The Year of the Trump Virus: Selected Drawings, 3/2020 to 3/2021
My sketchbook kept me alive during the pandemic. I turned to the mirror to check in with myself and used photos to have imaginary portrait sessions with missed friends, distant heroes, and even the monsters who are riding all our rotten chickens coming home to roost.  

Portraits, 1990-Present
People are "ready-made" subject matter that avails you more riches than any imagination could offer. Doing portraits forces us to ask ourselves what exactly makes a person a person, and to study the subtleties that dissolve the unjustified generalities we impose on groups of people. Portraits unwittingly honor the supremacy of nuance and peculiarity. For several thousand years portraiture has brought the dead back to life and heightened the living. Across the millennia, we lock eyes with the regal gaze of a noblewoman from an Egyptian sarcophagus and wonder what her days were like. Ludwig Meidner’s foreboding self-portrait "My Night Visage" enables us to feel Europe’s psychic earthquake on the eve of The Great War. Rembrandt's face ages in slow motion as we are treated to his unflinching scrutiny of a human face's trajectory. As long as the work is not destroyed, it hands us our ticket to immortality and whispers across time, “Look at me, this is the way I was.” Ecce Homo—Behold Humanity!

Waiting to Go Home, 2007
I have been building fires for my father this winter. I have also been doing portraits of my dad as he sits and watches the fires. He is living and leaving this life with Alzheimer’s disease, a condition that slowly but surely erases parts of him before our very eyes. The painting sessions last about two hours a day. He sits with his feet up under a cozy blanket in his den of thirty-three years but does not recognize it as his house. Every once in a while he asks my mom, “When are we gonna go home?” Doing these laptop gouache portraits has allowed me to connect with my dad at a time when his connection to his family and the objects in his universe is slowly fading away. This is my way of keeping him alive as long as I possibly can. This little series of drawings and paintings turns the quiet, private moments of our winter, his winter, into a reverberating, public experience. My dad was fearless in the arms of the public he no longer engages. He was the life of the party without even having to don a lamp shade. He was gregarious and robust, and sometimes acted like a bear. Now he sits, still, silent, and solemn, in front of the fires watching, waiting to “go home.”
January, 2007
Check out my book, Waiting to Go Home:
www.blurb.com/b/4061156

Dark Money, 2016-17
These ink drawings on dollar bills are about the role of money in politics and its threat to our democracy. I have chosen the already loaded surface of the dollar bill as a potent, "sacred ground" that has been tarnished, abused, and manipulated, much like our democracy under siege from international corporate interests. Each dollar bill, with its different degrees of darkness, communicates the secretive, opaque nature of money and power in the rising political swamp of trump's America.

My Old Man and the Sea
Here I explore the archetype of the pirate, the reckless adventurer who battles monsters on the high seas of my subconscious.

A Fool's Paradise, 2005-09
Of all the characters in my personal pantheon, it is the archetype of the clown that I embody to tell the human story. Clowns can be sinister and sweet, ridiculous and sublime, angelic and demonic, and they can be both boys and girls. The clown’s dualities allow her to inhabit multiple worlds simultaneously. He can turn himself into a stranger. She shape-shifts to deflect the severity of life and defends herself by hurling giggles at monsters. Clowns have come to represent our highest aspirations of freedom and creativity as well as walk us into the darkest debacles. The sinuous roadmap of the clown, which has as its destination self-awareness, is marked with many detours of deception. I have chosen the fool's way. Merrily, merrily, I trip over my own whimsy. Blown by the wind I often surface in uncharted territory. I disregard the glaring warning signs and step into the riptide. I get pulled under and tumble down, down, down into the rabbit hole, over the meadow and through the woods, way past grandma's house. I scamper and skip over the top, under the radar, right to the edge, up a creek, through the looking glass, and into the parade. I whistle through the graveyard and dance with death. I belly up to the bacchanal, have fifteen more drinks than necessary, and awake right smack dab in the middle of a matted maze that is myself. Not quite heaven or hell, limbo is my station.

La Antigua, 1995-2000
La Antigua, a work of fictional imagery grounded in personal experience, is my very own “going-up-river” story. As well as reconstructing a place and its consciousness, its façade and its deeper truth, La Antigua is an illustration of a picaresque adventure: the chronicle of a subject’s seduction, abandonment, and resurfacing in a space where new rules had to be learned to survive. The multi-layered world of La Antigua reaches the spectator through three narrative forms: drawings and paintings, an eight-by-twelve foot “wall-map” of the magical, gulf-coast village, and two dozen larger-than-life painted, plywood figures—a cast of characters that walk right out of the drawings and paintings to mingle with gallery visitors. The intangible yet monstrously dense force of the village constantly tugged on the will of its inhabitants. The façade of La Antigua was a paradise begging to be possessed. The colonial town, which had been the stage for the return of Quetzacoatl and the violation of pre-Hispanic Mexico, offered up a gamut of experiences one would ordinarily reserve for fiction. That which initially beckoned to be possessed turned the tables and ultimately wound up possessing me. Come with me to the fertile site of rotting papaya, mango, and zapote, where witchcraft merges with Jean-Claude Van Damme movies via Sony televisions glowing from tiny shacks, where the ghosts of the conqueror and his concubine pull the marionette strings and where the horny humidity seeps into the relentless, intoxicating rumble of the marimba down by the river. Leave your free will on shore and let yourself get pulled under by the riptide of La Antigua.

Frutas, Mexico D.F., 1991