I come from a background of divorce and grit. My young mother, with dreams bigger than her reality, married a much older man. He was an airline pilot in Cuba, his third marriage, and I’d be the last of his many kids. He was 64 when I was born, my mother in her early thirties. The man was tired, worn out. They divorced when I was three, in New Jersey. Immigrants, scraping by with hard work and blue-collar jobs. My father took whatever work he could find, mostly driving trucks. The communists in Cuba had torpedoed any real chances for future success in the United States. My two brothers and I ended up on public assistance. Then my mother started dating another man, and that’s when the real chaos began. Drugs and alcohol stormed into our lives, ushering in years of domestic violence, drama, and constant moving. New schools, new roach-infested apartments every six months. One day, a neighbor had a garage sale. We couldn’t afford much, but my eyes lit up when I saw a trunk full of draw...
One of the aspects I am aware of is the difference in the quality of light that falls over south Florida as compared to where I am from in northern New Jersey. One of my favorite paintings by George Bellows captures that northern light most strikingly. His "Winter Afternoon" painting gives me comfort. In that painting he captures the view of the Palisades where I grew up. I knew well the little jagged orange that represent the morning sun on those cliffs. I can go on and on, my point is that the representation of light is a catalyst to certain moods for me. In this painting a torrential rain had fallen over my studio in the early evening. As it often rains here the clouds moved fast and it was clear again leaving the parking lot wet. Little puddles acted like a mirror to the sky above. The light danced and jumped all over my vision bringing me a sense of excitement that I had to try and capture.
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