Memoir: Chapter 14, In Spite of New York

(Written Today) An Art Memoir: Depth, Light, and Love

Sep 03, 2024

Size Matters

Two years after the Pierre Hotel Conference, with its extraordinarily powerful intellectuals delving into the highs and lows of our art culture, I found myself at a well-known gallery just around the corner from the Pierre. The gallery was simple and understated, belying its wealth, with a few large rooms fitting for an elegant museum. It was the opening night of a solo show by a mid-career still life artist. I would have moved mountains to have my work in such a gallery—or so I thought.

I was excited to be there because I thought this show might mark the resurgence of figurative, representational art. There were about 15 to 20 still lifes, all 3 by 4 feet, with prices around $35,000. The crowd was sparse, and I had the opportunity to talk to the artist about his work.

I was a surprised that the artist appeared to be drunk, especially considering it was a career highlight—a solo exhibition in a beautiful gallery at the center of New York. Regardless, I showed him respect, and we spent about 15 minutes reviewing the paintings.

The artworks were beautifully done still lifes, with very sensitive drawing and subtle color harmonies. But there was one very puzzling factor: every painting had a huge white background that dominated the painting, with the actual still life being only about 12 by 16 inches. He could have painted these beautiful still lifes on a much smaller canvas and achieved a better composition, rather than his style of placing a small point of interest in the center of the canvas.

One painting in particular featured white alliums with their fireworks-like, explosive offerings rising up from a tall, narrow tubular vase. I laughingly shared with him an artistic insider insight that he was playing with the metaphor of a phallic orgasm. The artist had a completely blank, lost expression on his face and had no idea what I was talking about. Drunk or not it was inconceivable that he was having a professional art exhibition without understanding the basics of phallic symbolism.

Before the opening was over, I figured out that the $35,000 price tag was based on the size of the paintings. A 3x4' painting would command a higher price per square inch, whereas a smaller 12x16" painting would sell for about a tenth of that price. I was certain that the artist had compromised his aesthetic choices for financial reasons. I imagined him using an assembly line approach with 15 large canvases, all featuring nearly identical white backgrounds, and then focusing his efforts on the tiny still lifes within. Not only did this strategy maximize the square inch pricing, but it also saved him a lot of time.

This pricing strategy was fresh in my mind because I had just been searching for a loft in New York. Most available lofts were around 700 sq. ft., which was too cramped for a proper art studio, especially with large canvases. As the studios got larger, the sq. ft. price diminished, making the 700-sq.-ft. spaces the most expensive per sq. ft. It was a shame because NY had so many great spaces for artists, but contractors cut them down to size for profit, compromising ideal art studios.

I first noticed this price-per-square-inch pattern in New York. Unfortunately, when artists engage in it, it not only undermines their artistic integrity but also disrupts their creative process. Instead of focusing solely on making their art the best it can be, they begin to compromise their artistic vision, often lying to themselves to justify these compromises. This shift in focus severs their commitment to creating art purely for its own sake.

As I saw how the New York gallery managed to inflate the prices of paintings by increasing their sizes, I was happily surprised that a brilliant architect solved a tremendously complex problem in the blink of an eye.

My East Williamsburg Loft

I found a 1,700-square-foot loft in East Williamsburg, New York. It was on the middle floor of what had been a textile factory. The space was perfect—rough enough that I didn’t need to worry about spilling paint. I even discovered a couple of darning needles wedged between the floorboards. The loft had a row of windows that let in indirect light, and unbelievably, it was located only 15 minutes from Manhattan via the L train, which went directly to Washington Square.

It became one of my all-time favorite art studios.

The loft was essentially one big rectangular room, with the kitchen and, blessedly, a washer and dryer at one end. My main interior design problem was that I couldn’t figure out where to put my bed. I knew it would take me months to find the ideal way to achieve a minimum level of privacy. It’s hard to invite collectors and students into your loft space when the bed is in plain view. But I knew there was one person who could solve this problem within minutes: Robert Mechielsen.

