Gallery CERO

Now more than ever, my easel is my source of joy and renewal. Last September I spent a month in an art residency on Boston’s north shore. This extended studio time has allowed me to dive into my reference materials from that time. The ocean instantly calms me: our human problems seem so small in comparison. “A Light Note” captures both the light and the dark: deep dark shadows still anchor the water but early morning light dances off the spray and lifts the spirits.

Living on the Vermont/Canadian border has given me countless opportunities to explore a quieter area of the state of Vermont. The beauty of the Vermont landscape and in this case, the lovely views into Quebec, are all part of the many joys of living in a more remote location of the state. This painting depicts a scene with a view which is located on my property. I live on a 12-acre parcel with a variety of subject matter from which to find inspiration for my paintings. A pond, large perennial gardens, meadows, woodlands and woodland stream area all part of the material from which I am so incredibly fortunate to be able to compose many of my paintings. I would say this copse of trees and brush are one of my favorite places here on the property. I have loved watching this area through the seasons. It is simple and unassuming but rich and lovely with diversity. Every season, different times of day and even lighting conditions seem to offer new inspirations. The shapes of the clusters of foliage and brush, the colors of the leaves and the beauty of the wildflowers are peaceful to me. There is mystery in this cluster of trees as under the brush and growth are remnants of an old stone wall. It always feels this part of the property is trying to tell me a story. Stopping by this vignette has become part of my ritual when walking the property. It is like visiting an old friend. Witnessing the seasonal changes throughout the year is almost like that point in a conversation with a close friend when comes the lovely, open ended question, “So, what’s new with you?” Every time I seem to visit this stand of trees, there is more sharing, more learning; there is always something new. During this time of isolation, social distancing and uncertainty, being in the middle of 12 acres on the border of Vermont, with few people around has provided for much reflection and opportunities of quiet gratitude. In the stillness of this time I am grateful for the opportunities to be with nature and to have nature as something ever present, strong and sure on which to rely. I hope in some small way, with the completion of this painting I have been able to share a little of what nature is trying to communicate to me.

During the COVID-19 lockdown, I was looking for a way to revisit my traveling days while in Provence to remember happy times while I was able to do plein air painting during my travels. I have visited Provence several times and wanted to work on paintings that brought me back to those memories. Provence is in southeastern France, which is bordered by the Mediterranean Sea. This piece simply reflects the serenity of that peaceful time.

With several painting commissions postponed during the COVID-19 lockdown, I suddenly found myself with time to pursue personal works. This still life is the first to come out of this period. It is a tribute to Schnappi, a duck who brightened up our property for almost 9 years before recently disappearing. Schnappi was the last duckling in the nest to hatch, and when my brother-in-law discovered her, she had been abandoned. My mother-in-law quickly stepped in as Schnappi’s surrogate mom – for a time Schnappi would only fall asleep while resting in her hand – and it was beautiful to witness the bond that grew between them. All we have now is our memories, which were a joy to reflect upon, and her feathers, which were a joy to paint. I’m so grateful to my wife for having collected some of these feathers once when Schnappi molted, so that I could bid her a fond farewell now through this painting.

This drawing was originally begun in 2018, as a relatively simple image of a young woman with a candle. It had a sleepy, dreamy quality, so I titled it “Dreamer”. At the time, I felt it needed something more, but I couldn’t decide what. So, I just lived with it in my studio to see if or when inspiration would strike. As the pandemic loomed, and my state was in lock-down, I felt personally safe, but at the same time felt the fear and heart-break in my family, friends, community, and planet. Conversely, I also recognize that many of us feel grateful for what we have, and imagine a better world when it is safe once again. A few weeks ago, I heard John Lennon’s song “Imagine”, and the line “You may say I am a Dreamer, but I’m not the only one” really struck a nerve. It sounds corny, but creativity works in strange ways. I felt that I could give my drawing "Dreamer" a deeper meaning with the inspiration of the song. I added some reflections to make it complete, with this phrase popping into my head: "A light that shines for others, a light that shines in the darkest of times, a light that reflects our hopes."

