice singing. “Who is this guy?” I asked the radio, transfixed by that voice. “That was Nina Simone,” answered Eric in the Evening.

After that, every night I would sit in my dimly lit kitchen, drinking hot cocoa and thinking profound thoughts about my angst, my future as a film maker and my haircut. All the while I would listen to Eric in the Evening give me an education on Miles Davis, John Coltrane, Billie Holiday, Nat Adderly, and living legends like Chick Corea and Wynton Marsalis. I would go on to ask Eric in the Evening for an internship while I was in college. He politely declined several times. But I was persistent. And he continued to decline. But, even though I never got to work for Eric in the Evening, he provided me with an education that I am grateful for to this day.

I reached for my wallet and thought, “Well, I guess I can spare a few bucks to honor Eric Jackson and the years of jazz tutelage and angst reduction he gave me.” But, I still wasn’t ready. It’s tough to get me to spend money on something that I can’t eat or drink. I didn’t even own a couch because I figured “Why spend money on a couch when I have a perfectly nice, free chair to sit on.”

Then I sat in my free chair and began the reminisce more about public radio. I remembered when I really fell in love with the radio. It was at a time when I was commuting an hour to Boston everyday in my swanky ’89 Cutlass Calais. At this time I had a girlfriend in Vermont whose hippie house I would drive to on Saturdays after work. It was before Christmas and I was on my way for a visit to the Green Mountain State. I forgot to bring cassette tapes with me for the trip and I started looking for something on the radio. Once I was out of range of the Boston rock stations and I desperately searched for some entertainment. For some reason I stopped when I heard a slightly nasal, but ultimately soothing voice telling a story. It was the story of a man working at a department store as an elf during Christmas and it was hilarious. I don’t know what made me stop to listen to a guy talking on the radio, but it changed my life; slightly, but still changed. I don’t know if I ever had a better time driving than that night, released from my own department store job, looking forward to Christmas, driving to see my girlfriend who I was crazy about and being introduced to David Sedaris on the radio.

The love affair with the radio intensified during that period. I listened to the news every morning on my way to work. I listened to commentary on the news on the way back to work. And then on the weekends! Driving for two and a half hours to White River junction, marking time with public radio. When I hit Route 93, A Prairie Home Companion would start and somehow Garrison Keillor’s voice would keep me awake all the way to Route 91 in Vermont. The reception would start to go at that point, but I could find Mr. Keillor’s folksy banter again if I turned the dial just a little to the left when I passed the Saw Mill Road exit. Soon, as I approached the power plant on the right side of the road, a hippie woman took Garrison Keillor’s place, and kept me informed of all things New Age. I wasn’t so much into anything New Age, but would pull my window open (it didn’t roll down) to smoke a cigarette, knowing that soon I would be amongst friends and more importantly, girlfriend. I don’t have that car, or that girlfriend anymore. The girlfriend is married to a great guy and the car is probably siding on someone’s house or perhaps a soda can. I do still listen to David Sedaris on public radio though. I’m not saying that David Sedaris is always there for me, but public radio is.

So I reached into my wallet and called WNYC. I made my recurring pledge of $21 a month. They sent me a CD of radio programming that I could have listened to on the internet anyways. But, even today, I have not cancelled my recurring pledge. In all fairness, I should be contributing to my local NPR station, but I still contribute to WNYC; maybe in hopes that WNYC will be my station again one day. In the mean time, I have traded Saterius Johnson for Bill Buckmaster, who has an equally cool name but provides me with slightly less exciting local news here in the desert of Arizona.

One Year Out

2010-03-22T05:40:00.000-07:00

It's been just over a year since I ran away from home and joined the Army and I'm still glad I've done so. But putting myself into this very different new role has been a great tool for examination of my past and present life.

I tend to withdraw into an acetic lifestyle now that I'm in service. I follow any rules compulsively and focus mainly on self improvement in my field.

But, more and more I find myself drawn towards my past life as a semi bohemian painter and intellectual (?), Whenever I find an architecture magazine, listen to NPR, or get into a conversation having to do with art or music I'm transported back to life before Army. I had many sleepless nights recently in a war zone after looking through a New York Magazine sent from home wondering who I really am. I love the Army and all the things I'm learning here, but I get angry every time I see a painting on television because I'm not making paintings anymore.

I realize now that if I hope to maintain my sanity throughout this radical upheaval of lifestyle I'm going to have to find some way to reconcile the soldier and the artist. Could it be that I can actually combine self discipline and creativity?

I suppose that a lot of people in their 30's face exactly this crisis, not necessarily with two radically different lifestyles. To transform from the consummate party guy to the concerned husband or father or to change from an intellectual drifter to committed careerist is not all that unusual. I guess it's just time for me to make that transition, only in my own unique way.

The Artist in Exile

2009-10-04T20:36:00.000-07:00

If you love a city, set it free.

