by Mick Stern, April 2004
He lived in caves in gypsy neighborhoods, cavernous studios without much light except the light from his paintings.
One night in Brooklyn he invited me to remove my shoes and walk shut-eyed across a canvas laid out on the cement floor to feel the voluptuous thickness of pigment through the feet of my soul.
It was after his blue period of potatoes and stone walls, but before the architectural facades and drawings of fire.
He lived his vocation like a medieval monk, didn’t understand the big hurry of modern life.