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While watching the Oaxaca episode of Netflix’s  Somebody Feed Phil , I was moved by a weaver at the Vida Nueva weaving cooperative , an all-women collective known for their vibrant and colorful artisanship.  Her description of the importance of color in their culture made me realize that my own colorful work comes from a similar spirit: “Todo es color.” Everything is color.  “Es nuestra vida, es nuestro entorno, es nuestra naturaleza. Los colores son alegría, los colores son felicidad, los colores son amor, los colores son vida. Las aves, las flores, todo nuestro entorno, el sol, todo es color,” she says, sagaciously so.  Per Google Translate: “It’s our life, it’s our surroundings, it’s our nature. Colors are joy, colors are happiness, colors are love, colors are life. The birds, the flowers, everything around us, the sun—everything is color.” My wife and I, who  experienced the wonders of Oaxaca recently , both cried while watching the episode. It’s a beautif...

The piece above was made with love and healing vibes for the kids and families that stay at the Ronald McDonald House in Los Angeles, so they can have something joyful to look at, and hopefully be inspired to believe that if pigs can fly, then they can get better. As a middle aged man, I wouldn’t want to jinx my future self by saying the painting this print is based on is my masterpiece, but it’s certainly the best I’ve done yet. Granted, with all the time, energy, and love I put into it, I’d be pretty upset if it wasn’t. The funny thing is, the painting wasn’t even my idea in the first place. My dear friend Kerri was talking with her rad Uncle Jay about what to do for his amazing wife Melanie’s big birthday, and they came up with the idea to create some art for the newly remodeled Ronald McDonald House, which Jay and Melanie hugely support. And since there wasn’t enough art on the walls, that seemed like a good place to start. Not sure if I’m Kerri’s only artist friend, but I’m defin...

When I was like 10 or so, my mom opened a Southwestern Art gallery in Cherry Creek, an up and coming suburb of late '80s Denver. I like to kid with my mother, who doesn't really appreciate it, that as soon as she opened the gallery, that's when I stopped getting parented.  The truth is probably closer to Mom just being ready to do something big, having parented the shit out of two boys to the point where they could be trusted to be alone... though perhaps she shouldn't have trusted us with HBO.  Regardless, freedom was a boon for me, and it turned out my older brother and I could take care of ourselves. But while Mom frequently let us stay at home to explore the wide world of Huntington Estates, she did make us hang out at her gallery, Canyon Road, quite a bit, too — which is where arguably some of her longest lasting parenting lessons took root. But at first, that's exactly what it felt like: being made to do something. That probably stems from th...

Once upon a time,  There was a gorilla named Kong, As big,  And strong, And long, As the lingering note of a well struck gong. Still, Kong was forced to leave his home, By the rarest royal of all, man. Bound, literally, for a new land, Pushed until they forced his hand, To make him something far more grand... A king.

Backed again, To where I am, Still fighting the good fight. What choice is there? As i am always right. A righteous man is all i am. And All i’ll ever be. But a righteous man In an unjust world, Is ever far from free.

This is "St. Francis with Boobies". It's a blown-out photo of a painting I'm nearly finished with, which I'm giving to my pops on the occasion of his 75th, which has already passed. I'm therefore late. Which is better than forgotten completely, as he knows all too well. Aside from being paternal, in the patron saint sense, St Francis also has another relationship to my father. He used to collect St. Francis statues carved by a New Mexican artist named Ben Ortega . It may be odd for a Jewish guy to be collecting carvings of the Patron Saint of animals and Italians (I believe in that order) but Ortega carved beautiful ones, which my mom sold at the Southwestern art gallery she owned for my 10 most formative years. (Which is why I was raised by HBO .) Many a statue ended up in my parent's collection, seeing as Dad was Mom's best customer. I guess this painting is my way of thanking Pops (and Ma!) for introducing me to Ortega's art. Not just Be...

After finally finishing a painting I’d been working on for weeks, I proudly displayed my handy-work to my wife. “Well,” I said, “Wife, what do you think?” Wife looked over said painting for all of two seconds before she decided, unequivocally, she was unimpressed. “Eh,” she said. I was shocked. How could she not like it? My hard work and ingenuity created it. It is me. I am it. We are one. If she didn’t like it, then she didn’t like me. And if she didn’t like me, who would? She’s supposed to be my biggest fan and all. Right? “Maybe I don’t have to like it.” Said Wife, rationally, like it didn’t matter in the slightest. Then she went back to doing whatever it is she does and I painted over my painting with thick black paint. Of course I disagreed with her at the time, as my instincts usually tell me to, but after six weeks of deliberating, I’ve decided that actually, against all odds, I’m wrong, and she’s right: she doesn’t have to like the painting. Because, as shocking as this is to s...