I don’t paint to explain the meaning of anything.
I just paint as I have for 60 years.
When I was four my brother and I were taken from the hills of Mountainville, N.Y. to an abandoned prison of war camp in the desert of Roswell, N.M..
Orchard Park had rows and rows of broke down buildings with barbed wire all around it keeping everything in.
All the sad prisoners had gone home and they explained where they had been, kissing and hugging, while two little boys walked around the desert wondering where in the world they were.
I made pencil drawings like a four year old on three hole paper and went door to door selling them for a nickel and the people seemed happy with the deal in the middle of nowhere.
One day while walking home from the school bus I found an old spray can in an empty building and a rusty old nail.
I stuck the rusty nail in the top of the can which in turn made it spray paint my face silver that would not come off and it was my first experience with oil paint.
Sixty years later I live on a mountain and paint.
Grandpa told me to paint.
He said... “Junior paint..."