I took a couple of photos and sent the dimensions to Rob. A few hours later, I received his design, along with a sketch overlaid on the photo, showing a realistic view of what it would look like. The solution only cost me a few hundred dollars in supplies from a hardware store, and I managed to build it within a day. The final result turned out exactly like the design. I regularly hosted workshops and life drawing groups, and no one even guessed where I slept. Rob’s design integrated a small library, an office space, a private bedroom, and extra wall space for hanging paintings. It was incredibly brilliant.

While Rob's ingenious design transformed the East Williamsburg loft, I would soon meet an architect with a startlingly different mindset—one that I couldn't reconcile with my vision of New York.

199 My Williamsburg Loft. Long view. This was during a show, but my normal painting wall was at the far end, where Venus is.

200 View through the entrance and my painting chair.

201 A section designed by Robert Mechielsen. My bedroom is behind the projected corner.

New York Party Meeting an Architect

I was invited to attend a party on the Upper East Side of New York. I went along, and there were several people around my age, all living the New York life. One woman in particular told me that she had a degree in architecture, and we started discussing aesthetics. She explained that she quit architecture because she believed she wasn't qualified to tell people how to live. I found it inconceivable that she wouldn't relish the opportunity to enhance people’s lives, especially where they might not know how to do it themselves—like how I didn't know how to design my loft space.

I reflected on how Robert Mechielsen had brilliantly solved a problem, showing just how profoundly an architect can positively impact one’s environment. His expertise not only saved me tremendous amounts of time, money, and stress; it enriched my art space to levels I couldn't conceive of until I experienced it.

While I accepted that not everyone could enhance the quality of life, I was taken aback by the story of the missing iPod.

Stolen iPod

Two things keep my artistic spirit alive: good food and wonderful music. Music accompanies my art every moment that I paint—it's extraordinarily complementary. So, it was worth the investment to get the newest version of the Apple iPod, which I could connect to my stereo system or listen to with earbuds. I ordered it, and when tracking it, Amazon's service said it had arrived at my local post office. Yet, it wasn't delivered to my space.

I called the post office, and they said they didn’t have it. I then called Amazon back, and they said they would gladly replace it. But my instincts told me that someone at the post office had taken it. So I called the post office again and said, “Look, you guys must have it, and you accepted it. If I don't get it quickly, I'm going to file an official complaint.”

A few hours later that evening, around 10:00 PM, the intercom buzzed, and it was a postman who personally delivered my package with the iPod.

Though I didn’t mind forcefully nudging the post office to do the right thing, I didn’t realize it was a New York way of life.

Jewish Morality Lesson

A dramatic incident occurred in my building (which was owned by Hasidic Jews) when an explosion engaged the overhead sprinklers, causing it to flood many of the studios. Luckily, my floors were untreated wood, so the water, unfortunately, seeped through to the apartment below me. The cause of the explosion was that the loft space across the hallway, which was being renovated and had its floors polyurethane-coated, had its oven’s pilot light left on. In winter, with the windows closed, this turned the loft into a ticking time bomb that eventually exploded. I knew the contractor was at fault.

I had been listening to the classical music station, which broadcasts Jewish and Catholic sermons alongside musical performances on weekends. I ended up hearing Jewish sermons regularly, and one takeaway from the rabbi’s teachings was the idea that it’s our natural inclination to get away with things or steal if not guided by a moral framework, which their religion provided. The rabbi emphasized that their text requires doing the right thing, regardless of how one might feel. This struck me as puzzling because I subscribe to Aristotle’s concept of eudaemonia, where doing the right thing comes from within and leads to happiness.

Sadly, I had lost a few pastel drawings to water damage and decided to make a case to the agent representing my landlord, who was also a Hasidic Jew. I requested two months of free rent to compensate for my loss and the inconvenience caused by their mistake. I framed my request by mentioning that I had been listening to Jewish sermons, which emphasized that doing the right thing is a moral obligation, regardless of personal feelings.

