Looking back, trying not to stare.

When looking through some photos, looking for something else, I came across these before and after pictures of the studio we had on Park Avenue, some four or five years ago. We no longer have a studio on Park Avenue. Sometimes, it takes awhile to finally realize what we had done. Life is a funny journey at times, isn't it?

Interestingly enough, some ten years prior, I had looked at the barber shop to buy as a possible studio with apartment upstairs. But the apartment was just too small for the two of us.

For a brief amount of time, this small building in Richmond's Fan, became vibrant. But it wouldn't be sustainable. If only we had done this, or maybe done that. It sits empty today.

Ah, hindsight.

But after having my morning's cup of coffee and reading the paper, I realize we should have opened a Sweet Frog in this location!

Ah, hindsight.

Pinkman, what were you thinking?

Mosaic Lamp

ML's mosaic lamp.
(Click on images to enlarge.)

Window

Another attempt to catch natural light through colored transparent objects. The common man's stained glass. Lead free. This window is now hanging in the Crossroads Coffee and Ice Cream Shop in Woodland Heights.

Click on image to enlarge.

Back Home

For two months they had a life of their own. Alive on the walls of Capital Coffee. They saw Christmas, then New Year's pass.

Countless cups of coffee were drunk.

Yesterday I quietly reached between the late afternoon patrons, excusing myself. Maybe telling a soft joke. Taking down the paintings/assemblages one at a time.

It's always easier taking down a show, than putting it up. Going up, there needs to be an envisioned design. Spacing, complementing. Coming down, it's merely a stuffing process into a plastic bin.

The paintings are back home again, where there are other paintings/assemblages. These were the lucky ones this time. They momentarily saw light.

I must admit, whenever I see my paintings overcrowded in a plastic bin, I remember the storage cages at the retirement home where my mother once lived. One cage in particular was filled with paintings. Neatly stacked, upright, side by side. I was overwhelmed by an eery sense of time gone by, or was it loneliness.

I thought of the painter.

I thought of the painter's children.

I remembered being a child.