Women painted on walls, in advertisements, lures for strip clubs, peering our from freeway underpasses, watching the antics of the frenzied male, the packs of roving hunters, watching us from the sides of buildings and hovering billboards, our guardian angels, the wise witches and the sirens of sexual paradises.
     From virgin to whore, from beautiful to ruined, and from the possible to the fantastic, they beguile and they forewarn, they advise and they admonish. There is something primeval, something atavistic about the male obsession with the female, this enshrinement of goddesses, this display of human trinkets.
     The colors are often saturated and the painting represents some of the best of L.A.'s best graffiti and murals.

The second project represented here is of a series of studio nudes, including a few men. In some cases the nudes wear masks; the hiding of the soul, the raw power of the primitive.
     There is some attempt to integrate image with biography, to add dimension to the viewers grasp of the person. As ever, it the beauty and magnificence of the human form that underlies the nude.
     My feeling is that nudes are difficult under any circumstance. They have already been done so well, so often by such great artists that it seems gratuitous to ever do another.
     But just as we poets have been writing the same old poem for these past ten thousand years, we never tire of seeing another human form, as if each poem, each naked human form, can only be grasped as its own unique entity, entirely unrelated to all poems and all nudes that have gone before.
     I begin to suspect that the fascination with the naked human form is the direct result of out metaphysical isolation, the unending surprise that there are other souls out there taking the same incomprehensible journey as our own.
     And so the nude peers out from its naked isolation to our own.
     And we wonder.