An assortment of digital art pieces and collages , some recent, some within the past year or so...

My ride...I call it "Chrome on Black." Nothing sexier on a motorcycle than lots of chrome and lots of black. When it comes to motorcycles, I like the nostalgic look.

Michael & Nan in their speed boat. Alas, they don't own it anymore. Sold it a few years back. They like new things--seldom hang on to old things, which may be a good thing. I, however, prefer old things. Psychologically speaking, that means I cling. It's a sign of insecurity. Some people just need security blankets. I'm one. I do find it exhilarating, however, to push myself out of my comfort zone. Comfort zones are boring. I prefer to explore, even my insecurities. Hell, I'd dive headfirst into a black hole if I could. I have this compulsion to find out what's on the other side, but security blankets, well, they're my passport back to reality, back to "Comfort Land." When you live on the edge, it helps to have a lifeline though; otherwise, you start to grow phobias: claustrophobia, acrophobia. Sometimes, I guess lifelines aren't enough because I have both of those phobias and a lot of other phobias too: Don't like blood; don't like anything touching my eyes; don't like to hear my own heartbeat (I know it's weird--what can I say?) Am I OK? Stupid question! Of course I'm OK! And you're OK too! OK?
On one level this is a mousterpiece about tattoos. On another level, it's about life and making statements. Nothing wrong with making statements, but realize that statements, like everything we do can haunt us when taken to the extreme. I call this piece "Tattoo You (and the horse you rode in on)!" It's an example of what can happen if one ignores the principle of "moderation in all things," the results of which are often not just regrettable but irreversible...

In Sturgis once, at a motorcycle rally, I observed a young lady, early twenties, in a Biker Bar called "Gunners," a frequent hang out of the "Hell's Angels." She was scantily clad, G-string, pasties, the whole nine-sturgis yards--and she was heavily tattooed, reminiscent of "The Illustrated Man," very little uncolored skin left. I'm sure that, like the illustrated man, each tattoo that adorned her body made some kind of statement about her life but the tattoo that got my attention and, perhaps, said the most about her was a tattoo across her butt which consisted of the telephone number of the tattoo artist. I've often wondered: Is the artist still in business? Has he changed his phone number? How cruel would this be: Someone dials the number on her butt only to hear, "This number is no longer in service." I can't help wondering: Is the young lady still a human billboard, hawking the services of a Sturgis tattoo parlor? God forbid, are there any other living, breathing canvases walking the streets of Sturgis, advertising the wares of the tattoo parlor? Perhaps, the phone-number tattoo constitutes an extreme expression of love, the depth of which one can only imagine---or was it done, less romantically, as trade for other tattoos that graced her body? Or, in an even-worse-case scenario, was the phone-number tattoo the product of a state of inebriation from which she awakened with no recollection of what happened to her butt?

At the time, politeness (and, perhaps, a sub-conscious fear of what the answers might be) dissuaded me from asking the young lady any of the above questions, rendering me forever curious about her tattoos--and her life. Alas, I wish now that my curiosity had trumped my politeness and fear.

Side note: All of the individuals in the painting are re-creations of actual tattooed individuals--the tattoos of which are the permanent kind, not the wash-off-with-soap kind. Did you notice the fellow whose forehead memorializes the Beijing Summer 2008 Summer Olympics? Once again, my curiosity has me pondering, "Did he reserve a patch of skin for the 2012 Olympics?"

I call this piece "Blonds Have More Fun." The blonds are Lisa, Jessi, Jen, and Brooke. Some very beautiful ladies don't you think?

"Sleeping Beauty" (mouse click on the photo to enlarge it)

I don't care what you say! This is funny... (Tip: mouse-click the image to enlarge it. Read from left to right. Pay close attention to the offspring of the mismatched parents.)

"Madame Butterfly"

This is Els and Lucas, the beautiful wife and son of my good friend David Lopez. They live in the area around Seville, Spain. We were so excited to hear about the birth of Lucas and now he is already walking! The only person missing in the picture is Papa David. Sorry David. I'll do a picture of you later...

"Albert Lionstein" --the smartest lion I know!

