Rick Midler: Featured in the Unbodied Air

RICK MIDLER: FEATURED IN THE UNBODIED AIR

Solo Exhibition at Littlefield, Brooklyn

December 2, 2017 - January 2, 2018

Opening reception: Saturday, December 16 from 6 - 8 pm

Brooklyn-based artist Rick Midler is proud to present Featured in the Unbodied Air, a solo exhibition of new work in his debut show at the premier event space, Littlefield, Brooklyn.

Midler creates surrealistic ink works of figures in the clouds. Using calligraphy and cloudforms, he illustrates vignettes of togetherness, confidence, creation and generosity. Moments where human souls merge with eternal spirit. 

This series revolves around a dynamic piece titled Big Bang Boom, in which Midler honors the influx of people into his world once he was shown how his artwork has helped others. He relates this to the cosmological model which describes how the universe expanded from a high density, high temperature state. He elaborates, “We are all creators and we all experience our own Big Bangs on individual and personal levels.” The exhibition also features Midler’s mural done in April 2017, which uses the Big Bang Boom premise to invite a thriving community into Little River, Miami, as well as a selection of works on paper that explore similar themes.

While the majority of the pieces are displayed as simple line drawings, others like Support of the Family and Bolt, employ various manual techniques such as ink wash and collage. The individual Big Bang Boom prints (Black Cherry, Blood Orange and Pure Gold) are finished with a variety of digital techniques which create a more luxurious look to the work.

The show’s title borrows from a passage in Melville’s Moby Dick in which the narrator struggles to see Captain Ahab’s true spirit and searches for it in The Unbodied Air. 

In conjunction with the Littlefield exhibit, the artist will be giving event ticket holders a 20% discount on the prints. Email info@rickmidler.com for more details.

www.rickmidler.com | instagram @rickmidler | facebook.com/theartofrickmidler

THANKS TO EVERYONE WHO CAME OUT. THE RAFFLE WINNER WAS KRISTY A. WHO WILL RECEIVE A SIGNED ORIGINAL PIECE AND A NOTE OF INFINITE GRATITUDE FOR HER SUBMISSION.

HERE ARE SOME PHOTOS FROM THE EVENING:

Drawing Love on the Subway

This morning, I took a seat on the 2 Train and opened my sketchbook as I always do. I like to look at the blank sheet of white. It reminds me to empty my mind. And I close my eyes. And I listen to ambient music. And I breath. I welcome gentle thoughts and when I feel a tickle, an idea, a visual, an inspiration, a fear, a joy, a plan, I open my eyes and draw something. It doesn't have to be anything specific. I allow myself to draw that thought or feeling poorly. Hastily. No judgements. I've learned that A) other people (who don't matter at this point) tend to like things that I've drawn poorly, and B) I tend to refine awkward first sketches into something more final, as opposed to working on sketch after sketch to get it just right. Today I was reminding myself about God or whatever you choose to call the flow of energy that surrounds us and carries us if we choose to accept the ride down uncharted waters. God's Light appearing through clouds is a theme in my daily work. It reminds me that there is good that patiently waits behind these vaporous, drifting obstructions. And that we can use that good power as a tool to connect us to the universe and to each other. Then, quickly, the thought moved to presenting artwork in a fashion that is consistent with the work I do. I thought of a large alter-type frame that is made out of clouds. I took out a pencil (I always work in ink but today I felt like being able to erase and modify a design). Across from me sat an old lady who seemed familiar. Kind eyes. She smiled art me. She looked like family. My Bubbie. Grandpa George. And I continued my drawing.

When I'm in the flow, working in my sketchbook on the subway, I'm aware of people watching me. I would too. It's human nature to want to watch someone create. Make something. It reminds us that we are all creators. And I secretly hope seeing me draw inspires others to grab a piece of paper later in the day and make something. Anything.

Sometimes, people will want to talk to me. If this happens, I take my headphones off and listen to what they have to say and answer any questions they have as honestly as possible. I used to explain in vague terms what I was drawing, but have since felt more freedom by telling people the real feeling behind the sketch. I tend to understand more deeply about what I'm actually drawing by hearing myself say it out loud.

This morning, a high school aged, boyish girl gestured to me and I took off my headphones. She offered me a pencil. One of those cheap yellow plastic mechanical pencils. She said it was good because it has a finer point. She said that she used to use them to draw but she doesn't draw anymore. When I asked why she said, "What's the point? People keep stealing my sketchbooks."

