When I was a Boy

When I was 12 years old, I had an interest in painting. I studied paintings by Raphael and Monet and was smitten by their sensational landscapes. My mother had lived in Italy for a period of time and she pressed upon me that this is what good art was. If the beauty of a landscape determined the value of the art then how could I, living in New Jersey, ever create a work of art? New Jersey it seemed was a totally different animal than what the Renaissance painters were faced with. Instead of sweeping skies we had telephone poles and antennas. Instead of handcrafted ceramics ours were plastic and machine produced. I too was different as I went to high school instead of being an apprentice. Much had happened in-between the time of the Renaissance and me sitting on the porch with my acrylics. I was in the middle of something complex I couldn’t understand.