One of several zebra drawings I drew when I was on a black and white kick, except for blue eyes, of course. I have a fixation for blue eyes (actually for eyes in general--you know, the whole window-to-the-soul thing).

I call this painting "stripers and strippers." The most mesmerizing detail in the painting--and one worth staring at, however, is the eyes. Notice they're looking right at ya--a little bit sleepy, a little bit dreamy, and very trippy. They're what green eyes should be about...

"We are Family--my brothers and my sisters and me!" Great title and great song but the song is cursed, because you can't get it out of your head once you start singing it. Am I right? I'll bet you're humming it right now. I thought so! Oh yeah! Let's hear it: "We are family (2--3--4) my brothers and my sisters and me (2--3--4) "We are family (2--3--4) my brothers and my sisters and me (One more time! I said...) "We are family (2--3--4) my brothers and my sisters and me!" --yeah--yeah--yeah--whooooah yeaaaah!

OK! In closing, here's a way to get your mind off of the song: Five bucks to the first person who can correctly identify the famous face I used for the head of the eagle (leave your guess in the comment section of this blog!)

This montage is my niece, Brooke. I like this picture because in it Brooke looks very much like my mother. Both are beautiful. (mouse click on the photo to see the pictures from which the picture was made)

I call this painting "Moon Shadow." Everybody talks about the "man in the moon." What about a woman in the moon? Wouldn't that be nice? Here you go.

I call this painting "Touchdown!" It's mostly about color and hats. I like hats on women. Never wear them myself, however. They mess up my curly hair, which can't be repaired again until I shower or soak my head with a hose--it's the curly hair curse.

I used to hate my curly hair--used to purchase all kinds of hair products, all of which resembled axle grease and were supposed to straighten the curliest of hair. All that grease made me look too much like Alfalfa, from the Little Rascals. He's the one with the single strand of hair that would never lie flat (Note: Unless you're heavy into old-movie channels on cable TV, or you're at least fifty-five years old, you won't have any idea who the Little Rascals are. That's OK. It's all good. I don't have any idea who Snoop Dog is either, other than the fact that he's a rapper. Don't know much about rap music either. I'm an advocate of free speech, but the language of rap is a little too over-the-top for me. Give me some good, old-fashioned Rock & Roll or some Rhythm and Blues. That all my old ears need to be happy.

In my old age, however, I've come to terms with my curly hair--I no longer cringe when little old ladies (older than me) say things like, "What a shame to waste all that curly hair on a man," or "What pretty hair. Do your children have curly hair too?"--the answer to which is "No!" And men aren't supposed to have "pretty hair." I inherited my curly hair from my father, at which point, the curly-hair gene on my DNA strand must have shriveled up or straightened its curly self out, because none of my children or grandchildren have a single strand of naturally curly hair on their heads; however, they all have beautiful blond hair. Got it from their mother.

The most amazing blond hair (notice I didn't say "pretty hair"), however, belonged to my son Jared, whom we referred to as "Sunshine, a reference to his golden hair. He had the mother of all toe-heads. Alas, however, his toe-head is gone. Somewhere along the way, he managed to contract a gene for baldness, a rare gene in my family, except for my only brother, Randy. I don't know from whence they contracted their baldness. I say contract because, maybe, it was a virus or something!

Anyway, my son, Jared, now sports a clean shaven head, which looks great. Some men just don't have the right shaped head to look good sans hair. Jared's head, however, looks terrifric without hair--and, of course, he's right in style since plenty of men with perfectly good heads of hair shave their heads every day just to get the popular, hairless-head look. Me? I think I'll keep my curly hair. My head is the wrong shape for bald--just don't call my hair pretty though!

This is a painting from a series that I called "Relationships." I think there are a couple more in this blog.

My son, Jared and his "new family": His fiancee, Angie, and our two, new grandchildren, Nicholas and Kateland. We have always thought that Jared would be an amazing father. We were right! He truly loves Nick and Kateland. We're also excited to have Angie, Nicholas, and Kateland in our family.

