Before I knew my father, or he knew me, he was a bull rider in West Texas - chasing a dream. Smoky, our Blue Heeler, would fetch me by my overalls when it was time for dinner.
After my parents divorced, the dream just out of reach, we moved back to their home state of Arkansas. We didn’t have any money so we would drive endlessly. Something would catch my mother’s eye and she would say “take a picture.”
We didn’t have a camera.
She would add, “in your mind.” Even in the back seat of an old wagoner, looking out a window, with nothing more than half a tank, she showed me that I could frame the world. Sight is the gift my mother gave me. Collaboration, that was given to me by my brother and sister, twins, who shared the pads of paper on my mother’s bed where we would draw stories to pass the time.
As an artist, I believe our childhood is the origin of our aesthetic, perhaps because I am a father myself now. My father is a cowboy, in stride, moving forward fast, not concerned with falling. My mother, never lost her vision as she looked back to see the good times, even while we were busy looking out the window.
For a list of formal accomplishments inquire within.