"Who was it to first carve an image in stone,
not knowing in the moment that Art was born?"
— KM
"Chiseled Musings"
Every single being who has ever been born onto this planet has a story. That tiny ant on your kitchen counter is coming from someplace and going somewhere. The Brontosaurus, who looked skyward sixty-five million years ago, had no idea what was about to hit him. And on and on it’s been since star stuff and primordial goop combined to create everything that breathes.
Those who scratched on the wall of a cave or painted on the ceiling of a chapel were performing a singular task: telling a story, trying to explain and share their experience — their vision. The function of art, after all, is to illuminate what it is (or was) like to be here — having our turn.
To sit around a fire and tell a tale, be it the shapes seen in those mysterious sparkling lights in the night sky, the events of the day, the history of long-gone ancestors, or things that go bump in the night, is a time-honored tradition. Everything that walks, flies, swims, crawls, and slithers has a need to be heard — yes, even that ant has something to say — to another ant.
It would seem that we are all born artists. From the beginning, children have sat with a stick and a patch of ground, a pencil and paper, a pad and crayons — each one finding a way to document their brand-new view of the world, but somewhere along the way, many put their magic wand down.
Not every person feels the need to further describe their world or explain their journey — they go about their lives without that longing — but some are compelled to do so, and for them, this need can be a blessing and a curse; they are irrevocably tasked with a web to untangle, a puzzle to deconstruct, a mystery to unravel. This can be an arduous task… a thorny path. But what does that person do instead? Who of that ilk, those driven to do some serious explaining, wants to come to the end of their turn only to finish up with a blank page?
I have been given my turn, and from early on, I’ve felt that I have some serious explaining to do. Back in the cave, all one needed to do was scratch an image on a big rock with a little rock — a simple, or maybe not so simple, endeavor depending on the ability of the scratcher and the depth and complexity of the story to be scratched. Did that ancient artist feel the need to explain his or her world and all of its mystery? Apparently so — the scratchings are everywhere, in lesser and greater detail and splendor.
Why is it that some of us can’t just go about our day not needing to untangle anything, while some feel no need to explain their experience… no compulsion to chronicle the human condition? Are some of us simply hard-wired to create — to show and tell?
If you could ask Shakespeare or Michelangelo, would they have an answer to this question? Listen to Hamlet, or have a look at the Pietà. Did these artists have a choice whether or not to give their idea a go? It would seem the answer is likely — no.
Do all who create and chronicle suffer through their process? While mired in his tangled web, Van Gogh cut off his ear — he was a tormented being, ergo a tortured artist, but on the B-side, The Beatles seemed to be having a pretty good time… well, till the end.
Some create in a state of bliss, while others suffer through the process. The path is different for everyone. Some aren’t focused on the path, while others can’t stop analyzing, scrutinizing, and burrowing into theirs.
These are the thoughts that would often meander through my mind each time I knew it was time to sit down and do the work. Meandering was so much easier than taking that seat and confronting my blank page, but as the years passed, I’ve come to terms with the tangle and all the long and lonely hours of explaining it. I’ve settled into what I need to do with my turn. I’ve accepted the fact that I need to share what it’s like to be here. When that epiphany came, the curse was lifted.
The tangled web now serves to catch and hold my musings while I go about filling all that white space. Have I joined the ranks of The Bard, who asked, “To be, or not to be?” and the Master who banged out the Sistine Chapel? It’s an unthinkable notion, but — I have joined the club, and I’m putting in the hours. As I chisel these words, I’ve taken a seat at the table, as have all who’ve written their musings, stepped onto a stage, chipped away at a chunk of marble to reveal its treasure, put brush to canvas, an eye to a viewfinder, and those who have created a most magical gift — music.
There came a time, early on, when I felt at home taking my place at the fire and weaving a tale in its glow — it’s the scratching it on the rock part that always felt like a chore and sometimes still does.
