A wonderful art is disappearing in the world. It is the practice of listening to the silence. As an artist and a poet I enter into silent conversations with long gone master painters. They are my muses. Their voices live on through their masterpieces.

My introduction to the masters began as a young child I was taken to see the Cellini Cup at the New York Metropolitan Museum of Art. The memory of how I got into the city or what else I did that day is gone. What remains is the experience of seeing this work of art and being absolutely in awe.

On that day a foundation was laid for a life long conversation with the arts and antiquities. It took a long time to enter into the conversation fully. When I did there was no turning back.

When I first dedicated myself to becoming an artist my teacher had me spend hours copying the works of the masters. Many frustrating hours were spent attempting to recreate the masterpiece before me. With pen in hand and ink bottle by my side, I would curse as my lights grew too dark. Ink would somehow mysteriously appear in the form of a Rorschach ink blot in the middle of my emerging masterpiece. My colors would turn muddy. The work was not fun. Lessons seemed like an exercise in futility. Then, I read Leonardo da Vinci's A Treatise on Painting.

The wisdom of my teacher suddenly became apparent in the following quote. "The artist must first exercise his hand by copying drawings from the hand of a good master." At that moment I entered into a conversation that I knew would continue for the rest of my life. The copying work entered a new depth. My goal changed from attempting to recreate a masterpiece to having a conversation with the artist trying to understand the use of line, form, color and composition. The question asked most often was, "What are you doing here?" The answers that came back were as surprising as they were delightful. Once while copying da Vinci's Study of a Figure Kneeling to the Right, I asked the question and the answer was, "Driving you crazy!" Indeed the draping of the cloth was driving me crazy. Seeing the real Study of a Figure Kneeling to the Right was a surreal moment. Standing in the crowd at the New York Metropolitan getting as close to the work as possibly it was as if a voice emerged from the din. "It takes work to be a master painter. Keep up the work." A conversation that had begun standing in front of the Cellini cup was beginning anew. (You can view my study of Figure Kneeling to The Right in the painting section of the website.)

The conversations with art are alive and always vibrant. While studying Corot and Cezanne I asked the question, "What are you doing here?" The response that came back was, "Leading the way for Picasso." It was at that moment that I saw the foundation that had been laid for Picasso. These men were the original cubists. Picasso picked up the tools of the trade and continued building. (You can view my study of Corot's Italian Light in the painting section of the website.)

Millet's Gleaners continue to speak to me to this day. As a young boy a copy of one of the gleaners hung in my bedroom. With Millet I inevitably feel a sense of sadness. Millet's characters have such soul and connection to the earth. One of my favorite Millet's is an illustration of a shepherdess. She is standing with her back to a tree, knitting, with her flock close by. The connection between her handiwork and her hard work as she tends her flocks is unmistakable. Her knitting is no simple pastime. She is working against the elements to keep herself safe and warm. Millet's mastery of infusing this pastoral scene with the sheer struggle of human survival astonishes me every time I see it. (You can view one of my studies of Millet in the painting section of the web site.)

Some might consider these conversations a bit crazy or even eccentric. For me they are the voice of my muse breaking through and pointing me in the direction that I need for my artistic development. Interestingly, I never really carried on a conversation with my own work until recently.

2007 was a breakthrough year in my development as an artist. Having spent so much time working in a classical manner it came as a surprise when I began creating quick figurative sketches in charcoal. Over the course of the summer 2007 I produced 500 sketches unlike anything I had ever done before. When it was suggested that I had an exciting exhibition on hand, it was time to name them.

In the past most of my works have been named things like, "Homage to Millet," "Corot's Italian Light," or "Cozen's Pass." The titles were intended to indicate the master with whom a conversation had occurred while executing a particular piece. Now however it was time to name works that were purely mine. It became clear that a completed work had its own free will. I began looking at the pieces and asking, "What's your name?" The replies were often fun and amusing: Naked Waltz, The Gondolier, Sweet Repose, She's Dancing. One in particular stands out for me. It is entitled Modesty. Modesty is a drawing of a male nude looking at the viewer over his rigth shoulder. (You can view this piece in the drawing section fo the website.) This sketch makes me chuckle. He reminds me that the drawings of bodies that hang in museums that everyone love, don't really look like perfect human bodies. Think Picasso. Think Matisse. It is his glance however that amuses me the most. Just how do all the nudes in the museums feel about all these people looking at them? It is as though this drawing knows something that I don't. Like the Mona Lisa, he is not going to reveal his secret. Like a good muse, he is simply going to stare from the paper and call me into my future. I hope he's having a good time, because my curiosity is peaked. I suspect that like the Mona Lisa, he will never reveal the secret in his glance. I'm delighted. It means that the silent conversation will never end.