Biscuit Street Preacher
of a grey and industrial place. I once asked my Mother which hospital I was born in and she could not even remember its name. Both my Mother and Father were on their own journey seeking knowledge and running from life in a steel mill or cotton field in Birmingham Alabama. My Father was a songwriter, a hopeless romantic and a hustler; we spent many long hours on the road rolling into one growling town after the other. Our cargo, the dreams of grandeur my Father carried. In addition we had plenty of empty boxes to fill with the dreams that Dad was forced to abandon along the way. My Mother tagged along for a while, slightly addicted to the excitement of living like gypsies. Once she finally got her fill, the day came when she boarded a Greyhound bus in Louisiana, bound for Philadelphia. She left with two suitcases, one packed with my Fathers broken promises and the other half full of her own wilting dreams. I heard that she had managed to become a small time lounge singer and her desire for glamour and nightlife lead her to Las Vegas where we will eventually cross paths again.
By the time I turned six years old now Dad and I had put hundreds of notches on the fan belts of our 1972 Midnight Blue Pontiac
Firebird for every mile traveled. The roads traveled would end up in the Deep South. Our survival depended on kindness and dim wits
of the common man. Everywhere we went my father seemed to know someone and everyone knew him. Waiting for him in the
parking lots of these honky-tonks and dive bars, he would play guitar, sing his songs and gently hustle for a few more dollars to keep
us going. To pass the time I would doodle and draw to the odd glow of a battery powered fluorescent lantern and neon beer signs. I even attempted to write lyrics for my Father’s songs, he always acted excited about the words and pretended to use them.We had nothing but each other, our imagination, and an appreciation the small details in life. Details like the way a cup of coffee smells, or the best homemade biscuits and gravy in some roadside diner. Details like a shadow the sun makes on the wall in the morning is very different than the one it makes in the afternoon. I learned to understand the importance of a tin can or a plastic bottle, how to make guitar picks from an empty milk jug. I learned to notice bolt patterns on the bridges we would pass over. I began to hear the wind through trees versus a breeze through a cracked window. All these things have come together as one to give me my most valuable possession, my state of mind. So my doodles and lyrics turned into sketches and poems then continued growing into paintings, philosophies and statements. Finally the paintings have become ideals and stories. I am truly grateful for my experiences as they have molded me onto what I am today.To say that I am an Artist with profound and original statements and philosophies would be incredibly ignorant and vain. Of course I have something to say, but I am under no delusion that I am completely original. Generation after generations has successfully reinvented the wheel for thousands of years. Billions of minds have already passed through this world generating the same theories and insights as the generation before them. From the Greek slave and storyteller Aesop or Aristotle to the brilliant minds of our modern day thinkers such as George Berkeley, Martin Luther, or Warren Buffet. What would one say to someone like John Locke or even Galileo if the chance were given? I believe that there is more to be discovered. But there is far more to be re-discovered, that tragically gets forgotten with-in the complacency our modern youth. My work and my paintings are merely an interpretation of the world the way I see it, full of stories and the details we step over every day. Too often we become absorbed in our relentless pursuit of technology and engrossed in the routine of our daily lives. There has to be more than this.There has to be more to life than getting up in the morning, going to work, figuring out what to make for dinner, choosing a half hour
sitcom to make us chuckle, showering, going to bed and doing it all over the next day. I will never be Ghandi, I do not have
the answers to life, I am merely a passenger just like you, waiting and wondering what happens next. In the mean time I hope to
inspire and entertain with my Art as I continue to ask the same questions as one everyone else.
Biscuit Street Preacher