This painting depicts the moment that Jared proposed to Angie at Disneyland, in front of Snow White's castle. I was snapping photos. Vick was supposed to be taking video, but she forgot to push the record button. Angie was surprised, overwhelmed may be a better word. We were excited too. Everybody cried at the happiest place on earth...sometimes love is found on the second tme around...

This is a mousterpiece of my great-grandfather and me. His name is Henry George Mathis. He is the namesake of my father, Henry George Mathis II. He was born in 1860, the year that the Civil War began. He died in 1958. He was a grown man before he ever saw an automobile. As a boy, he used to deliver eggs to Brigham Young. My grandmother asked him once in a taped interview, "What do you recollect about Brigham Young?" He responded, to the embarrassment of my grandmother, "I don't think he liked kids very much and he never left a tip." I think the interview was terminated at that point. Oh well, at least my grandfather did not criticize Brother Young for having twenty-seven wives--or suggest that he be awarded a post-humus medal for the great patience and endurance he must have demonstrated as a husband to twenty-seven different women. I'm just kidding. I have the utmost respect for Brigham Young. He was a visionary, leader, colonizer, organizer, and Morman(izer) of unprecedented equal.

Before my grandfather died, he lived through every American war from the Civil War through the Korean War, learned to drive a car (horseless carriage), and I think he had the opportunity to fly in an airplane (not positive about that)--and he only missed watching man walk on the moon by a decade.

Oh, I almost forgot to mention: Butch Cassidy (an alias for his real name, Leroy Parker) was his second cousin, so I guess that makes him my fifth cousin. I don't mind having a bank robber in the family--and Robert Redford and Paul Newman are among my favorite actors, so right on, Butch!

This is a painting of Diana Iliev, a very good friend and the wife of my marketing director, Ilia Iliev. They hail, originally, from Bulgaria, one country that I have not visited yet. If Diana and Ilia are typical of Bulgarians, it's a place I definitely want to go. They are amazing people--very good friends, true friends, the loyal kind, not the fair-weather kind. And Diana, she's probably one of the smartest people I know, a scientist who does cancer research--I think she will find a cure soon. Ilia's pretty smart too and more courageous than I could ever be. They both came to the U.S. as refugees, seeking asylum from the repression that existed in the Soviet Union: no money, speaking very little English, simply wanting what all human beings want: freedom, a chance to create their own destiny, forge their own future. They've done well, just moved in to a multi-million dollar dream house, which they worked very hard for. They are what America is all about. I had the privilege of attending the ceremony in which Ilia took the oath as a new, American citizen. It was touching. I cried.

A montage of Diana as Cleopatra--the Queen of Bulgaria posing as the Queen of the Nile....

This is a painting I did when I returned from Shanghai. Our guide and good friend, Nailong (top of the painting) took us to visit his parents at their humble three-room flat. At the time, they were both in their mid nineties. His mother is a retired dentist. His father, who passed away a few weeks ago, was a physician. It was amazing to visit them. They are representative of the grace,humility, and dignity that characterizes the Chinese. Might I suggest one of my favorite books about 19th century, rural life in China: "The Good Earth" by Pearl Buck.

This is my 1953 Farmall tractor, which I restored, actually,"tricked out." (aside: to view all of the photos that were used to create this picture, click on the image) The tractor is sweet. It has chrome pipes and will soon have chrome wheels. I keep it in Knightstown, Indiana the site of our "dealer hotel" and our eastern manufacturing hub, operated by my brother, Randy. FYI: Knightstown is a reincarnation of Mayberry, USA. On the occasions of my visits to our Indiana facility, one of my favorite things to do is to drive my tractor up and down Main Street, wearing a farmer's hat, waving to the town folk, picturing Andy Griffith or Barney emerging from the Sheriff's office.

