"Sklerokardia" 6x8" oil on illustration board Available at Every Day Original

6x8" oil on illustration board
Available at Every Day Original

As I've greatly increased my event appearances the past twelve months (14 events in 12 months), I have had to pull back somewhere, and one place has been on my work for Every Day Original. Now starting my fourth year with them, I am down to quarterly entries. This is my entry for summer.

One thing I greatly value about my work for EDO is the often spontaneous nature of what I produce for them. As well, as the work is meant to be on the more affordable side ($500 or less), it tends to be smaller. This affords me the opportunity try new things, experiment with ideas or media. My work there while not consisting of Major Works, have nevertheless been some of the more important things I've done in these four years, primarily as regards my figurative and more gallery-type of work.

So it goes with this entry. It posted today, a Thursday, but as of Monday I had no idea what I was going to do for this entry. I had started working on a small concept for a fantasy illustration type painting the week prior, but wasn't convinced enough to pursue it, so I just let the ideas stew over the weekend, and then when the concept came to me while working on another project, on Monday, I switched tracks and took Tuesday and Wednesday to create it. As such, it was displayed fresh from the oven, as it were.

 In progress, with the earlier heart rendering

In progress, with the earlier heart rendering

Working from the hip like this is exhilarating and a little scary. Having to make quick decisions and then commit to them is dangerous for client work, but here I was able to make these sorts of choices. So, early on I had conceived of the heart being held here as being a more anatomical heart rendered as stone. I had painted it up and would have continued a bit more after it had dried. After going out for a long jog, I came back Tuesday night and with the paint still wet, repainted it into the symbolic shape instead. I felt it wasn't reading clear enough and was also a little gross. 

I paused on a client's project to create this, and just as soon as I started, it seems, I finished this and am now back to that illustration! 

"Sklerokardia" is available at Every Day Original, starting on Thursday June 28th.


Painting grapes, while fun, is also something that can get old. Imagine painting tomatoes: you might paint a tomato or three in a single painting. Done that way, you might get a number of paintings out of the subject matter before you tire and turn to something else.

But you can also paint tomatoes in bunches, on the vine. Done this way, six or seven at a time, you will more quickly get fatigued. So it is with grapes. Painting a bunch of grapes necessitates a good 20-30 individual grapes being painted. And a painting of a single grape would probably be...odd.

 "Midsummer" 18x24" oil on canvas

18x24" oil on canvas

So working on vineyard paintings I've tried to change up the compositions quite a bit from piece to piece. When focusing on a single bunch, I went from back to front light. For the most recent two, I pulled the view out to reveal more landscape besides, while also picking different lighting conditions.

 First pass block-in

First pass block-in

So it was with Midsummer. I think this was a Zinfandel block, but the particular grape was less the point versus capturing a broader bit vineyard besides. As well, at this particular point in midsummer, there was this strange juxtaposition of some bunches of grapes still turning color while others were well advanced already, side-by-side. One doesn't often see that.

This painting was begun in that early August period but I didn't progress far as I had a number of lengthy interruptions to studio time. And right when I'd blocked out some time in mid-October to complete it, the Santa Rosa firestorm occurred, which included me being evacuated from my home for about a week (on an advisory basis, not mandatory, but given the immense threat, we got he heck out). When I returned, I could no longer resume work as I was butting up against other scheduled paintings.

So, it waited until early 2018, which found me painting the colors of midsummer in mid-winter instead. Nevertheless, the breaks afforded me some opportunities to reconsider the painting, so that each time I resumed it, I ended up repainting portions and making edits, all of which I think improved it.

 Walked into the studio one morning with the morning light raking starkly across the in-progress canvas

Walked into the studio one morning with the morning light raking starkly across the in-progress canvas

This painting in particular evidences a more impressionistic handling of the paint and palette than typical for me. It was possibly the most challenging aspect of the painting, but one which I enjoyed. This might be just outside my comfort range--often with experiments like this, I venture out of my artistic home, as it were, and look for things in other places that can't be found back home. While I might not prefer staying in those other spaces, there are always interesting things I find, that I bring back with me, things I would not have come across if I'd stayed in my usual zone. Perhaps this is how development of style happens.

