Original Art

My bachelor's degree is in advertising design, which was a brand new major offered when I enrolled at Trenton State College (now the College of New Jersey). It was bolted onto the arts courses, and as such my curriculum was heavily art-oriented. As it was, I'd already earned several credits toward that degree by attending art courses the college had opened up to high school seniors.

Consequently I became fascinated by etching, an old, time-honored process of creating—as well as reproducing—artwork. When I learned that I could take the same class over as often as I wished to fulfill my credit requirements, I took etching, with the professor I had during my senior year in high school, Dr. Wendell Brooks.

Wendell was an excellent professor, and when I approached him with a crazy idea for a new etching process, he expressed skepticism but also encouraged me to try. My thought was to create a "soft ground" (a process to generate rich, dark shades and tones, which was ordinarily a very complicated) using masks and spray paint. To my surprise—as well as Wendell's—the process worked perfectly. And so I spent three semesters refining a technique that, to my knowledge, no one else had attempted.

The closest analogy is airbrush painting, except in negative: the heavier the spray application, the lighter the printed tone will appear. Some of the pieces I produced involved dozens of masks, as well as a variety of spray techniques. I also married my love of railroads with my artwork to create a theme.

All of my work was destroyed in my nervous breakdown in 2001... except that I'd given some of my first prints to Rick Spano. He and Linda loved them so much that they hung them on their dining room wall, where they've remained ever since I made them in the late 1970s! I recently came across photos I'd taken of those prints.

My favorite of the bunch is an adaptation of a photograph by Alfred Stieglitz called "The Hand of Man." It was my first and, I believe, best application of the spray paint soft ground technique.

My second-favorite work was based on a photograph that appeared in an obscure little book called Twilight of Steam, which examined the decline of steam power in Europe. The author titled the image "Dust and Dereliction." It was the most complex etching I'd ever made—it was particularly tricky making the roof trusses appear both lit and silhouetted.

The remainder of the prints were, to be honest, okay, but not especially memorable. This one's kind of corny:

The last of the bunch is a moody empty passenger platform scene.