The agent gave me a wry smile and agreed to provide two months of free rent, but only if I signed a release stating that I wouldn’t sue them. Note: I was the only one in my building to be compensated.

While it’s understandable that in a dog-eat-dog world, doing the right thing isn't always a priority, I expected more from the opulent universe of the US Tennis Open, especially when it came to kids.

The President’s Box and Tiny Rackets

202 The President’s Box at the US Open, official photo.

Every year, my mom and a guest were invited to attend the US Open tennis championships in the famed and highly prized president's box, thanks to my stepfather Ed's former position as president of the United States Tennis Association. Even after his death, his spouse continued to receive these invites. For a week, my mom stayed at the Marriott in Manhattan, and I would join her. The USTA, twice a day, would send a limo to pick us up and drive us directly to the VIP entrance of the tennis stadium and then drop us back off at the entrance of the Marriott.

The president’s box had a lounge area with a full bar, featuring the world’s greatest alcohol brands. Below the lounge were seats directly behind the length of the court, offering the ideal view to watch the matches. Upstairs, there was a dining area with several tables seating six to eight people. Cell phones and other devices were not allowed, so no pictures were taken. No expense was spared with the buffet, which offered everything from lobster to prime rib, and of course, wine.

203 President’s Box

One night, while sitting at our table, there were two women who seemed to have dates with them. I offered to move so they could sit together, but the women politely declined and introduced themselves as Jenna and Barbara. Also at the table was a man named Clive Davis and two of his friends. When he introduced himself, my mom and I did not recognize his name. Very politely, he asked if we knew who he was, and neither of us had a clue. I had to look him up afterward, learning that he had produced some of the most famous recording artists of the 70s and 80s, like Whitney Houston. After dinner, Jenna and Barbara excused themselves, and Clive Davis mentioned to his friends that they were the Bush sisters, and what I thought were their dates were actually their bodyguards.

Barbara must have found it amusing when I asked her about her recent activities and she mentioned being involved in water resource work in Africa. I naively assumed she was a debutante doing manual labor, like building wells, as part of some Peace Corps effort. She corrected me, explaining that she was actually the president of a foundation involved in such work.

The most memorable conversation occurred during lunch with a volunteer who had been promoted to oversee children’s development. She discussed a program introducing tiny rackets for children aged 4 through 8. I immediately recalled a famous photo of 4-year-old tennis great Tracy Austin on the cover of World Tennis magazine in 1967, hitting a two-handed forehand with an adult-sized racket.

Curious about the tiny racket program’s origins and its success, I asked if they had conducted any targeted pilot research with young children. The volunteer replied that no such research had been done. The program was implemented nationwide on a massive scale purely on theoretical grounds, without any practical testing. This unproven approach reflected the broader issue that the U.S. had been struggling to develop new generations of great players. Clearly, this way of thinking was one of the reasons why.

The USTA’s ill-conceived agenda was disheartening, but I would soon find the next life drawing group session, with its model’s not-so-hidden agenda, wickedly amusing.

About Face

While in my East Williamsburg loft, aside from teaching workshops, I also hosted a life drawing group. For three hours, we would position ourselves in a semicircle facing a nude model posing against a wall backdrop. The session typically started with five-minute sketches and progressed to a longer pose, usually lasting an hour and a half.

In the art teaching world, life models are often found through word of mouth. One day, I received a request from a man who wanted to pose. Everything seemed above board, and it was my first time working with a model I hadn’t personally approached.

During the session with him, which included about 15 adult artists, I sensed something was off. The model was physically excited while posing, which can sometimes happen as a nervous reaction but usually settles down after a few minutes. But that was not to be. While the other artists remained composed, I felt both annoyed and embarrassed, as I was responsible for hiring this model.

When it was time for the hour-and-a-half pose, I always let the model choose their pose, as it’s challenging to maintain a long pose while remaining still. The model wanted to face the artists, standing with his legs and arms spread. I vetoed this pose, suggesting instead that he present a back view. This way, his erection would be out of sight, facing the wall.