Having produced four vineyard-specific paintings in this series, I decided that I should take a little break from the grapes. It wasn't my intention to become a vineyard painter in particular--although I imagine such a thing would prove quite popular. Rather, I intend to paint more variety, especially seeing how diverse the region of Sonoma County is. But I'm sure I'll be back--vineyards are after all a rather wonderful aspect of the region and there's a lot more to explore there.

I was honored to have this painting selected for the Oil Painters of America 2018 Annual Juried Exhibition, June 1 - September 3 at the Steamboat Art Museum, Steamboat CO. Purchase inquiries can be made there.

 Detail of final painting

Detail of final painting

From the Vault, Ertai (1997)

Let us walk back in time, shall we? March of 1997. I'd been working on Magic for a couple of years. I was 22 years old. Still working out of the extra room in my parents' house that was my studio from 1991-1998 in South San Jose, through college and until I got married and moved out. I felt generally in the swing of things, work-wise. I was still painting in Acrylic paint, which I'd started with in high school. I had a CO2 tank and an airbrush at the ready, which I used sometimes more, sometimes less. But I was still finding my way--able at times to produce legitimately decent work, but more often that not rushing through projects. Back then there was a lot of work that could be had across the burgeoning field of Collectible Card Games, and most of it paid poorly. I knew if I slowed down a bit I could produce better work but I also knew if I slowed down too much I wouldn't make very much money. Being 22 and unwise, I often rushed from piece to piece.

 Ertai (1997) 11x14" acrylic on illustration board Sold

Ertai (1997)
11x14" acrylic on illustration board


Ertai was going to be part of an odd format of oversized cards, each of which would feature a prominent character in the Rath Cycle/Weatherlight story. I was asked to paint Ertai. I think as a result of knowing that it would be printed larger than usual, I slowed down a bit. I also decided to work a bit bigger than usual. To that point, my average Magic paintings were 8x10" or smaller, though I was already making forays into painting larger: Rashida Scalebane (1996) was 16x20", for instance. I think whenever the piece was a bit more character-based and/or seemed iconic in some sense, I'd slow down and stretch out a bit. In both Ertai and Rashida (sold, btw), I also opted for vertical format paintings. I knew of course that large portions of the art would never see print, but I liked the idea of painting a bit larger for me. This kind of decision-making went into pieces that I slowed down for--I just said that there was a "for me" aspect to some pieces more than others. That dichotomy was stronger back then than now, but I think in part because of the rather indiscriminate rate I accepted work I found myself working on projects that weren't aesthetically interesting to me quite often. I often sped through those (again, unwisely), rather than turn them down, which I eventually felt confident enough to do.

  Sharpie sketch, 5.25x5" I scanned this in 2006, but have no idea if I sold it or still have it somewhere in storage. I couldn't find it, anyway.

Sharpie sketch, 5.25x5"
I scanned this in 2006, but have no idea if I sold it or still have it somewhere in storage. I couldn't find it, anyway.

In 1997 I shot reference with a Polaroid camera quite often. This meant that the lighting was often horrible and had to be created from scratch in-paint. I don't have the Polaroid for this one, honest. I probably posed for it myself because in 1997 I had the same haircut Ertai was designed to have. I also sketched for the fax machine. Email was a thing already, but art directors weren't really yet receiving sketches via email. So for about another year, I still had to fax sketches in. You could never be sure how clear the fax would come out on the other end, so it didn't make sense to do tightly rendered pencil drawings or anything. So my sketches back then were all quick and simple sharpie indications. I would end up re-drawing, a bit more carefully, the elements directly onto my illustration board before painting. This means that apart from those fax sketches, there exist very few other drawings for my early work. Very occasionally I'd do something tighter to help me think through a piece and transfer it down. I probably should've done that more. Again, I blame being 22.