This digital montage (click on it to view photos) is all about being in the right place at the right time--a phenomenon which happened three times during the same trip that inspired the painting. Coincidental? Maybe. Actually, I think not. The first twist of fate occurred when an employee of the world's first Hard Rock Cafe invited Vicki, Jessi, and I to follow him to a subterranean bank vault beneath the heart of London--I'm talking down fifty or so damp, cobblestone stairs to the site of a 19th century bank vault where he worked the combination to a lock and then pushed open a 12-inch-thick, concrete door, behind which was a room containing just about everything that had been in Jimi Hendrix' apartment when he died. What immediately got my attention (being a guitar collector) was Jimi's custom-made, flying-V, left-handed, Gibson guitar--the guitar that he used to record all three of his albums. I asked for and received permission to play it, which was a thrill, at least until our host mentioned that the couch bed upon which I sat to strum the guitar was the bed on which Jimi's body was discovered. Since the vault was quite obviously not decorated as if it were a public venue, I asked our host how often people were permitted to see the contents of the vault. His reply, "It is very rare for anyone to come down here. Normally, access to the vault is confined to celebrities like George Harrison or Eric Clapton. Whoa! And there we were.

It's scary how fragile are the links in the chain of events that shape our lives, define us, point us toward opportunity or lead us to calamity. For instance, had we not decided to stop at the Hard Rock Cafe in London as we passed it atop one of London's famous "Big Red Double-deck Buses," and had there not been a kitchen fire that day which resulted in the restaurant being closed that day, which then resulted in the proprietor of the Hard Rock Cafe's T-shirt shop, which remained open, being bored for lack of customers, which resulted in his spur-of-the-moment-invitation for us to walk down the street, through an old weathered door and down all of those cobblestone stairs to see musty old vault that just happened to be filled with Jimi Hendrix' personal treasures, then, I would not have been afforded the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to play the guitar of the most innovative rock guitarist to ever live--a guitar that has been appraised for millions of dollars.

The second twist of fate during that same trip to London occurred when we coincidentally stayed at the same hotel wherein Vladimar Putin was a guest, which lead to a chance meeting with him that included a twenty-minute conversation between Putin, my wife, and Jessi (I was upstairs in the mezzanine documenting the event with my digital camera. A couple days later, in a repeat-performance, deja-vu-like way, in Barcelona, Spain, we sort of "ran into" the Prime Minister of Spain at our hotel and ended up having an extended conversation with him. Chance meetings, which would never have occurred had we not been in just the right spot at exactly the right time. Although interesting, all three of the preceding events were inconsequential to anything important in my life or the lives of Vicki and Jessi--or were they?

For instance, it frightens me--makes me shudder to contemplate how the course of my life would have been altered had I not run into a friend in the break room at the grocery store where I worked while going to college, who just happened to take a break at the same time I did, who just happened to mention a girl I might be interested in and just happened to have her phone number in his pocket, and who then cajoled me into calling this girl for a date--a blind date no less, something I had never been on before--and had Vicki not accepted a date with a perfect stranger, something her instincts strongly suggested she do but then didn't, I would never have met the woman who would became my wife.

Had I not eaten ten minutes earlier that day, had my friend not engaged me in a conversation about a friend of a friend, who didn't have a boy friend, had I not found the nerve to make a two-minute phone call to a stranger, had the stranger been previously engaged that evening--all scenarios that could just as easily have occurred as that seemingly inconsequential chain of events which did occur--yet if any of those events had not transpired precisely as they did, had the timing of any of them been off by seconds, I would not have married my soul mate. I would not have fathered my children. I would not have become anything like the person I became. I know I'm going off, repeating myself embarrassingly, but the truth is that the fabric of our lives is weaved with thread far more fragile than the gossamer strand of a spider's web. Quite obviously, every event that occurs in our lives, from electing to cross a street to turning left at an intersection instead of right, every decision we make during any moment--every moment is paramount to who we are and what we are yet to become. I'm telling you that there is no such thing as an insignificant link in the chain of events that define our existence. Nothing is insignificant. Nothing. OK, I'm done. Shake your head, loosen up. Relax. It's all good.

This is my friend, Vinnie Franko. (Click on image) Vinnie and I go back thirty-five years or so... He's a good man, sensitive, caring, despite his almost perfect pugilistic record. He works for my company. He used to have anger issues. He has worked them out though. Now he's a puppy dog, not a pit bull. I wouldn't urge him to anger though since old habits die hard. (click on the montage to see the photos from which it was created)

A montage of Neal... Note: Click on the photo. All of the pictures that make the montage are either band members or Royal Bliss fans....

