Acrylic on Canvas. 51x48cm (20 x 19)” I think this will be the last of this series.
View more work at Saatchi Art, and on may web portfolio: ART BY WILLARD For photos on this blog, click MY ART on the right panel and scroll down.


Points of Light


I picked up my painting from the Stonewall@50 show. Leaned against a column in the subway, waiting for the train. A man in a Septa uniform stopped… asked me about it.
“I used to do art,” he said. Train going by the other direction. Noise … couldn’t speak, waited.
“I had an art teacher in elementry school. She helped me. Made me feel I could do something. Entered me in a school contest… I was one of 3… in the whole school.”
–Do you still make art? I asked
“I took some classes at Fleischers.”
–Used to be free, I said. Not anymore.
I asked if he still made art.
” It’s all work now. No time.”
–I know. I wanted to be an artist. From time I was able to hold a crayon. Then when I was in my early 30’s, I took a 40 year detour. Took it up again when I was 70. Have made more than a thousand pieces since. Never too late.
“I saw this painting, and thought… there’s a reason it’s there for me to see. Thanks… you never know when you’re gonna find the kind of information you need. That you’ve been waiting for. ”
And my train came… and he left.

This was Soc Sec deposit day. Spent much of it, shopping. At the ACME, man in front of was pulling items from the bags they’d filled for him. Could see he didn’t have enough money. Saw a $20 bill he was holding…
I told him–how much you short?
” A dollar 20.”
I looked in my wallet. Empty! Cause I was gonna get cash back when I paid… but fished for change. Gave him what he needed. He was all.. give you phone and I can get it back to you…
I told him,  this has happened to me. And now you helped me pay back someone else’s kindness.  time will come. and someone will be there you can help in turn. That’s how it works, right? Or should? That’s the kind of world we want to live in, isn’t it?

This kinda thing happens. And I keep it to myself. I think…I don’t’ know what I think.. but it changes me, changes how I see things.
Invisible things nobody else sees. And no one else should see it.

But sometimes… it’s ok to share it.


Your children don’t have a chance in hell…

Read this. 

July.. yet another warmest ever month.

What are doing about it? What am I doing about it? I don’t know–but neither of us can do shit alone. We have to come together and shut everything down. EVERYTHING. Those in power are out to kill us all.. including themselves, if they weren’t too fucking stupid to see it.

There is no time for measured well thought out incremental actions.

It’s *%$$@ shit up and *&44^ shit down…. there’s nothing to lose. We’ve already lost!

Consider yourself already dead–no–look at your children if you have any–they are going to die miserably before their times. Because you didn’t do shit to stop this.

It will happen. Every second you hesitate to take up full scale revolutionary action–is condemning them to suffer what no generation has ever suffered before.. and never will again. Cause there’ll be no one left.

Overstory. Richard Powers

Image result for public doman photos Redwoods

A novel, where a character dies and revives — listening to voices no one else can hear. Where another is a parpalegic who spends his life coding and living in a cyber dream world, and yet another is married to silence at the death of his family. There is one on the autistic spectrum, who spends his life studying why people do what they do, and a scientist who is almost deaf, who goes years before anyone hears what she has learned. Yet another, felled by a stroke, who can manage only a slngle word at a time–and those, mostly unintelligible.

Whether fiction, or philosophy–or work of art–the one question that links auther, thinker, artist– to their work, the question that hovers over the work, informs everything else one might ask about it:

why did they do this?

What was the unspeakable, imageless, aporia of thought that formed the need and provocation to make this thing?


On p. 383, Ray–the character who has been stroked speechless–is thinking –while his wife reads to him from Anna Karenina:

<To be human is to confiuse a satifying story with a meaningful one, and to mistake life for something huge with two legs. No: life is mobilized on a vastly larger scale,  and the world is failing precisely because no novel can make the contest for the world seem as compleeing as the struggles between a few lost people. >

Try again. Fail again. Fail better

Imagine … this one child…

Overcrowding at DHS holding facility in McAllen, Texas, USA - 10 Jun 2019

For the children in those concentration camps who are deaf, or speak only their indigenous language, and do not speak or understand Spanish, they are left with no ability to communicate with most of their fellow prisoners–and maybe, none at all–and no communication with the outside world.

