My father was an actor, my mother a photographer, and my stepfather a writer. I grew up in one of the many artists’ colonies scattered along the Hudson River Valley, often referred to as The Landing.
Because of the hamlet’s proximity to Manhattan, an abundance of world-class artists made Snedens Landing their home. The presence of these trailblazing creatives dates back to the late 19th century when female sculptor Mary Lawrence and her Italian French husband, fellow sculptor Francois Tonetti, settled in The Landing and served as a magnet for the scores of artists who followed for decades to come.
I remember these legends of the Landing gathered around our dining table, talking about their process and relationship to art.
Consequentially, I spent my formative years studying a broad array of artists. Artists of all kinds. Artists at the top of their game. When they were into their work, they seemed lit from within filled with joy and purpose. When they talked about a project, they led with enthusiasm.
As long as they were involved in the creative process, they seemed happier and more authentic than in their evervdav selves.
Over vears of observing. I developed a strong suspicion that an artist’s best work didn’t come from their head. In fact, it wasn’t intellectual at all.
An artist’s best work seemed to come from their heart vibrating in unison with some higher, larger force. And with this unity came a passion, a sense of purpose, an enthusiasm for life, and a devotion to seek out more of the same.
I’ve spent my life’s work dedicated to understanding that force. I’ll be talking more about this in upcoming blog posts.