I have never been afraid of lonely places, and even with its large population, New York City is filled with them. Unlike other areas I’ve lived in, an urban spread gets into the blood, not simply the thoughts of those who live and walk its streets every day, but in the amalgamation of the small microcosms that pockmark each neighborhood. Being a part of its consciousness gifts you with unspoken promise. The history of such a journey spans generations and empires. Love and loss and fresh beginnings all spinning around in the grand mixture. All stopping independently of each other, only to start over at a different mark, at a different time. It becomes transcendent. It takes the form of humanity, of the mind of the collective consciousness.

The setting where Art is created is just as important as the creator. It’s the foundation that everything else is built upon. Was it drawn in the country? In a city? In poverty? Among friends? Alone in a dark room? It all creates the feeling which the artist can focus on through the work. It’s something, I feel, most take for granted. The inspiration for this series is the streets, alleys, walls, construction sites, all the places where the echoes from the old city peek through the rot of even older times. I always thought there was a satisfying balance between what is seen and what has disappeared, screaming to be filled with the imaginations of whoever passes by. Plywood painted with “Post No Bills,” scattered with advertisements from a decade ago, is a common scene. Time does the cleaning.