But now that blank page calls to me, it’s become a door that opens to the thorny path, and once I step onto it, the trees and the birds and the buzzing of the bugs talk to me; they guide me. And though, at times, I’ve emerged from the path scratched and bloodied by its thorns and bramble, I am mostly illuminated for having walked it. And when I hold that sharpened rock, it feels good in my hand. I’ve come to understand its magic, and that’s the blessing.
The truth is, we are all artists; we never really let go of the crayon. We bring children into the world and teach them its ways, we plant and nurture Mother Earth’s bounty, we build, we invent, we create, we commune with the world and its inhabitants, and we share our experiences: our happiness, our pain, our adventures, our travails, and our bliss. Life is art—for most.
One way or another, we affect the world we inhabit. We have our turn. We tell our story.
"Chiseled Musings"
Every single being who has ever been born onto this planet has a story. That tiny ant on your kitchen counter is coming from some place and going somewhere. The Brontosaurus who looked up sixty-five million years ago had no idea what was about to hit him. And on and on it’s been since star stuff and primordial goop combined to create everything that breathes.
Those who scratched on the wall of a cave or painted on the ceiling of a chapel were performing a singular task: telling a story, trying to explain and share their experience — their vision. The function of art, after all, is to illuminate what it is (or was) like to be here — having our turn.
To sit around a fire and tell a tale, be it the shapes seen in those mysterious sparkling lights in the night sky, the events of the day, the history of long-gone ancestors, or things that go bump in the night is a time-honored tradition. Everything that walks, flies, swims, crawls, and slithers have a need to be heard — yes, even that ant has something to say — to another ant.
It would seem that we are all born artists. Every child sits with a pad and crayons, documenting their brand-new view of the world, but somewhere along the way, many put that crayon down.
Not every person feels the need to further describe their world or explain their journey — they go about their lives without that longing — but, some are compelled to do so, and for them, this need can be a blessing and a curse; they are irrevocably tasked with a web to untangle, a puzzle to deconstruct, a mystery to unravel. This can be an arduous task… a thorny path. But what does that person do instead? Who of that ilk, those driven to do some serious explaining, wants to come to the end of their turn only to finish up with a blank page?
I have been given my turn, and from early on I’ve felt that I have some serious explaining to do. Back in the cave, all one needed to do was scratch an image on a big rock with a little rock — a simple, or maybe not so simple, endeavor depending on the ability of the scratcher and the depth and complexity of the story to be scratched. Did that ancient artist feel the need to explain his or her world and all of its mystery? Apparently so — the scratchings are everywhere, in lesser and greater detail and splendor.
Why is it that some of us can’t just go about our day not needing to untangle anything, while some feel no need to explain their experience; no compulsion to chronicle the human condition? Are some of us simply hard-wired to create — to show and tell?
If you could ask Shakespeare or Michelangelo, would they have an answer to this question? Listen to Hamlet or have a look at the Pietà. Did these artists have a choice whether or not to give their idea a go? It would seem the answer is likely — no.
Do all who create and chronicle suffer through their process? While mired in his tangled web, Van Gogh cut his ear off — he was a tormented being, ergo a tortured artist, but on the B-side, The Beatles seemed to be having a pretty good time… well, till the end.
Some create in a state of bliss, while others suffer through the process. The path is different for everyone. Some aren’t focused on the path, while others can’t stop analyzing, scrutinizing, and burrowing into theirs.
These are the thoughts that would often meander through my mind each time I knew it was time to sit down and do the work. Meandering was so much easier than taking that seat and confronting my blank page, but as the years passed, I’ve come to terms with the tangle and all the long and lonely hours of explaining it. I’ve settled into what I need to do with my turn. I’ve accepted the fact that I need to share what it’s like to be here. When that epiphany came, the curse was lifted.
The tangled web now serves to catch and hold my musings while I go about filling all that white space. Have I joined the ranks of The Bard, who asked, “To be, or not to be?” and the Master who banged out the Sistine Chapel? It’s an unthinkable notion, but — I’ve joined the club, I’m putting in the hours. As I chisel these words I’ve, at least, taken a seat at the table, as have all who’ve written their musings, stepped onto a stage, chipped away at a chunk of marble to reveal its treasure, put brush to canvas, an eye to a viewfinder, and those who have created a most magical gift — music.