Somewhere between sketch and final, I nixed the runes that were apparently planned for appearing on his magic force field or whatever. I don't know if that was based on art director feedback or what. In the end, the Magic looks like it could go either way: the beginning of something he is casting outward, or a repelling of an incoming effect. Maybe I liked that equivocal perspective.

Turning Point

"The chief beauty about time is that you cannot waste it in advance. The next year, the next day, the next hour are lying ready for you, as perfect, as unspoiled, as if you had never wasted or misapplied a single moment in all your life. You can turn over a new leaf every hour if you choose." -Arnold Bennett
  "Turning Point" 24x36" oil over acrylic on panel  Available through Haven Gallery, Long Island

"Turning Point"
24x36" oil over acrylic on panel
Available through Haven Gallery, Long Island

August of 2017 I was invited by the Wilshires, whom you may know from their spearheading IX Arts, to participate in a group show at Haven Gallery on Long Island, on the subject of Time. That's it. There was very little guidance beyond that. I was excited to be a part of the show, especially because time is a concept I spend a lot of time thinking about in various ways, and always have.

Over the next month or so I cast about for ideas, things I might want to express relating to the theme. I did have in mind that clocks and memento mori were probably not going to figure into whatever I did. I assumed other artists would have interesting things to say with those visuals, and so I decided to find my solution elsewhere. But it was proving a little difficult.

Time changed that.



October 9, 2017 I awoke and shambled to the kitchen to begin preparing coffee, as usual. My wife had spent the night in Santa Rosa with her mother. As I approached the kitchen I heard my phone ringing in the drawer where I kept it. I answered my wife's call and still half-asleep tried to process the rambling, disjointed and somewhat panicked and frustrated nature of what she was telling me. Fires. That they evacuated at 2AM. That she'd been trying to call me all night but couldn't head north to get me because the freeway was closed due to fires (her mother doesn't live anywhere near the freeway). That there were over a dozen different fires. Various buildings reported destroyed (in geographically distant parts of the region). I was trying to process the rapid-fire information she was relaying to me and finally managed to lift my sleepy gaze out the kitchen window for the first time.

  My studio, as I left it after ransacking most of my art to leave with.

My studio, as I left it after ransacking most of my art to leave with.

When I did, the hillside outside our window had giant plumes of smoke billowing off of it. And this was a good half hour from where she had been overnight.

The Santa Rosa fires--the most destructive in CA history and the most expensive in US history--occupied my life that week as I evacuated my own home, and as I discovered through that morning and the days that followed that multiple friends had lost their homes as I slept.

Upon returning home, thankful that I had one, I began to hear their stories, including my model's here, who lost the home she was living in and a pet rabbit along with all her possessions as she fled. Over the next few weeks I began to understand that in very significant ways this fire was a definitive Turning Point in these friends' lives, and would be one for me as well, even if for different reasons, having escaped loss myself.

  Thumbnail sketch, 4x2.5" pencil and acrylic

Thumbnail sketch, 4x2.5" pencil and acrylic

Ruminating on all that, I began to put together my image. 

I began to think a lot about Turning Points in general after that. About how people decide (or don't decide) to look beyond the wreckage of the past--literal or metaphorical--towards something else, something better. Away from the fallout of bad decisions, injustices, hurts or betrayals, tragedies.

The unbelievable nature of what was damaged or lost is often something we spend a lot of time oriented towards, looking at it, trying to understand and mourning continually. Sometimes Turning Points are forced upon us that sever us from a past that should have been left behind long ago. All of these topics factored into creating my painting. Can we turn away from sorrow and toward something brighter? Can the future be beautiful when all we can see is destruction?

Emphatically, I think the answer is yes.