This is a self-portrait. I don't really look that young, nor are my eyes that blue, nor is my hair that brown, nor is my skin that wrinkle-free. It's called artistic license. Eat your heart out...

This is my smiling daughter Jessi Pearl. She's our angel--our Miracle Baby...

Another painting of Jessi. This time she is Jessi Pearl the Cowgirl...

One of my passions is motorcycles, not dirt bikes, not crotch rockets or bullet bikes, real motorcycles, Harley-Davidson-made-in-America motorcycles to be exact. This is an abstract motorcycle painting that I did a year or so ago. I frequently draw motorcycles for the same reasons that I draw my wife, my children, my grandchildren--all things that are important to me. For some reason, however, I rarely draw guitars. Oh well. I collect them and play them on a daily basis. I guess I don't have to draw everything I love.

One day, I was thinking about a Ray Bradbury short story called "The Illustrated Man," about a man whose entire body was tattooed with his life experiences. In the story, whenever someone stared at one of his tattoos, the tattoo would spring to life, sort of a high-definition skin video. So I decided to do an "Illustrated Woman," lots of tattoos; no videos though...

OK, I already warned you. I don't do horses well. The story behind the painting: I was visiting an art museum in Shanghai a couple years ago and saw a very old, Ming Dynasty statue of a Chinese Cavalry officer from the Emperor's Royal Guard. That's what this painting is supposed to depict. I didn't give it a name, so I guess "Chinese Guy from Shanghai" will suffice....
This is just an experiment in modern art or, at least, my version of modern art. I'm not really sure what "modern art" actually means, but if someone were to say to me, "What does modern art look like?" I'd say, "Like this." I think I originally called it "The Star Necklace" because it sounds mysterious. It's a painting of my wife (most of my paintings are of my wife). I don't think she likes it though, because she says it doesn't look a bit like her, but I don't think one could say it looks unlike her either. That's what imagination is all about. I once read about a person who found a potato that looked exactly like Jesus. Aside from the fact that no one knows what Jesus looked like, that's cool. Nothing wrong with seeing things in potatoes.

This is one version of several similar paintings. I call the goblet paintings. I call this one "The Wine Glass." Somewhere, there's another version I call "The Martini Glass," and another I call "The Cocktail Glass." None of the paintings have a thing to do with alcohol, just the receptacles into which one pours the alcohol.

Varoooooom! This painting is called "The Green Machine"....another incarnation of my motorcycle fetish...Notice the "chopped" front forks. I actually had a Harley once that was a similar color (I gave it to my son). It's the one shade of green that I like, although, truth be known, I'm partially color blind, don't distinguish color variations well, something that most people don't know about me. And I suppose it is not only odd for someone who does not distinguish shades of color well to enjoy painting but, perhaps, it is even more odd that I paint with my right hand and do everything else with my left hand. Weird, huh? But at least I'm in my right mind--I still speak up for left-handed people. It's a right-handed world, but some day we lefties shall overcome. Yes, we shall overcome one day. Or maybe not. Let the right-handed, left-brained people do the math, count the money, measure things with rulers, let them have their right-handed scissors, their right-handled soup ladles at "Chuckarama," their clockwise-threaded nuts and bolts--and we of the left-handed persuasion shall write the music, create the literature that makes life exciting to live and continue to use scissors that don't fit our left hand without pouting and demanding equal opportunity. We just remind ourselves that when it comes to discrimination, it could get worse. We could be left-handed, female, gay, and Black.

Segwaying back to my color-blindness: On a warm night in June, 1965, shortly after my high-school graduation ceremony, after making the rounds to an assortment of graduation parties, three friends and I continued to celebrate. We were crammed into an old Ford pickup truck (that's four people wide), listening to the radio. Somehow, we ended up in Salt Lake City (we lived in American Fork). I think we had a 12-pack (three beers each). A popular song called "The Green Barret" poured out of the speakers. We were singing along with the words, having fun, ready to take on life, become men, being freshly graduated from high school. I was seventeen.