"Where do you put them where people can take them? Maybe you should keep them in your backpack."

"I do," she said. "But I live in a group home and people go through your stuff. I used to write poetry but stopped because I can never keep a book. And it's really sad because I like to look back at what I wrote so it can help me get through tough times. People say the things I write are too dark."

I mentioned that the only people who matter are the people that your art touches. That darkness might help others get through their tough times.

Then she told me that she likes to read for that very reason. That she can connect with what people are going through in stories, and that helps her. She showed me her book. "Impulse," a novel by Ellen Hopkins. She said that she is a "recovering cutter."

I didn't know what that was. You might.

She showed me her tattoo on the inside of her right wrist. An outline of a heart - half of it a beautiful calligraphy line and the other half red droplet shapes. She said it reminds her when she looks down, not to cut herself.

Then she showed me her scars on both arms.

And I couldn't stop tears from obscuring my sight.

And I said, "You must have been so scared."

She's been in and out of group homes. Kicked out of schools. But now, somehow living with some kind of strength and on her way to school. She told me that drawing and writing poetry were her therapy. I told her that therapy and some sort of self healing is why I draw every day. It's not for anyone else, unless someone else can also be helped in some way by connecting with one of my pieces.

Her name is Camilla.

I wanted to write, "Camilla, the Cutter" but she's not anymore. She's living with the memory of doing that to herself. She's getting help.

And her stop came. Penn Station. I could only image how hard her commute to school is. How worth it it is.

I gave Camilla her pencil back. "You're going to need this when you start drawing again... today."

And she took it and smiled. And the old God-like lady who smiled at me before, smiled at me again. And I could feel every muscle in my body relax all at once.

The Big Bang Boom Print

I never finished the last blog series about the mural. Suffice it to say, it got done!

On the plane, back to JFK, I opened the original sketch on my laptop and started to color it in photoshop. I had a lot of fun exploring how different palates gave the piece a different energy and seemed to expand upon the original idea, rather than wash the original away.

I knew I had to partner with an artist who knew the best way to print these new versions. The printing needed to be a collaboration between me and someone who truly cares about his craft and brings his own artistic vision and style to the project. After researching, getting recommendations and interviewing various printers on the phone, I found Stephen Gross at Brooklyn Editions, about 10 blocks away from me. We worked for a few days, just tweaking the colors and playing with different papers.

I chose three color versions, rather than three sizes. They are all 18x24 inches. I designed a certificate of authenticity to go along with this limited run. 

I may explore the Big Bang Boom idea in other materials. The core concept still resonates with me every day. That it will feel as though people will explode into your life once you decide to do your work for a reason that's greater than yourself.

Please visit my online shop and let me know what you think of the Big Bang Boom Limited Edition Fine Art Prints. And drop me a line telling me how the visual message connects with your life right now.

"Create. Love."

-Rick

The Little River Mural: PART 4

The next morning I woke up early and packed up any gear left in my father's office/guest room. After a quick breakfast I drove back down to the site. The highway was a surreal path leading into some place remembered from a dream. In this case it was just the day before. I got to work on the mural as soon as I arrived. "Wow, I got nothing done!" went through my mind. "So, I guess I start today."

"Day 1" might not be what you expect. You may want to change your "Day 1" depending on when you think you get started. But there's no accounting for the Day 1 when you have the idea to do something. Or the Day 1 when you commit to it. Or the Day 1 when you write down your shopping list. Or the Day 1 when you fly down to Miami. For some reason, it's easier to wrap your head around the Day 1 when paint hits the wall. I guess life is a series of Day 1's. 

Days 2, 3 and 4 were kind of a blur and I wish I had the energy and brain power to blog about it as it happened, because it was quite the life event. The main take-away was this...

I never let my mind stray from the message on top of the mural: "Create. Love." 

Two words. As strong on their own as they are together. I want to remind people to create, purposefully, positively, powerfully. And to use love as a verb. This is something I say often. I don't think love is an emotion. I think it's a verb. It's something you actively do or don't do. Love period. It is a command, like "Go." or "Think."

And this town needed love and creative solutions more than I thought. The strip of stores the mural lives on has a chicken place on the corner. They don't have chicken. I don't know hat the one person was eating, but they had no food in there, although it smelled like they had been cooking turned fish and garbage. Bottled drinks I never heard of were scattered about in no particular arrangement in the warm refrigerator near the front door. Their bathroom was small and hosted their bucket and mop which leaned against the toilet. Next to the chicken place was a Botanica store. I was told that they sell things for spiritual ceremonies, sometimes dark magic. I wanted to go in on sheer curiosity, but there was a woman rocking in a chair in front of the store, there but not there. Like something only I could see. A warning to not go in. Not inviting. Not pleasant. Couples would walk by, yelling ferociously at each other. It was a surreal circus of negativity and pain. And that brings me to my first impressions of the neighborhood and people who live there.