Understanding that I had sabotaged the exhibitionist’s agenda, many of the artists smiled good-naturedly. I could tell they recognized what had happened and felt genuine empathy and maturity about the situation.

It is one thing to be facing a wall, and another to be facing the future while desperately wanting to live in the past.

Forward Not Back

In New York, I began publishing a newsletter that featured either art tutorials or aesthetic criticism. One of my essays was picked up by the classical art organization, the Art Renewal Center, founded and run by Fred Ross. I thought I had found a great colleague, and since they were based in New Jersey, not too far from where I was, we set up an appointment to meet.

Fred and his wife, Sherry, lived in what seemed to be a newly built Victorian-style house with stained glass windows and a dramatic staircase. Fred greeted me at the door and invited me in, while Sherry stood on the balcony and gracefully walked down to greet me. Essentially, we were there to chat while they showed me their collection. They had some stunning Bouguereau paintings, one of which was prominently displayed above a fireplace. Oddly, a couple of antique dolls were placed on the mantle, leaning against the painting’s frame.

Fred told me that he had been an art major in college but was so dissatisfied with the direction of postmodernism that he left to go into business. One of the drawings displayed was one of his college pieces, a surrealist work reminiscent of Dali, featuring a moon-like landscape with bean-shaped forms scattered about. It was a highly detailed drawing, and instinctively I asked him if he was stoned out of his mind when he drew it. Instead of taking offense, he replied with a humorous retort, “I can’t remember.”

Our visit lasted about four hours. Afterwards, I hoped that I might become a real colleague and perhaps have one of my works in his collection. However, there were a couple of insurmountable issues. One was his belief that the highest period of art was the 19th-century Romantics, exemplified by Bouguereau. I got the sense that, instead of pushing art forward with new innovations in content, technique, color, and light theory, he wanted to take us back—to the 19th century.

Disenchantment with New York

My time in New York was marked by a series of disheartening experiences—from gallery artists sacrificing artistic integrity to potential colleagues stuck in another era. I had hoped that, in exchange for my very best efforts, New York would reward me in kind. Instead, I discovered that the city’s reality fell short of the highest standards. Square inch pricing, ineffective policies, and incompetence—including postal theft—led me to a disenchantment not with myself, but with what I believed New York was supposed to represent: the best of the best.

Art Tutorials: A Bright Spot

Amidst the challenges, a bright spot was my creation of an art tutorial newsletter. One influential book I read during this period was The Martha Rules: 10 Essentials for Achieving Success as You Start, Grow, or Manage a Business. Written by Martha Stewart while she was incarcerated, this lesser-known work offers practical advice for establishing and growing a business, with a particular focus on helping inmates. Stewart’s suggestion to freely share knowledge to establish oneself as an expert resonated with me. Feeling confident in my art expertise, I decided to apply her guidelines. I began writing art tutorials, which laid the groundwork for my seminal book, The Art Studio Companion: A Master Class for Artists, covering everything from fundamentals to advanced theories in art today.

The New York Works 2005-2008

204 Artemis, in the D’Agostino Collection.

Though I've lived in New York before, I felt a surge of excitement like nothing I’d experienced before. It was my belief that the city demanded the best from everyone who dared to make it their home, and I was determined to rise to the challenge. And I felt that I would honor all the New Yorkers that fell during 9/11. New York wasn’t just another stop on my journey; I saw it as the ultimate proving ground for my art.

One of my first major works to complete in this city was Artemis, a piece that delved deep into the raw, untamed emotions I wanted to explore. I envisioned her in a state of pure, animalistic sensuality, crawling on the floor like a panther. Every muscle taut, every movement filled with power and grace. She embodied a wildness that couldn’t be tamed, a force of nature wrapped in human form. In creating Artemis, I tapped into something primal and unrestrained.

