He was speaking at an art directors club meeting in another city,
and as we watched slides of knife-faced people and glinting steel attack
dogs go by, he spoke of his frustration. Of wanting his paintings to
somehow tap people on the arm and say, "By the way, does it seem just a tad
bit violent in here to you?"

"Excuse me, but should they really be shooting at us like that?"

Of wanting someone to take note of how numb we'd become to all this.

 Instead, people just thought he was nuts. Yes, his work can seem
threatening. And his resemblance to Dennis Hopper's Frank Booth probably
doesn't help.

But it's easy to be misunderstood. I was standing in BWC one
afternoon, ordering copy slides of my collage, The Conversion of St. Paul,
when a photographer passed by, looked at it lying on the counter and
congratulated me by proclaiming, "Twisted!"

I don't want to be twisted. But I can't blame him. At first glance,
Conversion does look sort of like a Day Of The Dead celebrant, a highly
esteemed but completely defunct Mexican uncle who's just dropped by.

That or an interrupted autopsy.

I have had drama in my life. My grandfather was Italian.

And as my life has passed, I've compared notes with others to find
that I'm not alone; that most of us hide a rolodex of painful experiences
inside. Unfortunately, there seems to be some kind of unwritten rule that
we have to keep it all tucked away so no one gets uncomfortable. Most of
the time I'm able to honor that. Except in my art.

My art is the only venue, outside of prayer, where I'm allowed to
talk about pain.  More importantly, it's the only place where I'm allowed
to break that pact of silence that exists between you and me, so that you
can benefit vicariously from my expression.

I get to talk about pain. So you don't have to.

(Now that I've evoked the appropriate mood of brooding
introspection, I'll go on to ruin my chances of every being taken seriously
as an artist. And I'll do it in just five short words:) My work is about
hope.

And, to further risk robbing it of all its dark mystery, I'll
attempt to interpret:

The halos of copper nails in my pieces suggest the holiness that is
potential to all of us. And while this holiness was born of pain, it's not
our pain. We don't earn it. In fact, I sense that those with whom I've
endowed these halos are either unaware or a little befuddled.

The wings of the butterfly represent Truth. You know, the Truth
that makes you free? At this point in my life, I know that I have found
that Truth. Still, my human nature makes it an uneasy fit. Maybe that's why
the wings in my work look so obviously pasted on. As humans, Truth doesn't
come naturally to us. But we can experience metamorphosis. And, while my
wings may chaffe for the rest of my life on earth, I want desperately never
to give them up.

The funny thing is that I didn't set out to ascribe such symbolism
to butterfly wings and halos of copper nails. In fact, until I wrote the
preceding paragraphs, I had never completely figured out why these elements
seemed to hold such significance for me.

Here's a possible explanation: After practicing both devout
Cynicism and my best Faith, I've decided to go with the Faith. Because it
works. Only it didn't come to me via a choir of angels. Rather, I got
knocked on my butt on the road to Damascus. It wasn't pretty.

        And so, neither is my work.