I remember the first time I saw myself as a painter. I was in a famous black professor of art’s studio. He took me under his wing. I’m not sure if he thought of it that way but I was swept up in the magic of the smells of his studio. Charles Rogers changed my life I those moments of simply saying “do you think it is done? Are you sure you feel done? Give me another hour of that painting.” It drove me to madness and in that madness I found my style. Now when I paint I search inside for the madness to lead me. The colors are the wild beast screaming just under me heart and fingers. They are a pipeline to restfulness. I can always tell a “real” painter from a talker of art because that madness is a drug I crave and it leave a look in the eyes. A hunger that needs more then food and sleep and sex. Honestly until my Alec nothing but the madness gave peace and rest. She saved me from me. I have to push my self to the edge of madness with the brush and her heart beat is my anchor.