Twenty-five years ago, November 1, 1995, I boarded an Amtrak train from Penn Station in NYC and rode to Albany, NY. I had nothing with me but a suitcase, garment bag, briefcase, box of books and a pair of bongos.
Now, all these years later, I am dug in. I have been married and divorced; became a father and co-parented and raised a brilliant and beautiful daughter; lived on Lancaster Street, Irving Street, Summit Avenue, and Elm Street; been a state worker, substitute teacher, adjunct professor, airport taxi cab driver, teaching assistant, curator or art shows; and - most importantly - became a painter.
I am grateful for the friends I have made, the loves I have had, my work, my family, my muses who inspired great art, and for simply being alive.
I don't know if I will make it another 25 years here, but it is always possible. As an Army brat, I was used to moving around every 2, 3 or 4 years. But Albany has become home, and I embrace it as such.
I am home.