"However vast the darkness, we must supply our own light" -- Stanley Kubrick Light has been the focus of my paintings for the last 30 years, so it was only natural that I would be drawn to the iconic event in my newly adopted home of Providence, RI called WaterFire. This is a happening that was created here 25 years ago. There is a river that runs through the city. Once a month during the six warm months of the year, small bonfires are lit in spaces placed in the middle of the river over the course of a mile. The event usually draws between 50,000 - 100,000 spectators on warm Saturday nights. Combined with the scents from the fires and the music that is piped in, it is a multi-sensory experience. I made this painting at the end of 2019 before the pandemic was dominating our lives, and we were all sheltering in place. The dancing light and the symmetry of the fires were irresistible to me. In my painting, using a photograph I took for reference, I was trying to capture the magic of seeing these beacons glisten on the water, and the atmosphere created by the smoke. This spring, as the news was getting darker and businesses were closing, events being canceled, one day in my studio while looking at this painting I had the realization that we wouldn't experience WaterFire this year. There would be no way to even consider gathering this many people together for any reason at all. The painting made me sad initially, feeling the loss of the experience, but as the pandemic grew, my feelings changed. The motto of Rhode Island is HOPE. Now, as I look at my painting, and visually spend time there on the river, my hope grows. So too, my feelings of resolve that we will get through this, that we will prevail. My hope and my belief is that here in Providence, we will come together again to celebrate, and experience this mystical event on the river and watch the fire dance.

It's late in the day, the shadows are long, and your workday is over. It's more vital than ever to get outside, to breathe some fresh air, and to experience the sense of freedom you crave. It helps to have a beautiful neighborhood to enjoy and special places to visit—as long as you share what you see. As an artist, that’s what I’m called to do. And when we go out, what do we see? Nature, in all of its life-sustaining beauty and diversity is blessed with a respite allowing for its return to a more robust state of health across earth, sea, and sky. Nature: something of which we are an undeniable part, offering rest and renewal to people forced to stay-at-home and desperate for the gifts of the outdoors. Nature: a source of inspiration for generation after generation of artists, presenting us with endless opportunities to internalize, understand, and express what we feel in her presence. And when bathed in the magic of light, it invites us to do exactly that. And we do…because we must.

Painting has been very healing during this time of isolation and social distancing. It has allowed me to focus on the beauty and intricacy of God’s creation. As I painted "Great White Egret – Alligator Farm", I decided to take photos of the whole process. Since I knew others were isolated also, I wanted to offer a step by step blog on my website so that they could paint along with me and view my process. Learning while isolated has helped me and others. I entered this painting in the NOAPS 2020 Spring Online Exhibition, and I am excited to tell you that not only was it juried into the show, but it was awarded a Merit Award.

During this difficult time, I have not been able to visit one of my favorite locations. The serenity and tranquility of this place remains as an everlasting calm in my thoughts. Just a short stroll from Secondary Studio on the coast of Maine. Needless to say, I am longing to return. I have been able to paint this in my studio from memory and numerous plein air studies I have done over the years.

This studio painting was inspired by our trip to Tuscany in 2018. The view is from a small bridge that arches across the headwaters of the Arno in the little village of Stia. The mountainous terrain, texture and light was what caught my eye that late afternoon. I painted this during our quarantine and feeling sympathetic for the people in Italy. This painting took me for a trip to a happier time, a remembrance of a place I hope to return to one day.

This painting is of a street that I grew up on near my parent’s home in Richmond Hill, NY (a suburb of Queens, NY). After coming back from school on the MTA bus, I would always exit the bus on this street. It’s the same street corner that I would cross on my way back from elementary school, as well as the one I'd cross with my family after church. The painting is a reflection of the multicultural working middle class neighborhood that I grew up in. From the cars tightly lined up, to the figure walking down the street holding plastic bags, each one of which are from well-known local corner stores. Especially at times like this, as I live over 400 miles away, the place and people that I grew up around are often in my mind.

