Sometimes the color of a late afternoon sky can stop me in my tracks with a longing and almost a command to paint.

I have painted places that are familiar to me from my childhood. On weekends my father would take me to a boatyard on an inlet of Boston Harbor to work on his lobster boat. The city╝s neighborhood streets seemed far away from this nautical place, where I observed with a certain wonder a very physical sense of creating. Tools and marine paints, the smell of mineral spirits and diesel fuel, and the way men went about fixing things: this all seemed so important. During the summers in Provincetown, I met fisherman- friends of the family who would invite us out to celebrate the Blessing of the Fleet. Winches, nets, cables, masts, pulleys, hooks -- seemed dangerous but strangely exciting.

I think that as a painter I have found my way back into this mysterious world. I have been naturally drawn to shipyards and docks as my subjects, and the act of painting them is a bridge to those memories. Standing on a dock in the weather and the wind, tending my paintings, going about my work, I sense that this is what matters most; recording not only a familiar memory from my past, but a vanishing way of life as well.