I am, to my mothers occasional and potentially eternal disappointment, a professional artist. Many other career choices were presented to me while I was growing up, legitimate careers such as DOCTOR!, LAWYER!, BUSINESS PERSON! and OTHER! Veterinarian was thrown about quite a bit. The thinking behind that being; “you like animals, therefore you should be a Doctor of them.” Of course I did like lots of other stuff as well, animals weren’t the only thing. I used to collect buttons and there was certainly never any discussion about me becoming a button doctor. When it looked like I was never going to take to any of the selections given to me, my choice was eventually reduced to, “Anything but an artist.” After High school my father took me to look at the programs at RIT. When we walked in it had been decided for me that I would major in business and minor in Art. Why business? I don’t know. I had never shown the slightest inclination or ability in it. I never had a lemonade stand and the one time I attempted to haggle I walked away with a plastic bird worth a third of what I paid. BUSINESS MAN just sounded good. The only thing about it that I imagined looking forward to was picking out a briefcase. I wanted an aluminum one, I thought it would offer excellent contrast to the severe black suit I would wear every day.

But somehow it never happened. By the time my father and I left RIT I was signed up as an Art major with a minor in business. A very minor minor in business, I’m pretty sure I never took a single class. This explains why I still can’t haggle.

Now all sorts of other questions arise. Did I become an artist because I had to? Was I born into it? Was I being rebellious? Was it my upbringing? Was it my friend Wrazen’s fault? My mother did blame him and rightfully so. He convinced me to buy my first serious drawing pad. He showed me how to draw really cool robots with really cool big giant guns. Big giant robots had a lot to do with putting me on this path.

Or maybe it was because of where I came from. I was born in Nairobi Kenya. A very picturesque spot. There were monkeys in the trees over our house. Cars there would stop for giraffes. Trees came in ridiculous colors and shapes. I had an African friend who carved me little bits of art out of random chunks of wood. My grandfather sat next to me and drew pictures while telling a little made up story. These stories often ended with me being eaten by a snake. At least we know where my sense of humor began. I have never once heard Africa blamed for my descent into Art, but I point my finger at it as being the most likely suspect. Wrazen may have been guilty of starting my interest in .05 mechanical pencils, but African huts got me interested in texture, African animals got me interested in scale, African patterns got me interested in composition and my love of linework probably came from...hmm, maybe safari ants?

So, now that we’ve established where the start of the blame goes...

There are a few artists who are also guilty of breaking my poor mother’s heart. I grew up reading the adventures of Tintin by Herge. This character has gone virtually unknown in the United States, surprising since he is the Mickey Mouse of the rest of the world. Captain Haddock is probably one of the funniest characters in all literary history. Asterix is also a work of genius. My mom once showed me how to draw Asterix, a lesson I never forgot. This implicates her in my tragic fall to drawing. The Muppets were a big early inspiration. The only TV I could understand during my time in Africa was “The Muppet Show” which was on for one half hour a week. That was a very happy half hour.

I do remember the very first time the thought, “I want to draw a picture book” popped into my head. My mom took me to the library once a week when I was growing up in Buffalo. There were two books that I took out over and over again. One was “Arrow to the Sun” by Gerald McDermott and the other was “One Monster After Another” by Mercer Mayer. Both books excited me and still do, but there was one page in the Mayer book that completely took me. It was the page that introduced a monster called the “Typhoonagator.” This beast had a long toothy snorkel that thrust out from a cloud-like face and sucked up entire oceans and ships into it’s belly. I needed to draw so badly after seeing that picture. I drew endless waves and clouds with sailboats being tossed about over and over again. This eventually led to my first great literary work, “Spaceship.” This story featured a spaceship that lands on a planet and the little guys inside the spaceship get eaten by monsters in a deep, dark cave. Some of my detractors might point out that the monsters in the story look suspiciously like the monsters in “Where the Wild Things Are.” I pay no mind to such wild and baseless accusations. How could I, as a child, have ever come across THAT book? If anything, Mr. Sendak should be thanking me for not suing HIM.

My current artistic heroes are extensive and varied. I love Lane Smith, he is an enormous influence on my work. His illustrations taught me that color didn’t have to be smooth, clean and flat. Dr. Seuss goes without saying. Chris Van Allsburg tells a great story and knows how to compose a picture so that you feel you are inside the book. Philip Burke has had a big effect on the way I draw portraits. I’ve also been lucky enough to meet him and work with him. My first time ever getting to work with a hero of mine. If you happen to meet him before I do please remind him that he owes me a painting of Audrey Hepburn. No, really, he does.

Miro is one of the few abstract artist’s I admire. His little squiggles and shapes look like characters to me. I can believe there is a narrative being carried through the painting. Hieronymus Bosch is a big favorite of mine. I’ve never had a chance to see “The Garden of Earthly Delights” in person, but I will one day. When I made a whirlwind visit to Paris a couple of years ago I had an hour and a half to spend at the Louvre. Really this was enough for me, I love art but I get easily overwhelmed by it. My first goal while there was to see as much Bosch as I could. It was easy to fulfill, they only had one. In my imagination I expected an entire floor devoted just to him. My second goal was to see “Raft of the Medusa” by Theodore Gericault. It didn’t happen, it was being cleaned. They wouldn’t even let me come in and help hose it off.

So I am an artist and whether the reason is genetic or environment or the direct fault of any one particular person I don’t think I can ever honestly answer. I always wanted to get myself to this point, I’ve found myself happy with it and I’m still curious about where it will lead me next. That’s enough for me at the moment.