Imagine this!

Put yourself in the place of those children–of ONE of those children–thrown into a living hell, no language but that in your own head, surrounded by an unintelligible chaos.

Imagine this!

Close your eyes and put yourself inside that ONE CHILD–and tell me, how anything could justify what WE are doing to just that ONE CHILD!


9″ x 12″ Watercolor, ink

It’s all a passage. Winding, hallways with so many doors, opening to so many other hallways, can only chose one of the many, and then again, one of the many, and then again, and the maze, from passage to passage, no matter how elaborate the labyrinth, always brings one to the same end.
I see so many people on the street–all… all living in a dream. They don’t see–the passage — this time — is for all of us. Old men like me. The babies in the strollers… all of us. There will be no posterity to remember us after. No one to wonder at the marvelous horses and bison on the cave walls. Bach… on one of the voyagers…
on it’s way to nowhere
This is it.
The end.
Because we are so determined that it will not, cannot happen.. guarantees… that it will.


View more work at Saatchi Art, and on my web portfolio: ART BY WILLARD For photos on this blog, click MY ART on the right panel and scroll down.

The End IS coming…


If some great flash of understanding were to come over the whole population of the earth — if however billion humans there are on the planet now–were suddenly to see as clearly as Greta Thunberg what we are facing in the not at all distant future–hundreds of millions would drop what they were doing, leave their jobs, leave their studies and schools, abandon their cars, take up crutches and walkers and stream out of hospitals and nursing homes… take to the streets–not to demonstrate, but to charge the corporate masters–the climate deniers, their political servants– accepting whatever horrendous losses their defenders might unleash, swarming over them, destroying them utterly… in the slim hope that a remnant might survive to begin again…
… it would be their rule and custom, if they should succeed, that anyone who mentioned the word ‘profit,’ who ever again should seek to gain advantage over their neighbor, they would be set upon and torn to pieces and fed to rats as a warning.
That’s what I imagine, when I try to think what a just response to this crisis would look like.
That would be a just end to capitalism.

#1042 Fractures!

48″ x 36″ Acryilic on synthetic canvas. I found this ‘canvas’ on the street–someone who had moved. Very little tooth. those corrugated rectangles were glued fast, couldn’t remove.  Likely some commercially mfd ‘home decor,’ someone had covered over, intending to paint over.#1042

View more work at Saatchi Art, and on my web portfolio: ART BY WILLARD For photos on this blog, click MY ART on the right panel and scroll down.

Ten Years Ago, May Day….

Walking stick.JPG

… in Baltimore, after street theater by Media Mobilizing Project at the inner harbor, I followed the march to City Hall, led by a band with a New Orleans sound, shedding bits of costume and streamers along the way. At some point I picked up some ribbons and feathers, and tied them to the tree branch walking stick I was carrying.

It was magic.

In the days and weeks that followed, I began to add to the stick, things I found on the street: ribbons, strings, can tabs…

It changed my life.

I lost that one, my Shaman Stick… and almost every year since, would lose another one. Reading on the bus or El, lost in my thoughts. Each time–back to Morris Park to find another branch. Dress it in what I would find, or people would give me to hang on it.

This is the one I carry now. The sixth or seventh one… I lose count. I mended it when it broke.. like my own broken leg. Screwed metal strips to hold he break. Wrapped strips of canvas, soaked in Modpodge, around the wound. Like a permanent cast (the orange band in the middle).

At some point, as I add Found Things to each new stick, the magic of the first one–the Shaman Stick–finds it’s way to the new one. I don’t usually take it with me to demonstrations… Cops. But I did today… and on the way home, remembered… that it’s been ten years. May Day.

Magic is real.