Long ago, when I lived in Nyack, I commuted to New York City on the red and tan number nine bus to the G.W.B. Bus terminal. I took the A-train downtown, making connections and coming out at Fifth Avenue and Fifty-third Street. The sidewalks were wet; they were just washed. The chauffeurs waited, double-marked. I knew I was going to set up across the street and I had a little but of stage fright all the time – and still do when I’m about to do something that is a form of public performance.
I found myself in a little dilemma about numbering my etchings a la poupee. So I thought of it as a concept that I would say that I was going to do a hundred pieces in an edition, when in actuality there might be only twenty. I was hopeful, because they were selling as quickly as I could make them. But that wasn’t so easy – it wasn’t a push-button operation.
I was younger then, 1984. There were tall sycamore trees growing along St. Thomas’s cathedral, when the walls hadn’t been washed yet, cleared of the years of car exhaust. Now, I might say I’ll do five and only do two. Maybe I’ll do five, and other times I’ll just do one and a wash.
I’m doing all the work. Somebody else can’t do it. It’s the à la poupée technique. There’s no plate for each color. It’s a manner of painting. It’s unique; most artists never do it.
Often I’ll think of the relationship I have to the subject in the artwork, the course the character took and how they got to be in the picture.