When I first arrived at my apartment on Washington Avenue in Brooklyn, New York, I was greeted by an older gentleman seated in a sun-bleached folding chair on the stoop of the old brick building. His cigarette, glued between his forefinger and its neighbor, smoldered and whispered. Motionless, his piercing glance shifted between mine and my suitcase until his stoic portrait began to break. Through a bona fide smile accompanied by a palpable exhale, he welcomed me to the building and to his home. So began our unspoken ritual: burnt coffee from the corner store, retrieving the two old chairs from under the stairwell, and a cigarette which seemed to burn forever. When it was time for me to head into the studio to paint, the conversation would always end the same way: “I love you, man. I’ll see you later.” To which Mike would respond, “You might not.” For some, a simple interaction such as this may be enough to provide a sense of urgency to how they choose to live their lives. For others, such as myself, it might be a sudden cardiac complication that turns the world on its head. Now, being someone who has danced with death time and time again, when the music begins to play, I squeeze out more paint.

     As I work quietly in my studio in lower Manhattan, constructing my surface and preparing the aluminum to receive the layers of oils and pigments, I recall the repetition of climbing in and out of helicopters alongside chosen family in the dry mountains of California; I recount my morning routine of ensuring that all of our equipment on the fire engine was in service and ready for the next call; and I relive the countless hours of training to provide care to the communities we swore to protect. As a byproduct of my time spent in the fire service, I have adopted a true sense of intentionality and a desire for progress within my studio practice. While it is the intimacy of my relationship with process which satiates my ever growing appetite, it is my love for life and the people with whom I share it that dictates my content. I choose to translate this love through luminous color and labored brushwork upon man-made materials that possess a longer shelf-life than man himself. That which marries my affection for process and content is my sudden reality of a decaying heart. This unforeseeable circumstance has provided me with a deeper understanding and respect for the fragility of life. In acknowledging that time is finite, I am able to live with a greater sense of urgency and intentionality. Living in this way and in community informs the content born upon my surface while my commitment to process sustains my practice. Ironic as it may be, this sense of urgency —  this mindset that “you might not” — is what provides purpose and longevity to my practice.