205 Artemis, 2006, oil on linen, 24x48”.

In a similar vein to how I reimagined the legend of Icarus, landing gently on Earth in a pose reminiscent of the crucifixion with a twist, I wanted to explore a different aspect of the Artemis myth. Traditionally, Artemis is seen as a virgin huntress, but I chose to subvert this legend by envisioning her in a moment of intense sensuality and power, suggesting a voracious, untamed experience with an unseen lover. This reinterpretation allows for a fresh perspective on the animalistic nature of her character.

I was terribly honored when my friend Ciro D’Agostino bought Artemis. He had been following my progress on the updates and loved everything about the process and the concept. Though I’ve been an outsider artist, not part of the art world mainstream, there have always been a few people, like Ciro, who have invested in me with their mind, heart, and soul. Humbly, it’s such an extraordinary experience. It feels something like love in art. Truly magical.

Low Ceilings Dilemma

An interesting aside: the pink house in Florida had low ceilings, about 8 feet, and the reflective light from the ceiling might not have been conducive to finishing major artworks because of the glare. Once I got into my spacious Williamsburg loft with its 14-foot ceilings, I had a much easier time finishing, with the artwork lit from light coming from above. In the place that I’m at now, in 2024, my ceiling is 20 feet, and I’m having the easiest time ever finishing works.

Two Urban Plein Air Paintings

I painted these live in Washington Square, taking a few minutes to compose each one and about 45 minutes to paint. The buildings feel natural, which is a bigger accomplishment than most realize. Even slight errors in perspective can make a drawing feel amateurish, but I think I resolved the problem beautifully. Look at all those windows; they feel amazing!

This might be too technical, but the building on the right side of the painting has horizontal lines that angle towards a vanishing point on the right, while the building on the left has horizontal lines that level off. This shift happens because, in real life, I was looking both at the center (more leveled) and to the right (more angled).

In capturing these nuanced challenges, I aimed to convey the grandeur of New York's Washington Square, celebrating not only the architectural details but also the immediacy and freshness of real-life observation.

206 Brothers, 2006, oil on panel, 12x9”.

207 Tops, 2006, oil on panel, 12x9”.

Symbolism Behind These Three Charcoal Still-Lifes

Crybabies

Perhaps my most elaborate charcoal still lifes include two that hold personal symbolic meanings. While the still life with the onions, titled Crybabies, didn’t originally carry symbolism for me, it held profound significance for its collector, Ciro D’Agostino. Ciro shared that he affectionately called his three little girls crybabies when they were whining. Consequently, this still life carried deep symbolic meaning for him, reflecting his experiences raising his daughters, and retroactively, it has also become symbolic to me for that reason.

208 Cry Babies, 2007, charcoal on Rives BFK, 19x26".

Sponges

I think Sponges is a lovely drawing, contrasting the crispness of a glass three-quarters filled with water with the softness of a pile of sponges that diminish in the background. For me, this piece is symbolic of self-esteem and boundaries. As a lifelong artist with an extraordinarily rich and passionate inner life, combined with a dedication to art, I’ve been careful to protect my life force from those who would not only soak up my energy but even drain it, leaving nothing left. Having resolved that problem many decades ago, I haven’t needed a reminder on how to flourish and share with others who always bring their best.

So, I thought it was kind of amusing when I chose to do a still life of these sponges and then brought in the glass of water, making the whole drawing an amusing reflection.

209 Sponges, 2007, charcoal on Rives BFK, 19x26".

210 Himalayan Flight, 2007, charcoal on Rives BFK, 19x26".

Himalayan Flight

My friend and collector, Jennifer Jordan, came to visit me in New York for a couple of days. As a thank you, she gave me a white silk prayer scarf from her expedition to K2. I can't remember whether it was a Sherpa or a Buddhist priest who gave it to her, but it carries traditional blessings of safe travel and good fortune and is symbolic of purity, peace, and compassion.

