Art has always been magical to me even as a child. I remember watching my dad paint. I watched the images appear as he sipped his Swiss Colony sauterne. It was like being in an alchemist’s workshop; there was secret and forbidden knowledge. He seemed to be able to go places nobody else did; he stood at the portals of creation.
There was never any doubt in my mind about what I wanted to do and be. Being able to stand at the portals of creation without fear seemed to be the trick. I didn’t realize until much later that he gave that gift to me very early on. The way it looked to me was that alcohol fueled and was necessary to the process. At first it worked beautifully and when drugs entered the equation, I went even further out—right on the razors edge. The Universe was laid out before me. Everything I saw and read reinforced this belief. Look at all the awesome psychedelic art pouring out of the hippies. There were paintings, sculptures, posters, crafts, music, and performance. And look at history—Jackson Pollack, Gauguin, and Toulouse-Lautrec, all great artists and drunks. And–the most compelling evidence of all–my own studio full of incredible works of art.
