Artist. Nerd. Do-gooder.
I’ve been making art for as long as anyone remembers.
I suspect my mother remembers a day of particular exasperation in the 1980s when my spin art project in the laundry room endangered a number of my father’s dress shirts. She’s also certain to remember my first large site-specific installation piece (because she has reminded me and memorialized the image), a self-portrait, perhaps, drawn brilliantly on my bedroom wall in the late 1970s. So at least that long.
I made it through art school in the 1990s (not sure I’d recommend the process to the average tender-hearted human).
I’ve spent the last 20 years spending a questionable amount of money on rent due to needing a place to put all my collected paint, collage items (I *might* need that someday), old dictionaries, pieces of wood, electric griddle, empty cat food cans, etc. And sometimes I have managed to make art in those spaces too.
The last couple of years have brought the wild disruption off-handedly referred to as a mid-life crisis to those who’ve clearly not yet had one. Mine has involved upheaval of relationships, work, home and health. It has been intense, and it’s brought me deeper into my art than ever before.