I thought the white scarf would be an excellent subject for my still life drawing and a good symbol of the icy heights of the Himalayas. The glass bird sitting sweetly at the top symbolizes flight and ease at the highest levels. The composition also includes three ceramic bowls and one black plate, with careful attention to their ellipses. The personal symbolism of this is significant. As long as I can remember, I’ve always thought of ellipses as orbits around planets, so I don’t see them as mere rims of a bowl. An interesting detail in my drawing is that the top bowl has the narrowest band, while the lower bowls open up wider. The black plate at the bottom has the broadest circumference.

I thought it was fun to create a realistic representation of a mundane still life while imbuing it with otherworldly symbolism: rising along a pure path, transcending the planets, and arriving at the highest point.

The Art of Live Demonstration

211 Mango, 2005, pastel on brown paper, 19x26”.

At the end of 2005, I had a solo exhibition at Akhriev Hefferlin Fine Art in Chattanooga, Tennessee, marking my move from Florida to East Williamsburg. As part of the exhibition, I conducted a pastel workshop and demonstrated drawing a mango surrounded by cloth. For me, live demos offer the closest experience to a musical performance—immediacy of energy with the pressure to avoid mistakes. Unlike studio work, where you can refine privately, drawing in front of students provides a unique experience of making art in public. I distinctly recall how magical it felt, with each pastel mark flowing around and over the mango. When I finished the demo, a student remarked that she could watch me draw forever.

Three Pastel Still-Lifes

Back in East Williamsburg, I was regularly giving art classes, setting up still lifes for students to work from. In my free time, I would continue drawing the same setups. The drawing Double O gave me a James Bond vibe, though the symbolism wasn’t as deliberate as in the charcoal still lifes. The setup was primarily for creating an interesting arrangement for the students. The drawing The Striped Cup captured the early morning sun across the still life, evoking the idea of a morning coffee. In the drawing The Orange, I enjoyed the shiny, crisp pale green material and the complementary colors of the orange and the red, woolly tablecloth.

212 Double 0, 2008, pastel on purple paper, 19x26”.

213 Striped Cup, 2007, pastel on gray paper, 19x26”.

214 Orange and Cup, 2007, pastel on brown paper, 19x26".

Three Fruits

One of my favorite little paintings is The Three Fruits. One reason is that it was a theoretical exercise that worked really well. During this time, I was exploring how to prioritize the three brightest lights and the three darkest shadows while maintaining a subtle range in between. For example, the white plate, the white mat behind it, and the white wall further back range from bright white to muted gray to darker gray. The darkest marks are around the fruits, slightly diminishing as they recede in space. The second darkest area is to the left of the easel, and the third darkest is to the right of the plate and fruit. Lastly, I prioritized the brightness of the plate over the fruits and then the brightness of the gold tablecloth.

215 Three Fruits, 2005, oil on panel, 12x9”.

Three Female Nudes

Next, I want to share three of my favorite charcoal drawings, which are some of my most beautiful works. One in particular has a story. The model, Mary, had a large portion of her body burned by fire. A gorgeous woman, I thought it was extraordinary for her to pose naked. I don’t know if she saw it as a challenge to face her fears, but she handled it with grace and confidence. Her presence brought out the best in me, and when she posed for a class, the students upped their game, determined to draw her as well as they possibly could.

216 Mary, 2007, charcoal on Rives BFK, 19x26”.

217 Eve, 2007, charcoal on Rives BFK, 19x26”.

The model Eve was poised, confident, and relaxed, posing naked. In this work, she was not posing for my class but for my life drawing group. There were about 20 people drawing in my loft, and since I wasn’t instructing, I could focus solely on my own drawing. Aside from her beautiful body, notice her right-hand gesture to the left of the drawing. There are moments when something—a gesture, a look, the light—hits me like a ton of bricks, where the beauty is almost unbearable to handle. I distinctly remember feeling that with the gesture of her hand. Those moments are what spur me on as an artist; the reward of not only seeing something so special but also being able to capture it in drawing or painting is exquisite.

