The old painting hung on the wall, lived in the closet, and partied with heavy cardboard boxes during every move I’ve made over the last twenty-six years.
It was an abstract experiment of my twenty-something father in the mid-sixties before I was even a thought in this world.
He experimented with words pictures, anti-war collages, oil, pastels, watercolor, soundscapes and pen and ink drawings. He called himself a “jack of all trades, master of none.” His chaotic creative brain gave him a lot of joy but he also mourned his inability to focus on a thing long enough to master it.
