Biography

Ever since graduating from art school, I was determined to dedicate my life to painting.  As an actual profession.  It seemed like a noble pursuit at the time.  To make a living out of nothing but my own 2 hands and guts. I thought if I just kept at it, painting any chance I got. And if I stayed true to myself and could keep the naysayers at bay.  One day I will be able to stop all those trivial jobs I had to do simply to survive and could focus 110% of my time solely on my art. Leave behind some good honest work while bringing some joy to this world. And I was, in fact, slowly but surely, establishing myself as an actual artist in NYC. Culminating with my acceptance into the Salmagundi Art Club. The oldest such club in the country. Housed in a beautiful Brownstone building just off Washington Square Park in Greenwich Village.

I was born in East Hartford CT, grew up in Springfield MA, and became a man in the Pioneer Valley.  Currently residing in Holyoke MA.  I am a Connecticut River Valley Rat, through and through.  I went up the river after college, for a job working in an embroidery shop, And all the way down the river to NYC (via the CT Sound). I have been working and living within 10 miles of the Mighty CT. not counting college, for 40 out of my 51 years. I did just about 10 years in New York City, from 1999-2009.  First as a butcher on the Upper Upper West Side then to the Metropolitan Museum of Art before moving back to WMass after suffering a crippling injury. I knew exactly one person in the City when I moved to Downtown Brooklyn that hot fall day, and as it turned out, that one guy knew just about everyone. After losing the loft apartment on Flatbush and Atlantic, we ended up over at this mouse infested place claiming to be in Williamsburg. Then up to a second floor studio apartment on 125th St in Harlem, shedding my roommates this time. I was now able to ride my bike to work at the Food Emporium, going down Malcolm X Bvld. to Central Park then to whichever emporium I was needed at. Sometimes as far as 14th St. As it turned out I had a good friend Rodney from work who just so happened to have grown up with the Cats always hanging out on this building’s stoop. I’m pretty sure that is the reason I was able to go unscathed like I did, he vouched for me I suspect. That, and I was mistakingly taken for the Fuzz all the time. I’d hear “hi ya copper” all the time walking down the street. This was 2001, and Harlem was still Harlem. Not the gentrified version that it is now. It was easy to see just how quickly it was all disappearing. All kinds of renovating, money pouring in, entire blocks of brownstones being renovated like on Marcus Garvey Park. But it was still with the carpets full of stolen goods out front, a Jamaican juice joint right across the street and abandoned blocks and burnt out buildings, with dealers and wheelers all around (great bike shop just next door in this repurposed storage container). This was my first time of living without roommates. It was wild and noisy and I truly felt alive. It’s not by mistake that I do not have one single photograph of my time there.

My first exposure to serious art came in the 5th grade, Brookings Elementary in Springfield.  Miss Brown taught Calligraphy, and once a week we would put away the books and take out ink and paper.  Well, I just loved it!  No reading, no memorizing, no thinking.  We’d spend just about the entire hour doing a certain squiggle, over and over, row by row.   Concentrating to get the angle just right.  Falling into a kind of meditative trance of sorts. Not worrying about anything else that was going on in my life, like my abusive older brothers, or my absentee parents, or that English test coming up.  And Miss Brown was a no nonsense kind of lady during this time, this was no romper room art class, if you talked during the class you had to do your exercises at the chalkboard, with this special rig she made for the chalk, cleaning up the board afterwards. And why do you think I remember that fun fact? Brookings Elementary also brought in a guest artist that year to give a presentation to the whole school, this artist did some really beautiful charcoal drawings of black and white hands all intermingled like, all in different positions. It was saying a lot without saying a word, powerful stuff.

Back then graffiti was really popular in Springfield, I would “grafittize” all my brown paper book covers with lots of doodling and text.  Using the names of my favorite bands, favorite sports team, a little Calvin and Hobbs, and my name, as material, over and over. .Using the latest paint markers.  And with graffiti, the one thing that stood out to me, is that you had to have your own style.  That was critical.  So whenever I would do my name I tried to be the most stylish and dope freshest. I can not lay claim to have ever “tagged” a wall with spray paint.  I was more of the bathroom stall kind of vandal, with a black sharpie marker spewing out prose and art to the unsuspected user.

When it came time for college I was ill prepared.  I had no clue. Everybody else was going and I figured I didn’t want to miss out. Not being a very good student and limited funds, l was left with little options  Art School being one of them. Unfortunately, I had no real kind of portfolio to speak of, so I applied to the one art college that didn’t ask for one, the Southeastern Massachusetts U.  Turns out SMU had a great art school, with heavy enrollment and their own building and by my fifth year I was a pretty serious artist.  Being well versed in the traditional studio arts of drawing, painting, typography.  Working in my very own studio come senior year, in the old mills of New Bedford. It was great! But It is out of sheer Gaelic stubbornness and an inner belief that I continue to paint today, and will continue to paint to my dying day.

Exhibiting in a Group Show at the Manhattans Borough Presidents Office commemorating those senseless destruction that happened just down the street was a real honor for me.  I was living in Harlem on that day, still asleep at the time when the planes hit.   I had that day off normally and went out the night before, getting soaked I remember, the night of September the10th, with a torrential rain storm and crazy intense lighting.  Looking back on it, that storm felt evil, standing outside the bar smoking a cig, taking it all in. And then waking to Stern screaming something about planes crashing into the Twin Towers and that we’re under attack?!  Going downstairs after talking to me Ma, and looking south down Malcolm X Bvld. at 125th, and seeing the smoke.   And the quietness, and the look on everyones faces. And the next day, biking to work like I normally did, except this time there was empty streets. And the next day with “Missing Person” posters up everywhere so I could see their faces and their names.     

New York City was such a special time for me and I am thankful to have been able to experience NYC for a couple of years before 9/11 with a roommate who knew the city really well. Then being able to work at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Everyday being surrounded by world class art among a large group of interesting people from all around the world. The security guards were a unique group. I loved working there, and they loved me back. I was being fast tracked through the security ranks, getting the best posts. Nobody made it to Special Officer faster I was told. And now I am a family man, married to a beautiful Señorita from the Dominican Republic. Both my children were born there in the Bronx. I was in great physical shape and stamina, running around the city like a big playground, me with the kids getting in everywhere for free with my MET ID. I was loving life. It didn’t matter that I was completely broke, there was always overtime at the MET.

That all changed with a slipped disc in my back, a wrong prognosis, and emergency surgery 3 days later, resulting in Cauda Equinine Syndrome. Severe nerve damage below the disc L5/S1. I suffer from foot paralysis, atrophied leg muscles, chronic pain in like 3-4 different forms, a neurogenic bladder and bowels. Gained like 60 lbs in the 5 weeks I spent in the hospital. And now that this wonderful country has deemed me “permanently and totally disabled” ; I can finally say I am a “full time” artist!.  I’m painting now more than ever, even have a decent studio. And I’m doing what I feel is the best work of my life. I still can’t walk very well or very far, and that nerve pain I still get is no joke, It kind of feels like getting stabbed by an ice pick every minute or so for days on end. And I’ve been stabbed by knives before, so I know of what I speak, always accidentally of course, by my own hand, back when I was a Butcherboy.