Some time later, the next morning, a Saturday (we slept in the bed of the pickup), we were still humming that song when we passed the National Guard Armory on 4th South, near the University of Utah. Impulsively, we decided to join the Army, Special Forces, no less--get green hats, go to Vietnam, see the world, get napalmed by mistake--mostly, just get green hats like the one in the song.

A week later, we were getting induction physicals. Half way through the process, I was rejected on the basis of my color blindness (and a bad knee). I would have eventually been rejected anyway or maybe court martialed since I lied about my age. I guess they thought I might mistake the color of a Vietnamese soldier wearing a red hat with one of my fellow American soldiers with a green hat. Unfortunately, my three friends were not rejected on the basis of color blindness or bad knees. And they were legitimately eighteen. And they were excited, got green hats, went to Vietnam six months later. They died there, probably wearing their green hats. I'm not a fan of war or discrimination or intolerance or injustice, but mostly, I'm not a fan of people killing each other over ideology or land or oil, or power or the color of their hats.

Another version of "The Illustrated Lady." I like this one better. It's a little more interesting with the red cage in the background. Check out the "prisoners" behind the red bars.

Here's another painting in the "goblet" series. I didn't give it the name of a goblet, howeer, Instead, I called this one "Come Together," one of my favorite Beatles' songs, although I'm not sure what the song has to do with the painting. Maybe there's a Freudian connection.

This one, I call "Lady in Blue." Duh! Once again, the inspiration came from my wife.

Mi amante.... This is a very shadowy painting, rather fog-like. It's OK, not really one of my favorite paintings, but I liked it enough to keep it, at least for a while, primarily, because it is of my wife, and she is actually recogniable in this one...

This is my beautiful granddaughter, McKaylee Jade Mathis or "Mick" for short, oldest daughter of my oldest daughter (and middle child), Jen... Mick's a sophomore at Juan Diego. She's very special. We love her.

I wanted to do a nature painting with an environmental theme. I started playing around with elements. It didn't end up going where I wanted it to go (that happens a lot) but it arrived at a place that was sort of interesting. I don't know where that is or what to make of it, but I like it, because I enjoy spontaneity and being surprised. Someday, I'll probably add to it or give it a clearer theme. Until then, it will wait for me and I for it.

An artist is both the master and disciple of his creativity. In this painting, thus far, I have been the disciple. I think I like being a disciple better than a master. The world has too many masters who should be disciples. I'm not into being a "blind disciple," mind you--more like a "Lone Disciple" and Vicki can be Tonto. We could travel the byways doing good deeds for poor wayfaring strangers, anonymously of course, just The Lone Disciple (me), Tonto (Vicki), and the Silver motorhome from which we would bid farewell to all we met with a "Hi Ho Silver Motorhome away!" Not only am I being silly, I'm thinking retirement. Yeah baby--I mean Tonto! Everybody say retirement; give us some retirement; all we need is retirement--and love!

This is what I looked like in college, shortly before I found my calling as an educator, hell, I was a TEACHER (I disdain glorified euphemisms) at Evergreen Jr. High, a vocation that was supposed to be a temporary detour from my long-range plan to become a lawyer.

I remember my first day as a teacher, forty-two years ago. Oh, my God. That was three lifetimes ago. I was not quite twenty-one. I wasn't really sure of what to do, so I racked my brain. I hadn't racked long when it occurred to me that, perhaps, I could imitate my favorite high-school teacher, Mr. Washburn, my grandfather and A.P. English teacher. I admired him so much. He was a legend at American Fork High School. I think the reason that I didn't immediately think of him had to do with the fact that I could never picture myself filling his teacher shoes. As I began emulating, pondering, "What would my grandfather say here, do there, think about this, ask about that?" I knew I couldn't be him, but if I succeeded in imitating just a small piece of his persona, I thought I'd be fine on that first day. I was fine. In fact, I was more than fine.

