During art school, and for some time after, I paid my bills painting New England seascapes. I had a few solo shows at a local gallery, developed a small, but tight following, and demand began to grow for my work. Being right out of art school, and making a living as a painter, I was tremendously grateful for the patronage (and still am). But the more time that passed, and the more seascapes I painted, a reality started to come into focus: I was making a living, but not making what I really wanted to make.
I moved to the west coast soon after, abandoned seascapes and started making my “real work,” harboring a resentment for every wave and rock that had wasted my time. Years later, after a dozen artistic directional shifts and a move back to New England, I found myself working out of a cold and lonely studio in Gloucester, Massachusetts (there are no other kind of studios come to find out). As a result of the changes, shifts, and dead ends, I was left directionless. At some point I learned that Winslow Homer had painted for years holed up in the light house down the road from my studio. As I kicked around that winter, scribbling down ideas for another “new direction” I became more interested in the similarities of our “holed up in Gloucester” personal narratives. I began to feel like I had a companion of sorts, even though 100 years or more separated us.