There came a time, early on, when I felt at home taking my seat at the fire and weaving a tale in its glow; it comes so easily to me — it’s the scratching it on the rock part that always felt like a chore, and sometimes still does.
But now that blank page calls to me; it’s become a door that opens to the thorny path, and once I step onto it the trees, and the birds and the buzzing of the bugs talk to me; they guide me. And though, at times, I’ve emerged from the path scratched and bloodied by its thorns and bramble, I am mostly illuminated for having walked it. And when I hold that sharpened rock, it feels good in my hand. I’ve come to understand its magic, and that’s the blessing.
The truth is, we are all artists; we never let go of the crayon. We bring children into the world and teach them its ways, we plant and nurture Mother Earth’s bounty, we build, we invent, we create, we commune with the world and its inhabitants, we share our experiences: our happiness, our pain, our adventures, our travails, and our bliss. Life is art—for most.
One way or another we affect the world we inhabit. We have our turn. We tell our story.
Nothing human is foreign to us.”
Actor
From Then To Now...
As a kid growing up in Brooklyn, I discovered the movies. A decade and a half later, I wanted in. When one finds something to do with one’s life, one goes to work. One would hope. I hoped. So, I took it one step at a time. And each step mired me deeper into “The Life.”
Here is what and where and how it happened.
My life in show business has been an eclectic, mixed bag of jobs. Whether or not this has served me well is a debate I often find myself engaging in — with myself.
Along the way, inside that mixed bag, I’ve had the opportunity to work with some very interesting characters. Allow me to drop some names. They run the gamut from legendary jazz greats Dizzy Gillespie and Dexter Gordon, to Boxing champ Mike Tyson, radio icon Casey Kasem, Eric Idle of Monty Python, Mark Hamill a.k.a Luke Skywalker, and to round things off, Winnie the Pooh, Daisy and Donald Duck, Bugs Bunny, Tweedy Bird, and SpongeBob SquarePants. Like I said: diverse.
It all started at The American Academy of Dramatic Arts in New York City, where, on minute one of day one, I experienced the shock of what it was like to stand in front of a group of strangers, those being my fellow students, and improvise a scene — to “act.”
It was very different from sitting in front of a TV or a movie screen and watching other people do it — it was a shock to the psyche. A bizarre feeling thing for a person to do. But, do it, I did.
After a year at that renowned institution, whose alumni included Spencer Tracy, Grace Kelly, Kirk Douglas, Lauren Bacall, Robert Redford, and Aunt Bea from the Andy Griffith Show, I found myself, with my 8 by10 glossy headshot stapled to my mostly invented resume in hand, pounding the proverbial sidewalks, hoping for the first audition that would land me my first acting job. After the requisite pounding, the first gig came, and I was officially an actor. The grand adventure had begun. Then came off and off-off-Broadway, Summer Stock, and Improvisational Theatre. And the hope of eventual movie stardom.
After a few wonderful years on stage, and the thrill and camaraderie of being a New York actor, the allure of assuming the identity of another human faded. But I still wanted more time in the world of theatre, and when I was given the opportunity to direct a play, that rang a bell, and I answered its call. Another thrilling aspect of “The Life” was having its way with me. However, big-time success in the theatre is elusive… so many feel chosen, and so few get the call.
And while waiting for the big call, I felt compelled to explore my next logical career move: film. I soon realized I wanted to be a movie director. A filmmaker.
After a two-year crash course at NYU, I was offered the position of the assistant in their Continuing Education Film Production Program (originally held, ten-years prior, by Martin Scorsese). Two semesters later, I was teaching. As gratifying, fun, and educational as it was, I found myself in an ongoing quandary: for four years I stood in a classroom explaining how movies are made, and how to make them, while I saw my ex-students’ names appearing in movie credits. They were finding their way in. I wasn’t. The tide needed to turn. I resigned.
