My father has just turned 85 and he is lively in both body and spirit. One of the things that keeps him going is his love for art. In his studio, he has numerous works, and free wall space has become a rarity in his home.
My father has always been skilled at drawing and painting, skills that were obviously not passed down to me. In turn, I learned to photograph. He paints with a brush, while I paint with light. We share the need to express ourselves creatively, and the act of creating runs deep in both of us.
We experiment within our respective art forms and we both embrace failure in our quest for new forms of expression. I would imagine that my father discards or re-paints just as many sketches as I delete and discard photos that simply didn’t work. The successful works are only the tip of the iceberg. Below lies a pile of good attempts.
I grew up in a home where the workbench had a central place in the living room. It still sits there in my childhood home, reminding me of the value of craftsmanship and the joy of creating.
Hang in there, old man!
