It was more than twenty years ago.

My dear mother, Adele, was excited. We were at the Hollywood Bowl on a cool Los Angeles evening. Leonard Bernstein was giving a concert. The Bowl was nearly packed. People had brought wine and food for a night under the stars, and a few managed to twinkle through the dissipated haze.

The show began. Lots of applause. Adele and I were ready. We were sitting on a blanket high up on the hill. Then, instead of any familiar compositions, Bernstein confronted the audience with a variety of dissonant sounds. Popular scores from Westside Story would not play out this evening. 

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The subject of art school came up again.

Art school can teach art history, materials, and technique. Art school cannot instruct you on how to be an artist for one simple reason. No one can teach you to be original.

This is easy to understand yet for many, difficult to believe.

If you would like an inside look at art forgery, and how perceived cachet, not quality or spirit, rules the art market, I recommend The Forger’s Spell by Edward Dolnick. The incredible events described in the book took place during World War Two and are as relevant today.

In a significant way, Dolnick’s story reminds me of the film, F for Fake by Orson Welles—a must see exploration of art forgery and the art market in the hands of that artful rascal, Maestro Welles, and company. 

Recently, someone confided in me that they didn’t know whether they were an artist, or not.

Apparently, this question plagues many who would aspire to a life worth living as a creator. Here is a brief excerpt from my book, An Artist Empowered:

A thought inside your head: Am I an artist?

If you have to ask someone, then projecting insecurity shouts: I dont know. And if you don’t know, you haven’t found your dharma. Somewhere along your quest you have faltered; you didn’t follow through, which is the undoing of many would-be artists. Its not that opportunity to confirm your gift and purpose didn’t surface; you chose to dismiss it, most likely out of fear and doubt.

I make this assessment based on my experience over many years with a master painter. I had witnessed flocks of so-called artists flit into his studio on the pretense of wanting to learn more about art.

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The other day, someone who knows my paintings and writing asked me about the difference between art and craft.

There is a distinction worth understanding, not for comparison or ego masturbation, but for clarity. When a sun is born in the galactic mist, the primordial matter and energy do not go back for another go at it to see if they can do better—the sun is born fully formed and perfect, ready to take its place in the universe.

Art from the soul is like the new star. When I paint, the flow is spontaneous, permanent, and does not require improvements, tinkering, or fixing when done.

When I write, however, I am in a different realm. I know can improve upon my words and structure for clarity, so it appears fluid to the reader and that it couldn’t have been written any other way. I can craft and tweak the writing until it speaks for me. If you can improve upon it, then it’s craft.