Let's start with the crack dealer on the corner. I live a sheltered life. I live in New York but never in an area like this. And, quite frankly, it scares me more than you'd think. The crack dealer was a big guy, about 6 ft 5 and about 250 lbs. He always had a couple of men with him. I saw the deals go down. He never bothered me, although I caught myself looking over at him way too much.

The crack hookers, or crack ho's. Two of them. Skinny, funny, sloppy, bendy and saggy. They would pass behind me as I painted the mural, each time with a new customer. They went down the side street a few blocks to a crack house. About 4 hours later, they would return for their next guest. I hoped I could put enough magic in that mural for those sweet unfortunate ladies of the daylight.

And, there was the skinhead. 

A large, tattooed guy, completely hyper and strung out. He was with a woman who was equally messed up. They would stopped to watch me paint. And after a few minutes, he asked in an aggressive voice for a spray can. The first time he said he was going to paint a big penis on the wall over my mural. I ignored him which was tough because he was relentless. He stood staring at me, stepping into my space occasionally and talking trash to me. 

Now, my wife, Samara, came down to help me paint. She got me the scissor lift and was right with me on the high top of that wall painting, working hard. And Jodi, a friend from my high school days, came by every day with water and food. She was the mother hen on location. She told me to take breaks. She was so into the process of creating this mural and she went above and beyond the call of... anything. So, I had two sweet, beautiful women with me. Both Jewish, which is important to mention because the third or fourth time the skinhead came by to try to provoke us, he yelled up to me from my vulnerable position on the lift, "You a jew???" A million answers raced through my head, but I was more concerned with Samara and Jodi who were on the street ten feet below me. I knew it was best to ignore him for the safety of everyone. He told me he was going to take a can of paint, but this time he said he was going to use it to spray a big swastika on the mural. I slowly got down from my lift and grabbed a new can of paint. I stood there shaking it, letting the mixing ball inside rattle around as loudly as I could. Someone told me that in a situation like this, spray paint to the face wasn't as effective as mace, but it will buy you enough time to get in your car and lock the door. He walked away and stood watching us from 20 feet away for about 15 minutes. I couldn't paint. I wanted to have an eye on him. 

When he went away I got a call from my sister up in Toronto. Her husband had done some work with the local Miami police and she suggested I swing by the precinct and let them know I was there. This way they could send a patrol car every so often. I didn't think that was a good idea because I didn't want the crack dealer on the corner to think I was up to something that could get him in trouble. He wasn't bothering us, but his customers, the skinheads from another town, were.

Jodi is a very friendly person and had made friends with some local business owners and introduced me to the security guard who worked across the street at a clinic (situated between the dealer and the crack house). His name is Wagid. Wagid is a tall, skinny islander, up there in age. His uniform was loose and dirty. He was as much of this block as the cracked sidewalks. I asked him to trade phone numbers in case anything happens and he's not around. I put him at the top of my "favorites" on my phone's home screen. He tried to assure me that the skinhead was harmless. But I couldn't go back to painting. My hand was shaking. I was looking over my shoulder every minute. The paint was starting to smell more toxic than before. The heat was getting to me, I was completely sunburnt around my neck. I told Wagid that I didn't want to come back the next day to finish the painting. "You have to!" he commanded. "What you're doing is changing things. Nobody's done anything for this community like this. It will change things. And I'm the one who will be seeing more than anyone else, and I want to see it finished!"

So for Wagid and the desperate addicts who passed by that wall, I knew I needed to return. And I knew that I had to paint the words: "CREATE. LOVE." really big on top. High up so nobody could paint a swastika or a penis over it.

That night, Samara and I retired to a hotel in Miami. One overlooking the Miami River with scenic dining and a hot tub in the middle of the room. I could hardly walk. My body was beaten, I was sunburnt and exhausted. My kids were on speakerphone and my oldest son was very upset that I didn't take him with me. I knew I made the right decision leaving him home, especially given the skinheads and crack hookers. I felt terrible and my head was spinning. Somehow I showered and made it to the restaurant on the water where I nearly slept through our meal. Returning to the room, I fell into bed, but was in so much pain I couldn't sleep. Not at all.