218 Radiant Reflection, 2007, charcoal on Rives BFK, 19x26”.

One of my favorite drawings, Radiant Reflection, features a strong spotlight hitting the intersection of her waist and buttocks. The indirect light gives shape to her forms and a soft glow to her face. I have drawn a couple of variations on this pose as ideas for paintings—a beautiful woman, unselfconsciously being in the moment, perhaps listening to music or happily reflecting on a pleasant thought.

219 Radiant Reflection Color Study, 2007, pastel on dark blue paper, 19x26”.

Indeed, I was thinking about turning this piece into a painting, so I had the model come back to pose for a pastel color sketch. Seeing the studies again, I imagine that it could be a life-size painting. I picture a very elaborate, cozy room with a fireplace, which would be the direct source of light, illuminating her body. There would be some kind of animal fur rug—of course, without the head. I think I will bump it into my major works queue.

220 Twin Towers, Radiant Reflection, 2008, charcoal on Rives BFK, 26x19”.

In 2001, after 9/11, I made up my mind to leave my home in Greece, with the idea of eventually being able to move to New York. I had this romantic impulse that I wanted to protect New York. In 2006, I was indeed living in New York in a wonderful studio, and I came up with this series: spotlight effects and dramatic cast shadows from a figure. This is one of my most symbolic pieces, which I call Twin Towers. I think you can see the metaphor of the explosion of the spotlight on the wall, the cast shadows creating parallel lines at the bottom resembling tower-like shapes, the sadness of the figure, and the decomposition of the shadow above.

A Three-Week Visit to Rhodes, Greece

I had some extra money. And in 2008 I decided to take a An art vacation. But instead of pastels, I was going to do plain air paintings. A different experience from urban New York.

Rhodes, Greece, has a magnificently beautiful small harbor with some small boats and yachts. Two of the docks have these beautiful pillars with bronze deer atop them—a buck and a doe.

A bit of interesting history is that this was supposedly the site of one of the Seven Wonders of the World, the Colossus of Rhodes. This gigantic statue of the sun god Helios stood approximately 33 meters (108 feet) tall, with its feet on either side of the harbor. It was a monumental sculpture that was toppled by an earthquake in 226 BCE, just 56 years after its completion. The bronze remains were left lying on the ground for centuries. In the 7th century CE, after the fall of the Byzantine Empire, the remains were sold off by Arab conquerors and carted away by dealers who melted down the bronze.

While painting these pillars as two separate paintings, I was well aware of the history. It’s hard to describe the intense emotional feeling of directly painting a wildly famous historical place. It makes me feel connected to humans from thousands of years ago. It feels as if I could just reach out and touch them.

An interesting touch I’m proud of in the blue-gray painting is the three men sitting on the dock. I only had 40 minutes to paint this. Often, plein air painters will spend too much time trying to make the figures realistic when there’s not enough time, or they make them generic, kind of like a cartoon. But I think I found the right balance; with just a couple of marks of paint, you can feel the postures and the tilts of their heads, and each one is different

221 Rhodian Buck, in Light, 2008, oil on panel, 12x9”.

222 Rhodian Buck, in Shadow, 2008, oil on panel, 12x9”.

Beautiful 360-Degree Views: Four Perspectives from One Spot

I found this one gorgeous spot with beautiful circular panoramic views. I stood in one place and took an hour to paint each of these four paintings, simply turning 90 degrees for each one. I love them equally, and they were effortless to create.

223 Bamboo, 2008, oil on panel, 12x9”.

224 Baby Pine, 2008, oil on panel, 12x9”.

225 Slope, 2008, oil on panel, 12x9”.

226 Falaraki Bay, 2008, oil on panel, 12x9”.

Rocky Ledges and Boulders

I can’t tell you how daunting it is to paint really complex, gnarly rock formations when you’re trying to complete a painting in under an hour. It could easily end up looking like blobs of paint with a total disintegration of the big forms. But I really enjoyed the challenge, and I think I succeeded admirably. An interesting touch in all three of them is that the sea is broken up with patches of paint. I didn’t paint the sea a flat blue color but gave it textures similar to those of the rock formations, thereby integrating the water, sky, and rocks stylistically.

