It was nothing more than an obstacle.
The building I had circled on my bike for two summers was a wide and squat granite temple, sitting on the edge of Delaware Lake in Buffalo. It loomed there with its’ columns and fountain, and was surrounded by finely manicured lawns which were perfect for rolling around on, lying in the sun, or dreaming.
The Albright-Knox Art Gallery housed a collection which was ninety-five percent abstract. Inside were white walls and the masters of modernism displayed with a reverence I had seen only in churches. I was allowed to wander alone among the most bizarre objects I had ever seen, and spent much of that summer in those rooms, trying to decipher the strange mysteries on the walls. The tortured images mirrored life outside, and yet somehow, contained all that chaos within a quiet space on the wall.
Communication, as such, is often limited to an expressible idea, but there is so much in human experience that can only be felt or conveyed by an eloquent gesture or symbolic act. We turn to symbols when words fail, and for experiences which have eluded description: the nature of God; the forces which shape and sustain the earth; miraculous occurrences which have fueled the history of myth and fable; and rituals which have given our daily existence a richness and mystery.
I believe that a painting which is thoughtful and well-crafted will never be discarded and will eventually find its’ way to the light.
My hope is that someone will find solace and inspiration in the work that I have made, and that this exchange may dissipate some of the fog that surrounds our daily existence, as it did for me.