The Little River Mural: PART 3

The beginning: A Big White Dot. (Also, the 18 foot Cirque Du Soleil ladder, some grid marks and GoPro cameras - things that didn't work as planned.)

Saturday morning:

Let me set the scene. A minivan loaded with ladders paint and camera gear and me, alone, driving down I-95 from Boynton Beach to Miami, blasting Helen Reddy and Carly Simon and Carole King because they were on the radio and everything was fine, windows open, fresh air pounding me on the side of the face… totally psyched out of my mind. Stopping once to get gas and, thinking ahead, buying 3 gallon jugs of water and a Subway hero. Back in the car, unwrapping the sandwich with one hand, just enough to bite at it, letting the lettuce, tomato and jalapeños fall on my lap and laughing out loud because I’m envisioning the appalled look thrown at me by S. who was not there. I find the station changer on the back of the steering wheel and flip through latin dance beat after latin dance beat. I crank it. I have no idea what they’re singing about. My smile has not faded since I left my mom and dad’s house.

It was about 2pm by the time I got to the big green ugly wall. There was nobody around.  Nobody parked near the site. I parked across the street and took out my ladders and used them as roadblocks so no-one would block the wall. I unloaded the buckets of paint and cans and set up two tripods with GoPro cameras meant for recording the 3-day process in time lapse. (At the end of the day, I realized that I programmed the GoPro’s wrong - they did not capture time lapse at all. I had a few people in New York take me through the programming of the cameras before I headed down. And, I watched some videos on YouTube. STILL, I did something wrong… on BOTH cameras. I thought I would try again the next day, but there was too much painting to do. The cameras remained packed in the van for the next three days.)

"Brother Bear" and "Monkey Boy" (Bryan Lahr and me)

I was greeted by Bryan Lahr and I told him that I made a mistake. I had just spent the past hour and a half painting a grid on the wall. One inch on my printout would equal one foot on the wall. I found my center point and measured out the grid using a tape measure for the horizontal. But the vertical lines were difficult, since I was trying to use a tape measure from 18 feet high on a rickety extension ladder. I used my 5 foot paint roller pole and squirted a dot of spray paint every 12 inches. It was easier to make corresponding dots on the wall up to the 5 foot mark, then up the ladder, and another 5 feet, all the way up to the 20 ft mark. I stood back and realized that, although I planned the grid weeks prior in NYC, the grid was not going to be needed. There was no way I was going to be able to replicate my intricate sketch on that wall. I knew that I could recreate my drawing scaled up onto the wall by using the printout as a rough guide only. I also tested this theory by drawing the Big Bang Boom concept on fresh paper with no reference and found that I could, in fact, do it. And knowing that I had enough supplies to paint over mistakes meant that I could keep it organic and build the idea from a rough sketch to the completed vision. 

Earlier in the morning, on my Home Depot supply run, I was sure to pick up twine and Gorilla Tape. Why? I knew that if the grid didn't work I’d still want to stay honest with my proportions. I didn’t want the circular explosions to be wobbly, off center, oval. I wanted a nice symmetry. So I rolled out about ten feet of twine and taped one end to my center point. I used a Sharpie to mark off measurements on the string. With one end of the twine secured to my mid-point on the wall, I held a can of light grey spray paint near the marked-off string and I sprayed 6 perfect concentric circles. Then, I realized that THAT was a waste of time, too. I just needed to mark off my largest circle so I can paint the interior white and the exterior blue. Bryan helped me fill in the two large areas.

He brought up his concerns that my center-point was too high. And if I only had the extension ladder to rely upon he would have been absolutely right. I would never be able to paint up high with various cans of spray paint and bucket paint and detail brushes from that scary thing. I’m not afraid of heights, but it was more suited to being a prop in a Cirque Du Soleil show than a painting tool. I lowered my center point by a few feet but still tried to keep it high enough for the effect I wanted. In hindsight, I wish I left that center dot a bit higher, but I wasn't 100% sure I was getting the scissor lift yet. After the main white circle was filled in, I used the twine trick again to sketch out my concentric 6 circles. I roughed-in the cloud/explosion curves over the lightly sprayed guides. Standing back, it looked like I got nothing done. I posted a photo of it on Facebook and someone commented that it was beautiful. Sarcasm. Nice. “It WILL be beautiful,” I thought to myself. Just not today.

