As a small town country boy, reared on the edges of the a southern church I was perplexed by the realization that art could be deeper than the nude images the librarian blacked out at school. The cognitive beginnings of my artistic journey are highlighted by the ordinary, everyday things of life, nothing grand and sacred. In my memory that beginning is summed up in an experiential adolescent trinity: the immense bible on the table in the front of the church, my parent’s divorce, and the gold macaroni eagle I made in VBS the first summer we lived with my grandmother.