My first job was as a cinematographer, and came in the summer of 1979, documenting the musicians who worked their magic on the streets of Manhattan. The film won First Prize in The American Film Festival. Our little Visual Essay was up against corporate films in our category with twenty times the budget — and we won! It just goes to show that a small project with the proper amount of heart and soul can prevail.
On the heels of that success, I created a Production Company where I wrote, photographed, and directed a number of Public Service Announcements for various charitable organizations, and an occasional Industrial Film, most notable among those, the introduction of the Compact Disc for CBS Records. (Quite the marvel, back in the day.) Competition in that field was fierce, but I managed to make ends meet. To supplement my income (actually, for fun), I took a job in the evenings doing sound at a friend’s Greenwich Village Jazz club, where I got to work with many of the world’s Jazz luminaries.
Amidst all this, I decided it was time to try my hand at Screenwriting. A best pal and I sat down in my studio apartment in the West Village and wrote a couple of movies. We tried to go the independent route, with me at the helm as director. We came oh-so close, but it wasn’t to be. Show biz, I was learning, is lotto.
The Jazz job ran its course and my Production Company eventually folded up its tent, and soon I found myself working in the world of big-time TV commercials, though this time as a smaller fish in a very big pond. It was in that pond where I worked with boxing champ, Mike Tyson. We formed a curious kind of friendship during that production. Maybe it was our both being from Brooklyn, maybe we found each other entertaining, but whatever the reason, I found him to be, deep down, a gentle soul in spite of his ferocious reputation.
Then a big call finally did come. Through a connection, who happened to be my brother, (connections can make all the difference), I was offered a job at NBC in Los Angeles.
I was to be a post-production supervisor for their on-air promotion department, working on Seinfeld, ER, Friends, and every show and movie the network aired. It wasn’t a job I would ever have envisioned, or really wanted, but Hollywood beckoned and westward I went. After two years at NBC, another call came – and it was from Warner Bros.
Before I could say “wow,” I was on the studio lot directing voice actors (those people you hear narrating movie trailers, documentaries, commercials, and TV promos). It wasn’t too long before I was given the assignment of directing cartoon actors, among them, the aforementioned SpongeBob.
The Warner Bros. experience went on for ten years, though very early on, I realized I was losing track of my dream career as a writer and film director. At the halfway point, I knew I was selling out, but it was difficult to walk away from “success.” I stayed for five more long years, and finally, I had to let it go. It was time to say goodbye to Hollywood.
I decided to head home to New York and recapture my dream. I moved to the famed artists’ hamlet of Woodstock, New York, dusted off and rewrote the old screenplays, started another and wrote a play. I landed a two-picture movie deal, and I lost the movie deal. That was a heartbreaker. Show business can hurt. The Brass ring is painfully illusive.
My plan is to continue down the long and winding road I chose decades ago, but of late I’ve felt a need to share my musings. Each of us has our story, and I want to tell mine.
My hope is that whoever lands here finds something of interest, value, comfort, amusement, or maybe even inspiration. It’s a tall order, but why not give it a go? Why not add this endeavor to my resume?
I’ve come to realize that the evolution of a dream takes you where it will. So, for now, it’s time for me to settle in and just let the stories flow, never forgetting my roots, and knowing that this pursuit, in its own way, is also Show Biz, and there’s no business like it.
So, on it goes…
From Then To Now...
Here is what and where and how it happened.
My life in show business has been an eclectic, mixed bag of jobs. Whether or not this has served me well is a debate I often find myself engaging in — with myself.
Along the way, inside that mixed bag, I’ve had the opportunity to work with some very interesting characters. Allow me to drop some names. They run the gamut from legendary jazz greats Dizzy Gillespie and Dexter Gordon (this list is a long one), to Boxing champ Mike Tyson, radio icon Casey Kasem, Eric Idle of Monty Python, Mark Hamill a.k.a Luke Skywalker, and to round things off, Winnie the Pooh, Daisy and Donald Duck, Bugs Bunny, Tweedy Bird, the Robot from Lost In Space, Homer Simpson, and SpongeBob SquarePants — to name a few. Like I said: diverse.