Bryan comparing my sketch (on the ladder) to the wall. He made it known how challenging it would be and gave me every reason to believe I could do it. His positive energy somehow gave me more power to move forward.

My mom made it clear that she wanted me to join her and my dad, my brother Larry, sister-in-law Shari and UA Uncle Al at a fancy seafood place near them. I was wiped out and covered in paint. I told her that I would pick up dinner for myself and go to her house, shower and relax. But, about half way up 95 North, Led Zeppelin somehow made the sun lower with each of John Bonham’s snare cracks during Kashmir. I was feeling alive and couldn’t imagine eating another Subway hero after showering and sitting on my dad's leather reclining couch in front of a tv almost as wide as the wall I just painted.

I turned east instead of west at the exit and found my family finishing shellfish boils and lobster pots. I was smelly and grimy and sun-beaten. My eyes were glazed, the look of someone who has been through another dimension. I was bombarded by questions from my curious family. Some, having me go back to the beginning: how did you get the wall in the first place? I answered as best I could to blank stares and half smiles. It was hard for me to tell them that I had hardly begun. I let them finish their dessert while I walked to the host stand to make some late calls and emails about the scissor lift. When I returned to the table they asked why I was on the phone. I replied, “work stuff.” It wasn’t about my office work back in NYC. It was about mural work. I heard myself take this seriously, out loud, by calling it "work." That felt good.

“Oh, let the sun beat down upon my face and stars fill my dream. I’m a traveler of both time and space to be where I have been. To sit with elders of the gentle race, this world has seldom seen. They talk of days for which they sit and wait. All will be revealed.” – from Kashmir

The Little River Mural: PART 2

I just returned to Brooklyn after 4 days in Miami painting my first mural. I call the piece “Big Bang Boom.” It’s about how a new group of creative, kind, loving people seemed to have exploded into my life. This happened on cue with an epiphany:

“The art I create can serve a purpose higher than myself.”

So, when I was offered the opportunity to paint a wall in Little River, Miami - a low-income town who will see an art community migrate 3 miles north from Wynwood - I felt the “Big Bang Boom” concept was timely and appropriate. I thought crowd-funding was the right move. This gave people the opportunity to be a part of planting this message "Create. Love." on that wall.

I was surprised, and very grateful, that my funding goal was satisfied within 48 hours. (I thought it would take months, if it would even get funded at all.) I felt the love from family, friends and people I didn’t even know. Some thought the mural was a good cause and others wanted to support me and see my art business get out of park. I sent thank you after thank you. And by the time I was packed for my trip I had zero stress. With money issues out of the way I could just go down and paint.

The weeks prior, I watched hours of videos of street artists painting murals all over the world. I now had some heroes in this field. My favorite by far was el Seed, the ‘calligraffiti’ artist who blends historic Arabic calligraphy with the modern art of graffiti. He did a mural in Cairo which spans 50 different buildings - truly a masterwork. I watched people free-hand as well as stencil. I watched tutorials on spray paints and people testing out various sized spray can tips. I reached out to a few Brooklyn-based street artists (who surprisingly remembered me from my gallery shows) for advice, vendors for materials and contacts in Miami. I also put the word out on Facebook that I was coming down and I got lucky when Jodi Goldman, who I haven’t seen since high school, responded.

I prepped by re-sizing my original sketch in Photoshop and making a grid - each inch equaled a foot. I printed out a small section, and realized how complicated cutting a stencil for a 28’x18’ mural would be. It would have to be free-hand, with a grid system to keep me honest with sizes and placement. But, the print outs allowed me to see how thick my calligraphy lines needed to be, scaled up to the size of that wall. As if she knew, S. gave me three beautiful brushes as a “mural gift” that were the perfect sizes. “She knows my lines!” I thought with an un-wipeable smile.

Now, my very artistic son J. wanted to come down and help me paint. And I really wanted him with me, but when I typed “Little River,” to check out the area, Google automatically added the the most common search term: “Little River, Miami… CRIME.” Hmmm. Probably not the best place for my 9 year old. It was really sad to leave him behind but I had to think of it as the same as a business trip. There will be others. S. arranged for her brother and mother to watch the kids so she could come down for 2 days.

A couple of days before my flight I began to worry that I had no contacts there. I didn’t know the owner of the wall. And Bryan Lahr and Joe Risolia - the guys who offered the wall, were out-of-pocket, deep in Ultra-fest, a huge music festival where Joe curated the live art and Bryan was one of the artists. A last minute phone call from Bryan eased my mind a bit, but thoughts still ran through my mind of getting arrested.

