old

A horizon of chalk—black sky heavy with silence, gold earth glowing with embered breath. Between them, a thin line of turquoise, the pause where one world ends and another begins. It is not sky, nor sea, nor sand alone. It is the threshold—a doorway, where silence teaches and light remembers. Stand here long enough, and you may hear it breathe. inking and seeing for better being — https://forming20.com/

Acrylic on wood

Airbags deployed...RIP CRV 2003-2019. Drove this guy just short of 17 years. First new car I owned. Goodbye old friend.

Eons old pen and ink

Two wicker chairs in the sun. One for the waiting, one for the hoped-for. The table between them holds its silence, its place set for bread or talk. I draw what is here— lines quick and unerasable— and what is not here, her presence, waits with me in the white of the page.

A Brief Pause at the Edge of Becoming It seems I am always seeking a place to sit— not just to rest the body, but to settle the soul. Yet even in stillness, Gary Brecka’s words whisper: “The quickest way to old age is the aggressive pursuit of comfort.” So I do not stay long. I walked until I found a picnic table beneath a canopy of bare-limbed trees, branches like open hands waiting for green. The blue spruces nearby— stoic, unchanged, whispering that some things endure. I sketched. Not perfectly. Not for anyone’s praise. Just a mark to say: I was here. Alive in this in-between. Waiting. Listening. Not for leaves— but for something truer than comfort. Thank you for joining me in this small noticing. A moment borrowed from the rush. A table. A tree. A thought. A gift.

Taking some inspiration from some things me and my girlfriend talked about regarding old highs in one’s past and asking yourself if revisiting them later on in life is worth it… the usual stuff I guess.

Slug monster child excitedly holding caveman head balloons.

New year, same old stuff from me folks.

loving autumn colors this year.

The tables were covered in white paper. Crayons, pastels, and smooth sticks waited quietly. Then came Lucy’s glittery purse—her 8-year-old hands had filled it with stones to pass along, one by one, to the strangers around the table. We traced them. Pushed them. Held them. Then we let the colors lead: -Red for emotion. -Yellow for curiosity. -Blue for memory. Each color came with music, with story, with space. At the Museum of Wisconsin Art, we made marks not for meaning but for presence. Thank you to Ann Marie and MOWA for the invitation and trust. And thank you to the participants—some new friends, some old students—for showing up and making lines that listened before they spoke.

4 year old Henry engaged fully with thick applications of watercolor and oil pastels. He said it was a stormy sea with a small boat. This was at the onset of the pandemic, when we were all a bit uncertain and confined to our homes. I was reminded of an insight by Kierkegaard written in the early 1800s: “When the sailor is out on the sea and everything is changing around him, as the waves are continually being born and dying, he does not stare into the depths of these, since they vary. He looks up at the stars. And why? Because they are faithful – as they stand now, they stood for the patriarchs, and will stand for coming generations. By what means then does he conquer changing conditions? Through the eternal: By means of the eternal, one can conquer the future, because the eternal is the foundation of the future.”

What happens in your life that causes you to be surprised? I have a friend who told me that no one is blind-sided. I also have a friend who tells me: 'The greatest lies we tell are the ones we tell ourselves'. It is easy to filter in a certain kind of lie that support these ideologies. I have a very valued friend who tells me that we live in an upside-down world. What is real? What is upside-down? Draw what you see. draw what you know. Be authentic. Peace.

Pineapple monster deep in thought. Second is my 4-year old’s version. ☺️

tiny gold and tan flowers on rich brown

bright, warm colored floral pattern

Drawings I made for a commission of the five stages of the Walking Wall installation by Andy Goldsworthy at the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art in Kansas City. What an inspiring journey to walk and watch it move.

Micron pen and colored pencil on paper

I did a lot of cats in the Daniel Smith green gold watercolor. Definitely a fun color!

Against the weight of a storm-dark sky, tender stems lean forward—some bending, some breaking, some still reaching. They hold their fire at the tips, waiting to bloom, waiting to burn, waiting to belong to light. Perhaps this is all of us: stretching through shadows, searching for the thin, golden line that divides earth from eternity.

Acrylic painting Abandoned buildings

Neighbor's old barn

Years ago, I sketched Gibby at work—pencil in hand, bold strokes alive with motion. I caught them from over the shoulder: just the back of their head, the soft curve of their face, and that focused arm bringing something into being. They were 9 or 10 then, already showing the spark of creativity and concentration that pointed toward who they’d become. Now in their mid-20s, Gibby is thoughtful, insightful—quick to listen, slow to speak, and wired to process the world with care. Their path has been remarkable: two degrees in 2.5 years, no debt. That didn’t happen by accident. It took grit, German immersion schooling, 16 college credits earned in high school, and testing out of 24 more once at university. That’s Gibby—quietly determined, resourceful, and steady. But their story isn’t just academic. Gibby’s always been gifted with their hands—drawn to set design, locksmithing, welding. Trades they wanted to pursue early on, and still feel pulled toward. They’re at a bike shop now. It’s not the dream, but it fits: their hands know how to build, repair, and reshape the world. There’s been frustration—maybe even anger—that we didn’t let them follow the trade route right away. I get that now. Life veers, and sometimes the path chosen isn't the one imagined. But Gibby’s resilience—their ability to adapt and press on—is what I admire most. They’ve embraced their journey with honesty, stepping into their identity as a they/them person, unafraid to define success in their own terms. That takes courage. I’m proud of them—not for a résumé, but for who they are. This old drawing isn’t just a memory—it’s a thread connecting past to present. A reminder that the creative spark, the steady hands, the deep soul I saw back then is still shining. So here’s to you, Gibby: the kid who sketched with fire and the adult who still shapes the world with quiet brilliance. Your value has never been about the path you’re on. It’s about the person you are. And I’ll be here, cheering you on—every step of the way.

This is a pre procreate drawing. I’ve always liked the way this guys face turned out

Lino cut print over pastel. The story goes: The bird fell in love with the whale the first time she saw him break through the ocean’s surface, sunlight dancing on his back. From high above, she sang to him, and deep below, he answered with a song as old as the tides. She longed to dive, to join him in the rolling blue. He wished to rise, to fly beside her in the endless sky. But air and water would not trade places. So each day, at dawn and dusk, they met at the edge of their worlds—she on the wind, he in the waves—singing a love song carried by the breeze and the tide, never together but never apart.

Old one-part of my attempt to get published. I think it’s hilarious but sadly others do not!