It all started at The American Academy of Dramatic Arts in New York City, where, on minute one of day one, I experienced the shock of what it was like to stand in front of a group of strangers, those being my fellow students and our acting teacher, and asked to improvise a scene — to “act.”
It was very different from sitting in front of a TV or a movie screen and watching other people do it — it was a shock to the psyche; such a bizarre feeling thing for a person to do.
But, do it, I did.
After a year at that renowned institution, whose alumni include Spencer Tracy, Grace Kelly, Kirk Douglas, Lauren Bacall, Robert Redford, and Aunt Bea from the Andy Griffith Show, to name a very few, I found myself with a stack of 8 by 10 glossy headshots stapled to my mostly invented resume in hand, pounding the proverbial sidewalks, hoping for the first audition that would land me my first acting job. Soon into the requisite pounding, the first gig came, and I was officially an actor. The grand adventure had begun. Then came off and off-off-Broadway, Summer Stock, and Improvisational Theatre. And the hope of eventual movie stardom.
After a few wonderful years on stage, and the thrill and camaraderie of being a New York actor, the allure of assuming the identity of another human faded. But, I still wanted more time in the world of theatre, and when I was given the opportunity to direct a play, that rang a bell, and I answered its call. Another thrilling aspect of “The Life” was having its way with me. However, big-time success in the theatre is elusive… so many feel chosen, and so few get the call.
And while waiting for the big call, I felt compelled to explore my next logical career move: film. I soon realized I wanted to be a movie director—a filmmaker.
After a two-year crash course at NYU, I was offered the position of the assistant in their Continuing Education Film Production Program (originally held, ten-years prior, by Martin Scorsese). Two semesters later, I was teaching. As gratifying, fun, and educational as it was, I found myself in an ongoing quandary: for four years, I stood in a classroom explaining how movies are made and how to make them, while I saw my ex-students’ names appearing in movie credits. They were finding their way in. I wasn’t. The tide needed to turn. I resigned.
My first job was as a cinematographer, and came in the summer of 1979, documenting the musicians who worked their magic on the streets of Manhattan. The film won First Prize in The American Film Festival. Our little Visual Essay was up against corporate films in our category with twenty times the budget — and we won! It just goes to show that a small project with the proper amount of heart and soul can prevail.
On the heels of that success, I created a Production Company where I wrote, photographed, and directed a number of Public Service Announcements for various charitable organizations, and an occasional Industrial Film, most notable among those, the introduction of the Compact Disc for CBS Records. (Quite the marvel, back in the day.) Competition in that field was fierce, but I managed to make ends meet.
To supplement my income, and for the sheer allure if it, I took a job in the evenings doing sound at a friend’s Greenwich Village Jazz club, where I got to work with many of the world’s Jazz luminaries. I believe, to this day, that it was the most fascinating job I ever had.
Amidst all this, I decided it was time to try my hand at Screenwriting. A best pal and I sat down in my studio apartment in the West Village and wrote a couple of movies. We tried to go the independent route, with me at the helm as director. We came oh-so-close, but it wasn’t to be. Show biz, I was learning, is lotto.
The Jazz job ran its course, and my Production Company eventually folded up its tent, and soon I found myself working in the world of big-time TV commercials, though this time as a smaller fish in a very big pond. It was in that pond where I worked with boxing champ, Mike Tyson. We formed a curious kind of friendship during that production. Maybe it was our both being from Brooklyn, maybe we found each other entertaining; but whatever the reason, I found him, at that time, to be, deep down, a gentle soul in spite of his ferocious reputation.
Then a big call finally did come. Through a connection, who happened to be my brother (connections can make all the difference), I was offered a job at NBC Television in Los Angeles.