I flew Delta on Friday, March 31st. An 8:30pm flight would get me down just before midnight. It was pouring out and I was done with my day job earlier than expected. I thought it would be a good idea to leave at 5pm from midtown. It took over 2 hours in traffic to get to JFK and I was glad I left when I did. I still had a lot of time. But my mom called me to tell me that my flight was delayed until midnight. I decided that nothing would bring me down. I was too excited. Too happy. If I was going to get in at 3am, so be it. It would all work out fine. A friendly pilot told me to go to a customer service kiosk and see if there are cancellations on another flight. But by the look of the ominous weather, nothing was going out. I waited patiently, happily, in line at the kiosk. Not only could you see and hear rain pummel the window behind the desk, there was a TV monitor over the agent’s head that showed a large yellow mass cover the path between NewYork and Florida. Everyone seemed so annoyed. But somehow, I was relaxed. The easy-does-it grace and style of my Grandpa George engulfed me, protected me from doubt, despair and darkness. And a very sweet agent got me on a flight that left five minutes later. I landed in Ft. Lauderdale instead of West Palm Beach and took an hour taxi north to my parents house, where they, along with my visiting brother and sister-in-law, were waiting up for me at 1am.

I sat up looking at the spray paints I had delivered from Art Primo and charging cameras and GoPros for a three day time lapse.

The next morning, my mom took me to Enterprise where I rented a minivan. We then went to Hone Depot to buy some bucket paints and extra brushes and rollers for the background. Then, back to her house to grab the spray paints, my gear and a couple of ladders I borrowed from their local contractor (who adores my parents and would do anything for them). The 18 foot extension ladder barely fit with the passenger seat all the way up, but in it went and I drove down an hour to Miami.

(To be continued)

The Little River Mural

Original sketch and working grid.

Quite magically, on the day my mural in Brooklyn fell through, my good friend, incredible artist, Wyzard of Odd, Bryan Lahr called and asked if I wanted to paint a wall with him in Miami. Instinctively, without a breath, I said yes. 

Bryan's friend, Joe Risolia, is curating live art at one of the biggest music shows in Miami, Ultra Music Festival. He confirmed a wall for Bryan, who originally offered to share it. Then, Bryan bowed out because of his commitment to UltraFest and a very ambitious cross-country Diabetes Walk that he's personally organizing. Bittersweet, because a collaboration with Bryan would have been incredible. But, now I get to have the experience of designing, painting and seeing one of my own pieces on a 24 foot wall.

After speaking with Joe, I learned that the wall at 199 NE 82nd Terrace is one of many he secured in Little River, Miami. I learned that there has been a lot of buzz about Little River, Little Haiti and El Portal, all working-class towns, becoming up-and-coming art communities. Some nice galleries are already there. So, the piece I would propose will honor this creative movement.

But that's not all. A mural of this nature brightens a neighborhood. Gives people a sense of discovery, like being on safari. It can uplift people. It can unite people. It can inspire people of all ages to do something creative. I see it as pure magic.

I've been in love with street art for a while. A few years ago Alex Emmart included me in a few group shows at his gallery, Mighty Tanaka (DUMBO, Brooklyn). I learned that my colorful, surreal work resonated with his collectors, as well as other artists he represented. Those people came from street art and graffiti. Through these shows, I was introduced to a new culture - younger, cooler and more confident than myself. Since then, I've been inspired by el Seed, Fernando Romero & Mike Baca of UR NEW YORK, Nychos, Joe Iurato, Beau Stanton, RETNA and ChrisRWK. To have a piece near theirs (even if it's 4 miles away from the Wynwood Walls) is such an honor and excites me more than I can express here. (I hope my artwork does that for me.)

So, spray paints, tips and a respirator mask have been ordered through Art Primo. Another trip to Home Depot is in order. And a ladder is being borrowed. And, soon, I'll be headed to Florida. My Mom & Dad will even come down to watch me work. Samara will be there. And I plan on taking a lot of photos and video. I might even try live streaming a portion of it.

Since this mural is a gift to the Town of Little River, and since it's about an influx of new people in my life - as well as an influx of people into Little River - I've decided to have it crowd-funded. Below is the link to my page on GoFundMe. Please take a quick look if you're interested in being part of it. (Anyone who contributes over $100 before the paint dries on April 3rd will have their name on it. Donations will gratefully be accepted after the mural is finished.)

gofundme.com/ricks-little-river-mural

Thanks!

Rick