My Knife and Times is a play on "my life and times." A saying dating back to the 1600's and more recently the title of Henry Miller's 1971 autobiography. My title substitutes life for the similar sounding knife as a way to represent both craftsmanship and a sharp edge.
After attending UCLA film school I found myself bound to Burbank. I had graduated and my artistic focus had waned. In production at NBC I oversaw budgets and managed the day to day of film shoots. Having explored this side of filmmaking I became unwavering in my desire to be directly involved in the creative process. I found this opportunity in New York. I was inspired by the vibrancy of the city and became submerged in the burgeoning art scene of Brooklyn circa 2003.
After a short stint in a progressive Brooklyn wood shop, which combined table saws with NPR, I began to pursue work as a visual display artist under the tutelage of veteran artist Todd Shearer. Todd had paid his dues in the days where his counterparts in window design included the likes of Andy Warhol. I was able to hone my design knowledge under Todd's umbrella with clients ranging from Christie's Auction House, to Chanel, and all the Diors and Cartier' in between.
Eventually I spread my wings, starting my own company, All of Us Design. It paired the ample talent of Brooklyn artists with the boutique and fashion design contacts I had established. All of Us found success through offering the vibrancy of Brooklyn to clients like Mavi Jeans, Valentino, Levis, Diesel, and Ralph Lauren. We marketed ourselves as a younger, cooler version of our predecessors.
The notoriety of All of Us began my progression back into the film industry beginning with being tapped as a prop stylist and set designer for fashion photography, and growing into a full portfolio of Production Design work ranging from Feature Film, Music Video, Television and Commercial.
It's the cracks in the subway wall reaching out like a river system emboldened by fresh rains. The rust stains tinting the water puddles brown and red, while decades old paint crackles and peels. Each brushstroke refusing to be suphocated underneath newer, cleaner, fresher coats. It's the pristine white-walled, concrete-floored gallery. The one spot light on the one lone painting broken up only by the glow of the one red neon sculpture from an adjacent wall. It's the want to filter reality through a new lens.