In this time of "social distancing", I picked this painting I call "Notebook" to portray the feeling of isolation many people are currently feeling. The painting portrays a woman in a café window in Portland, Maine, but could be in any older town in America. She is alone, behind glass windows, writing in a journal. Perhaps she is working out her hopes and dreams, making plans. Perhaps she is making a list of things to do, we're making a list of things she wants to talk about with a loved one. From her glass box, she can observe the outside world. But the streets are empty. No one walking. No cars going by. As I am writing this, many people are communicating from behind masks, through glass partitions, over videoconferencing. We are all looking forward to the time when we can once again gather in cafés together, walk down city streets, and meet and greet our neighbors.

While the COVID-19 Pandemic rages on, this captured the scene painted along the Queens side of the East River facing West during sunset. Gazing across and through the Island of Manhattan at 7PM the cheers and clapping ensues from all the windows and apartment dwellers throughout New York City acknowledging their support of today’s real heroes.... our health care workers.

Five years ago I did a study for six months on the Post Traumatic Stressed Disorder (PTSD) and the depressed person and I have found that the high chroma colors in paintings as well as painting helped these individuals to overcome their situations. Especially when combined with a contrast of intense dark. I have spent the past couple years painting simple landscapes to create a euphoric feeling with light as my subject matter to help individuals feel the presence of God and provoke imagination of peacefulness. I have had many people tell me that these recent paintings have given them feelings of hope and serenity. They feel the presence of their lost loved ones near to them when they see the light in my paintings. I am honored to be able to help people during this COVID-19 situation, to feel more at ease by looking at the light as a means of meditation. COVID has brought out depression and anxiety in people and I feel the compassion to use my skills to better society they my subject matter of light. Thank you for allowing me this opportunity to share.

This painting evolved into a symbol of my feelings about the COVID-19 pandemic. As the virus spread, it seemed as though all the color had been leached from the world and we were all teaming up to fight the enemy. These Canada geese hissing and flapping and chasing the badness away summed up our universal struggle against the virus.

Collecting pine cones is something I have done since my childhood beginning with family vacations to the Smokey Mountains and to Maine. We have also heated our home with a wood stove for over forty years, so the ash bucket gets a heavy duty workload during the winter. Here in the off season, the "Scuttle Bucket" finds another use as it holds the firestarters for the upcoming season. The pine cones, normally found outside are now, like us, residing inside due to the pandemic.

When the darkness surrounds us, we come together and reflect each others' light.

This painting takes me back to simpler times and features a favorite view of Plum Island. The island is named for wild beach plum shrubs that grow on its dunes. It’s a barrier island located off the Northeast coast of Massachusetts. My mother in law lives on the basin side of the island, and the sun sets right on the marsh a few feet from her house. It was just one of those hot, hazy summer evenings. I was naturally drawn to the magical shimmer on the water as the sun set. Oh, take me back to that summer haze!

A friend gave me this panel several years ago to try out. It sat around my studio for a time before, I eventually started using it for almost abstract design experiments using the paint that was leftover on my palette. It was dark and moody for a long time, but kept changing. Over many layers of this process the air cleared in the painting, and my imagination brought forth an invented scene of sunset on a coast. It has a lot of texture on the surface as a result. Once the image took hold, and I felt the peace of this warm sunset, I worked to resolve the picture, and it eventually arrived at the image you see today.

“Swimming in the Rain” is inspired by one of my favorite nearby marshes that I often visit in spring. I am fortunate to have spent my life enjoying nature. Birds never fail to provide me with a source of subject matter, as well as entertainment. Due to the solitary nature of my career as an artist, I am accustomed to “social distancing," particularly for long periods during winter; there was just never a name for it. This year people, some perhaps unaccustomed to solitude, have discovered opportunities to go outside to escape the four walls of their surroundings and found themselves enjoying nature. It is my hope that these moments brought to them the same solace I find in the natural world and that the impressions and memories remain with them always. My thanks go out to those working hard in this fight against this pandemic and I hope for healthier days ahead.