I was to be a post-production supervisor for their on-air promotion department, working on Seinfeld, ER, Friends, and every show and movie the network aired. It wasn’t a job I would ever have envisioned, or really wanted, but Hollywood beckoned, and westward I went. After two years at NBC, another call came – and it was from Warner Bros.
Before I could say “wow,” I was on the studio lot directing voice actors (those people you hear narrating movie trailers, documentaries, commercials, and TV promos).
It wasn’t too long before I was given the assignment of directing cartoon actors, among them, the aforementioned SpongeBob.
The Warner Bros. experience went on for ten years, though very early on, I realized I was losing track of my dream career as a writer and film director. At the halfway point, I knew I was selling out, but it was difficult to walk away from “success.” I stayed for five more long years, and finally, I had to let it go. It was time to say goodbye to Hollywood.
I decided to head home to New York and recapture my dream. I moved to the famed artists’ hamlet of Woodstock, New York. I dusted off and rewrote the old screenplays, started another and wrote a play. I landed a two-picture movie deal, and I lost the movie deal. That was a heartbreaker. Show business can hurt. The Brass ring is painfully elusive.
My plan is to continue down the long and winding road I chose decades ago, but of late, I’ve felt a need to share my musings. Each of us has our story, and I want to tell mine.
My hope is that whoever lands here finds something of interest, value, comfort, amusement, or maybe even inspiration. It’s a tall order, but why not give it a go? Why not add this endeavor to my resume?
I’ve come to realize that the evolution of a dream takes you where it will. So, for now, it’s time for me to settle in and just let the stories flow, never forgetting my roots, and knowing that this pursuit, in its own way, is also Show Biz, and there’s no business like it.
So, on it goes…
“Writing is perhaps the greatest of human inventions… proof that humans are capable of doing magic."
— Carl Sagan
Mission Statement
My grandfather was fond of saying this about me: “Here comes this kid with another story.”
I didn’t purposefully conjure another story, things just happened to me, and around me, that presented themselves as stories and seemed to warrant telling. Over the years, I’ve processed and cataloged them all.
From my first memory, a place seems to have developed in my brain in which the things I experienced found a place to reside, and comfortable there, the experiences started to accumulate.
Midway through my teens, I found myself being best friends with the most gifted and animated storyteller I’ve ever known. I always marveled at his skill and flair and enthusiasm for the things that happened to him — his stories. Years later, I would discover that he was what is known as a raconteur. The dictionary offers this: “A raconteur is a person who tells anecdotes in a skillful and amusing way.” It seemed simple enough. I envied his gift. I wished I were that kind of guy. Time would tell.
And, time did tell — my experiences, seemingly of their own accord, started taking form. They became my stories — living entities with needs. They wanted to be given a life. They wanted “out.” And, so, they pushed the raconteur in me to the surface.
Grandpa was the first to notice. In time, so did I. I have become my stories — my stories are me.
There seems to be no foreseeable end to them. The well is deep. And the good ones rise to the surface. Some turn to mist and float in the air. My compulsion has been to capture the shapes in the mist and convert them into words.
As one of my heroes, Carl Sagan, said of the written word and books, “Words are lots of funny dark squiggles. But one glance at them and you’re inside the mind of another person, maybe somebody dead for thousands of years. Across the millennia, an author is speaking clearly and silently inside your head, directly to you.”
So, my mission is to gather my squiggly little marks, here, in this venue, this stage, so to speak. Whether anyone decides to open the book and enter the mind of another person — me, is a roll of the dice. The plan is to toss them, for better or worse. Sort of like the dice we roll upon awakening each day.
As I approach placing the final period on this tale, I hope Grandpa is noticing, from the Heavens, that this kid is still at it — showing up with another story.
My goal is to populate this domain with stories whose mist calls to me, seeking shape. I will do my best to keep them coming. As I write this, I feel their presence standing in line, at varying levels of impatience and anticipation, waiting to be squiggled into shapes you recognize, shapes you find interesting and familiar, shapes that help us know this life has been, and is, quite a ride — in good times and bad times — a gift.
And grand.