227 Brush and Boulder, 2008, oil on panel, 12x9”.

228 Rocky Cove, 2008, oil on panel, 9x12”.

229 Curves, 2008, oil on panel, 12x9”.

Urban Landscapes

An interesting aspect you’ll see in the following three urban paintings is the interplay of light and shadow. I found that no matter how much I wanted to paint a specific subject, the artwork would be lacking if it didn’t have an exquisite balance of light and dark. So it’s not so much that I thought the subject was appealing, but rather the light and shadow elements were what I found beautiful.

230 Neo-Classical Home, 2008, oil on panel, 12x9”.

231 Taverna, 2008, oil on panel, 9x12”.

232 Yellow Building, 2008, oil on panel, 9x12”.

A Small Church in the Pines

The day before I was to return to New York, I loaded my paint set onto my little motorbike and drove about 35 miles to an unfamiliar area. Without a specific destination, I was contemplating life and absorbing the beauty of the villages, landscape, and seascape. As the road climbed into the mountains, I marveled at the view. From experience, I knew a great view often means a small medieval church nearby. Sure enough, in a pine grove, I found a tiny church and a secondary building serving as the guardian’s home, about 300 feet off the main road. I set up to paint the little church, aware that even though no one was visibly around, someone was likely keeping an eye on me.

After I finished painting the little church, I took a break and visited the church. The door was unlocked, and inside, it was filled with icons. I spent about 5 or 10 minutes quietly observing before gently closing the door. I then returned to my painting stand and began a painting the church’s bell. A few moments into the painting, the guardian, a 45-year-old Greek man, slowly walked up to me with a saucer-sized plate in his hand. He greeted me in Greek and handed me the plate, which had a spoon and a small portion of honey that he had harvested on the property.

233 Small Church, 2008, oil on panel, 9x12”.

After I finished painting the bell and began packing up my stuff for the long ride home, the guardian came out one more time. He had a small piece of tinfoil, and inside was some kind of tar or resin, about the size of an almond. Through hand gestures, he explained that it could be used either to protect your face from sunburn or as a balm for some ailment. I am super fair and turn into a lobster with even minimal sun exposure, which he might have noticed. I thanked him graciously and accepted the remedy. After finishing packing, I got back on my bike and started driving down the mountain back to the coast. Unexpectedly, I began crying, overwhelmed by the wonder of it all—the beauty of Greece, the unexpected gestures of hospitality and goodwill, and the existence of this ancient lifestyle that exemplified quality of life. My tears persisted as I realized I was perhaps saying goodbye to Greece forever and to its special way of life.

234 Church Bell, 2008, oil on panel, 9x12”.

Completing Venus Before Moving on to California

Back in New York, I gave all my attention to finishing Venus. The concept of the painting had one enormous challenge. She was lit from the sunrise, and with her head tilted back, her face was lit slightly from below. An exaggerated sense of that lighting is when someone takes a flashlight and shines it up on their face to scare children as a Halloween prank. It’s really hard to make someone look beautiful when the lighting is from beneath them.

At my lowest moments of desperation with the lighting problem, I secretly referred to her as Miss Piggy because the highlight on the nose made it appear like a snout. I’d already been working a few years on this painting, and if I couldn’t resolve it, it would have to be destroyed. I was desperate to use all of my skill, experience, and real-life references on how to make a beautiful woman look beautiful in one of the worst lighting concepts. My historic mentor, Rembrandt, generally used three-quarters lighting, lit from slightly above, very typical of the high windows in Holland letting the light in. He paints faces better than anyone, but I couldn’t find a reference where he lit a woman’s face from a lower angle, except in The Blinding of Samson, where the woman is running off with his hair. And it’s one of the most demonic paintings in existence—not a good reference for a Venus.

I stuck with it, did several studies from life, and found a way. I couldn’t be happier with the result in the final painting. She looks fully lit by the horizontal magic-hour light of dawn.