"The Marsh" early morning light was inspired by a plein air painting. In the early 20th century Irish immigrants would congregate to the south shore of Boston marshlands to collect moss from the river banks and sell. It was used to heat homes as a source of fuel. The seacoast town of Scituate became known as the Irish Riviera.

Prior to the pandemic, this photo of one of my friend's children caught my eye. It touched my heart, and I couldn't get it out of my mind, so I called her and asked if I could use it as material for a painting. Everything about it made me think of children: a universal love for pizza; the abandonment of restraint when they can freely dig in the dirt; their curiosity in secretly exploring places they aren't supposed to be; their delight when you play a game with them they like and for which they ask again and again, even though you've just finished the 20th round; and, of course, that perfect pout cloaking a hundred possible meanings while grabbing your heartstrings. Then the pandemic hit. It pulled the rug out from under our lives, threw dire uncertainty into our paths, and confined us to home. The streets became eerily empty, but I continued my daily walk around the neighborhood. Initially, there were only a few other people out walking, and when we encountered each other, we awkwardly did the careful six-foot circle around each other. Then I began noticing laughter. I saw parents in their gardens playing clever and imaginative games with their delighted children. Gradually more families started coming out for walks, pulling children in wagons, running together, riding all sorts of bikes, or assisting the little ones in walking their dogs. Even though we would be walking in opposite directions, from across the street, we met each other with friendly greetings and smiles and even some sweet conversations. I do not doubt that many of these families are under tremendous strain and worry, having lost jobs and income and not knowing how the future will unfold, but there seems to be a reaching out despite it. Given what I'm seeing, the thoughtful conversations I am witnessing online and the number of offers of free and creative programs for children shared, I am hopeful that in some way this pandemic is reorienting our lives and that we are becoming more attentive to each other and to this beautiful trust in our midst: the children.