After a long existential struggle with myself about life in general and my place in it, I packed up (or rather gave away) all of my stuff and embarked upon a new life outside of New York. It wasn’t so much that I couldn’t make it in New York financially or that the stress did me in. I just felt I didn’t really know what I was doing there. So, I quit my job and joined the Army. In retrospect, I probably should have just taken a vacation. But rash decisions were always a specialty of mine and now I must live with the consequences. I now have a three year contract and no longer have the option to do anything else. It’s sort of like breaking up with someone, then realizing that it was probably not a great idea and you should have just worked through some minor problem or gotten over whatever personal hang-ups were keeping you from being happy. If you want to extend the metaphor it’s like leaving the love of your life for an intriguing new woman who teaches you about a side of yourself that you never explored before.

You always pine for the love of your life.

So, I’m writing this blog not as a catalog of my experiences in the Army. I’ll never write about where I am or what I’m doing. There will be no cool war stories. I will write letters to my old way of life hoping to keep in touch so that I’ll be able to go back one day. They say that you can never go home again. But then again maybe you can if you never technically left because you left part of yourself there.

My Spirit Animal

2008-08-28T10:28:00.000-07:00

I think Julian Schnabel might be my spirit animal. It wasn’t a shamanic experience that gave me that impression; just a series of events that led me to draw some kind of strange inspiration from a celebrity artist who I know little about.

It started years ago when I first declared myself an artist. I rented his film “Basquiat.” I knew nothing about the 1980’s art scene or much of anything else to do with art. I knew that I liked to paint with the same recklessness Schnabel captures in his film. Sadly, it was falling from this innocent recklessness that led me to become bored with my own artwork over the years and led to my current indefinite sabbatical. It was the first act of that movie that led me to give a bunch of slides and an arrogant letter to Bruno Bischofberger, who surprisingly never got back to me.

Over the years I learned more about Jean Michel Basquiat as a result of that film, but it wasn’t until years later that I tried to figure out who this “Julian Schnabel” was. Art students talked about him at parties and largely derided him. This piqued my interest because they were largely douche bags. I went out and bought a monograph of his and found myself inspired. His painting was just the kind of work I wanted to do; big, bold and wildly unacademic. Pretentious art students be damned.

Then last Spring I was helping a customer carry a large antique ladder to his house and he pointed out Schnabel’s building, the Palazzo Chupi. I had already been amazed by the building. It is easily my second favorite building in New York City. It’s a welcome counterpoint to the ugly glass buildings on the West Side Highway.

Then there was the great interview I heard soon after that on NPR. And finally I actually got to meet the guy in my shop. In accordance with my own personal code of professional decorum, I pretended to have no idea who he was, but was very pleased to see that the rumors I heard about him hanging around in pajamas were true.

Now, I refuse to call anyone a hero. But a guy who makes millions off his own rampant creativity, builds the greatest apartment building I’ve ever seen despite criticism, treats humble furniture salesmen with respect and hangs around in his pajamas all day? That guy’s my spirit animal.

The Lost Works

2008-08-28T08:49:00.000-07:00

Over the years I've sold many paintings, given a few too many away and in rare cases lost them. Here is a public record of the lost works.

1. Hot Cuppa Zuppa - This was my very first large scale acrylic painting. It was an expressionist view of the interior of a cafe mostly in red. It was canvas stretched over a large piece of a crate. I liked it. My roommate wanted me to get it out of the way of the TV but I didn't know where to put it as space was at a premium in that apartment. Anyways, one New Years eve many moons ago, a girl I was dating offered to store it in her studio for me. I was delighted and carried it to her car ,kissed her good night and went to sleep.

I called once to ask her out for dinner. A week later, I called again to ask for the painting back. Another week later, I called one last time to see if she'd just leave the painting somewhere I could pick it up.

I never heard from her again.

2. Untitled - Acrylic on paper. I sold this one to a woman named Katie in Boston. Two weeks later it was stolen off her wall. It was kind of a saccharine painting of two people intertwined. In a way, it was an honor that someone would blatantly steal one of my paintings. Mostly, I'm pissed because Katie paid for it and got screwed in the deal.

3. Nude Reclining - This was HUGE. It was a larger than life sized Matisse-esque pink nude laying on a striped comforter. It really flowed. I loved it. But, after it was saved from an apartment fire I gave it to neighbor to donate to the Dance Complex in Central Square Cambridge for a fundraiser auction. Months later I asked about the painting and she said "Oh, yeah. I don't know what happened to that."

4. The Berlin Paintings - I put up 3 paintings at a shoe store in Berlin. I left Berlin suddenly and left the paintings in the care of an English student named Lindsay. I actually arranged for her to remain in Berlin as a "Working Student" by writing to her professor and telling him that I was a professional artist and she was my dealer. When I got back to the states, I asked her how things were going with the paintings. She told me she gave them away to people she met.

There are probably more. But these are the ones I remember . I learned valuable lessons from these paintings. Mostly, "Don't trust people with your paintings."

Q: What the hell is a Skwibo?

2008-06-20T10:01:00.000-07:00

A: Skwibo was a misheard song lyric from a Red Hot Chili Peppers song. Somehow it became a nickname of sorts. Eventually I named the company under which I legally sell paintings Skwibo Arts. So Skwibo is part Ziggy Stardust, part Citibank.