Let’s face it. I’m a dilettante. There is no body of work to show an evolution of creativity and intellectual exploration based upon a disciplined and dedicated legacy of professional artistic practice. To be an artist is my birthright, but I have yet to seize upon it. Yet the innate need and desire to create and to express has always been there, bubbling up to various degrees throughout time.

The arts, by their very nature, are products created to serve the needs of artists themselves and to also engage with other human beings. The arts are meant to be experienced and to take on a life of their own after creation. However, living a quiet working life alone, most of my art is created and never seen. Stuffed away in an overflowing closet, enclosed in dusty sketchbooks and ragged bags, or locked away in digital storage medium they live a tenuous existence where the physical and virtual trash bin are an ever present threat, rarely seeing the light of day, forever stuck in a purgatory existence. Though I do not feel their quality is worthy of engagement with others, I am realizing more as I get older that such feelings are simply personal judgements rooted less in empirical fact than based upon subjective notions, and that I do these creations an injustice by relegating them forever to a dark tenuous existence.

An increasing consideration of my fragile mortality – particularly living alone during a pandemic age – has also engendered greater concern that if I were to pass away tomorrow, not only will these objects likely be discarded wholesale, but that my life might be summed up as just an inconsequential employee at a series of office jobs, with no creative, intellectual, or emotive voice uttered into the vast cosmos during the infinitely brief interval of this existence. Therefore, in respect to these objects and to myself, I am endeavoring to slowly showcase works as time and energy allow, providing these works their brief moment in the light of acknowledged existence.