To keep my equipment compact and efficient, I use a French easel. Not only is it lightweight, its legs can be adjusted to stand on uneven ground. I strap the easel and assorted supplies to my motorcycle, and I'm off to have some fun.

Once I arrive on location, I begin my work by unpacking all by supplies and arranging them. I do it the same way every time I paint. That way I won't have to break my concentration to go digging for a tube of cadmium red. I clip my palette to the easel so my hands will be free, and I squeeze out generous amounts of oil color in a logical sequence. I've fashioned a brush holder out of a soup can taped to a hook-shaped length of wire. I hang it on the easel so my brushes (brights, filberts, square-tipped lettering brushes and a script brush) are just where I want them.

I begin the painting process by establishing the main lines of my composition - the horizon, a prominent utility pole or a sidewalk - using a medium-sized brush and thin paint. At this point I just want broad, simple indications of the forms, and no details. Before actually touching brush to canvas, however, I practice a few midair swings with the brush, imitating the rhythm I want. Then I place my first brush strokes with easy, fluid motions. These first guidelines express the proportions and the general flow of the composition and provide a dynamic framework that I'll use to build the painting. I deliberately curve and distort these lines to emphasize a sense of motion.

I begin the next stage by painting the most important dark areas - a doorway, for example - by loading a brush with a mixture of a shadow color and brushing it onto the painting. Next, I look back at my subject and focus on something that comes into contact with that dark area - the door frame, perhaps. I paint this part of the picture. I move to another adjacent section and paint that. I continue in this way, working around and outward until the nucleus of the painting is completed. I think of this nucleus as the seed of the painting containing all its genetic information - the darkest darks, the lightest lights, and the main halftones. As I progress to other areas of the scene, I'll compare my colors and values - my lights and darks - to this nucleus.

I continue by applying color to the background areas, using a wide bristle brush to avoid getting caught up in details. I treat the sky and distant buildings as broad and simple shapes made up of relatively cool colors and very little contrast between the values. I may then scrape some of the background out with a palette knife before throwing thicker pigment over the same areas to create a greater feeling of depth. The thinly painted objects seem farther away, while the thicker, overlapping ones jump forward.

Painting wet-in-wet, building layer over layer, stacking objects over objects, and ignoring details, I construct simple, basic forms, distorting and shaping them into a harmonious whole. A building will begin as a tilted cube - a big, rhythmic block with both a light side and a dark, shadowed area, but with no indications of windows or doors. Those details will be painted later in a way that suggests the motion I'm after. As the painting develops, I add more detail. Distant planes receive fewer details than foreground shapes. Which helps keep the background where it belongs... instead of drawing attention from the focal point of the picture. Against these background patterns, I contrast the main theme of telephone poles and wires, automobiles, Coca-Cola signs and people moving about. I give these important elements greater contrast, heavier texture and more detail.

I practice a range of paint-handling tricks that help me create variety, interest and unity in my paintings. I lay the oils on with an assortment of brushes and a palette knife, with each tool imparting its own personality. Square-tipped brights leave sharp, incisive strokes; round-cornered filberts paint soft, fluffy trails; a long-haired script brush draws fine, fragile lines; a palette knife trowels pigment in broad, flat patches. Scraping paint off the painting leaves a thin, delicate texture; smudging with my thumb makes edges disappear; and scratching with a brush handle creates crisp, decisive grooves. And then there's splattering: To splatter, I thin the paint until it runs, dip a bristle brush into it and flick the hairs of the brush toward the painting with the knife. Splattering unifies colors and creates depth and atmosphere.

Spread, scrape, smear, scratch, splatter: These are the playful ways that I manipulate pigment to inject texture, richness, and the illusion of detail. These tricks also help focus the design by giving added emphasis to important areas. They make the picture more varied and alive.

I like fresh brushwork that "stand where it lands." Brushstrokes skip around in arresting zigzags. Splatters of pigment form delightful patterns. I collect these spontaneous happenings and keep moving forward. I'm not out to duplicate the real world but, instead, to set down my gut feelings about the world. I'm not a camera; I'm an artist. I accept accidents as they appear and coax them toward a harmonious climax.

In the final stages of a my work, when pulling a painting together, I feel my way along. I soften edges to help one area recede, sharpen contrasts to bring another area forward and orchestrate the various parts of my picture until they all sing the same song.

The act of painting is automatic. When I'm actually involved in creating a picture, I don't dwell on the painting process that I've just described. I get into a lively, intuitive, childlike state and, trusting the unknown, I play. I wouldn't trade my approach for anyone else's. But then, I'm just a kid having fun!

THE END

Here's an article I wrote for The Artist's Magazine