My family and I moved abroad to Europe for an undetermined period of time, leaving our home in New York with a willed intention to “live deliberately”, somewhat as Thoreau had done a couple of centuries or so ago. For Thoreau, his was a desire to front only the essential facts of life; however, for my wife, three sons, and myself, our act of living deliberately was to move beyond a painful chapter in our life. We were grieving over a great loss and wanted to remind ourselves that life is beautiful, that the world is big, and that our light and momentary pain was a mere blip in the broad arc of time. London welcomed us with open arms, and thanks to the generosity of a wonderful and gifted artist friend, Josephine, we were able to live and work in her stunning painting studio. Jo is a gifted artist who had custom-tailored everything in her studio for her own painting and sculpting purposes, and so everything was ready to go for me. The St. Paul studios are a series of wrought iron and glass painting studios in the heart of London, renowned throughout the world for their design. The uppermost floor features a soaring north-facing window and massive studio, while the lower two floors consist of bedrooms, baths and living areas, and yet another smaller painting studio. The best news was that my good friend, James Hayes, owns the painting studio a few doors down from where we were staying. I have the deepest respect for James as an artist- his work is beautiful, his knowledge of the craftsmanship of oil painting is rare, and his work ethic is indefatigable. Not to mention, he is a member of the rarest breed of artist- a generous and uplifting soul who defines his own success not only by what he himself produces but to also lift up all other artists around him. I am lucky to call him my friend, and I was extremely fortunate to be painting a few doors down from him. Much of a professional oil painter artist’s life consists of wrestling with logistics- where can I find a studio? How can I get better lighting? Where can I find better materials? How can I reach my audience? How can I eliminate distraction? But in this studio, my Walden Pond, none of these problems were facing me- with the greatest art supply stores in the world just a few blocks away, with models abundant, with the problems of lighting completely solved for me, I could just paint. And then came whispers of the Coronavirus. As I set up my canvas on the easel, there was news of the spread of the virus in Italy, and the grim toll it was taking on the population. As I mixed my paints, the newspapers were daily relaying mounting fears. As I tinted my canvas, the first wave of patients was flooding the hospitals of northern Italy. It was at this time that my family and I visited the Churchill War Rooms. Originally just basement storage rooms with low ceilings, these rooms were repurposed into underground bunkers. While bombs fell from overhead and wiped out entire areas of the city of London, it was from here that the military operation of the United Kingdom commanded its force in defense of the free world. It was here that Churchill’s chair still remains, with the marks of his fingernails scratched into the arms of the chair from which he conducted the most important wartime meetings. It was here that generals slept on makeshift cots. It was here that buckets had to function as toilets. It was here that Churchill had a sign painted, reading “Please understand there is no depression in this house and we are not interested in the possibilities of defeat. They do not exist.” I returned to my studio, and the February sky was a characteristic London, leaden grey. My sons were sitting on and beneath the window, quietly reading. My wife sat with a cup of tea, thinking. I wasn’t thinking at all about my artwork, I was really thinking only about my family. The future was so uncertain, the sky was so bleak. I picked up a pad and began to sketch. There was no depression in this house. I began to paint. There was no possibility of defeat. I painted sometimes for ten hours a day, over the month. We took occasional trips to hike in the English countryside, to stroll in parks along the Thames, to visit 221 Baker Street. I painted furiously all in between, rising early, working through the day, sometimes staying up late through the night. Only in contemplating the idea of courage did I understand the iconic sculptures and works depicting London’s own heroes. Gauden’s solemn statue of Abraham Lincoln was in Westminster Square, silently clutching his coat, head bowed. Rodin’s Burghers of Calais were beside the Thames, nooses around their necks. The Roman copy of the Hellenistic sculpture, The Dying Gaul, was in Syon House, holding himself up while blood rushed from his mortal wound; Lysippus’ Silenus was also in Syon House, clutching his son Dionysus and contemplating the gravity of his role as father and protector. Lord Leighton was in the Royal Borough of Chelsea, painting enormous frescoes depicting the Arts of Industry as Applied to War and Peace, while the city of London witnessed cholera outbreaks and threats of war. We booked our flight home to New York, and on the final day before our flight, I put my brush down. With the specter of quarantine looming, and with the uncertainty of international shipping, I chose to leave the painting in the studio, in the care of my friend. The painting is still in London. We are all now quarantined to our house in New York now. I am sitting at my drawing desk, the birds are outside of my window, frenetic with spring fever, and the boys are setting the dinner table. The newspapers are announcing one of the greatest losses in stocks in the history of the American economy. New York City has been shut down. Thousands of people are contracting COVID-19. Some are dying. Pinned to the wall beside me is a poem by another individual who found inspiration in London, Rudyard Kipling. “If you can meet with triumph or disaster, and treat those two imposters just the same...” What do you do when you meet with Disaster? You wake up in the morning; you continue to raise your children; you lead the Union army in the Civil War; you pour the coffee; you load the truck; you plant the victory garden. You paint. You carry on. There is no possibility of defeat.

I am currently residing in Estremoz, Portugal. We were very much looking forward to painting the beautiful spring colors of the Alentejo while news of the virus was getting worse. We have a young friend in Italy who caught it early on and was hospitalized, so we were taking it very seriously. Still, while we were allowed out, we scouted for days in the countryside. We found this field of yellow lupin in a cork forest about 20 minutes from our house and painted there for a week as the virus began to hit neighboring Spain very hard. When I was about halfway finished with the painting we were asked to work from home and the country began to lockdown. I finished the painting in the studio from photographs, and it worked out well. Both from the point of view of being able to travel mentally to this wonderful field while being stuck inside, and also technically, as the unfinished part of the painting was mostly the flowers. As I made the final touches to my creation, I soon realized that I preferred the pattern I invented in the studio as compared to the actual design in nature.