That night, I went home, said to my wife, "I was meant to be a teacher. That's who I am. I don't want to be a lawyer. I don't even like lawyers. I like teachers." It was an unexpected realization but one I could not ignore. I soon found my own voice, although I thank my grandfather for loaning me his for a while. I was a week shy of 21, six years older than my students for God sake when I started teaching, and I spent the next 27 years perfecting my skills, obsessed with finding new ways to impart whatever knowledge I had inside of me to my students. It really was a kind of obsession. I never regretted a single day of those twenty-seven years though. I never had a student I didn't like, couldn't reach, couldn't teach, but I never preached. Preachers are different from teachers, maybe better--maybe not.

Years later, even after people began to call me a "successful businessman," who employed a hundred or so people and owned a couple of international corporations, if a stranger asked me who I was or what I did, I always said (with great pride), "I am a teacher." Sometimes, they said, "I thought you owned a corporation," to which I always replied, "Only as a means of supporting my teaching habit."

This is my beautiful niece, Brooke Ward, daughter to my only brother, Randy. We call her "Brookie." She's a Utah girl, doing her best to adapt to life in Mississippi, which is probably as difficult a task as it would be for a Mississippi girl, trying to adapt to life in Utah, giving up Y'all for "My holy heck." . Someday, I think she will return to Utah, to our mountains, to her family and friends, to her roots. In the meantime, we miss her. Sometimes, I get worried though, because she's starting to say, "Y'all," but I don't believe she'll ever be Mississippianized--although she's as pretty as any Southern belle.

"Brookie in blue"

Another version of "The Illustrated Lady." I swear this is the last one. I don't like this one all that much. I will probably discard it soon. I don't discard well though. I hoard, collect. I don't know why, or maybe I do. I think everything around me becomes a security blanket, which is undoubtedly why I have never ventured far from home. I live 20 miles from where I went to high school in American Fork, Utah. I do travel, however, and have been to many foreign destinations. I enjoy meeting new people, sampling different cuisines, experiencing different cultures, confirming my belief that people everywhere are basically good, almost always friendly, usually humble.

Amazingly, I have rarely traveled anywhere (and I have been almost everywhere) without running into a former student or two somewhere along the way. I could be walking down a street in Paris or wading barefoot in the Dead Sea or waitng in line at Disneyland when, suddenly, I might hear a familiar question, "Is that you Mr. Mathis?" to which I would reply, "Yes, it is. It is so nice to see you."

I used to be a little paranoid of this magnetic-like capacity to attract students since I seldom remembered (or bothered) to engage in my best, teacher-like behavior and, therefore, had nightmares of being caught in some kind of compromising, unteacherly act, only to hear the haunting voice of a former student retorting, "Mr. Mathis! What are you doing?" Actually, I looked forward to those chance encounters and have always enjoyed the reunions I've had with former students whom I hadn't seen in years, in some cases, decades. I also look forward to the letters I still receive from them. I used to store them in a box somewhere, but I have no idea where it is now. Today, I'm more inclined to read them, smile, and discard them, content to experience whatever brief sparks of recollection the letters evoked, never really understanding why those students would go to the trouble of writing letters to a teacher they hadn't seen since they were fifteen years old, former students who, in many cases, are in their forties, some in their fifties! That used to be really, really old. Now, it's not--not even close. Nobody's old now. Age is relative state of mind and I plan to keep it that way.

Very strange, but I have to admit a little rewarding too since invariably, those letters reminded me (continue to remind me) of a very amazing period in my life when, aside from my family, my students were everything to me, I think because our roles and, therefore, our relationships were clearly defined--and, at my insistence, taken very seriously: I taught (took teaching very seriously). They learned (took learning very seriously). And, in most cases, the formula worked well, with both student and teacher experiencing an exhilaration and sense of satisfaction from that experience and the relationship. Some day, I'll elaborate more fully on my philosophy of education, which, in many ways is quite unique. In the mean time, if you just happen to be one of my former students and you just happen have discovered this blog, or you just happen to see me somewhere (hopefully engaged in uncompromising behavior), please stop and say, "Is that you Mr. Mathis? I promise I'll smile and say, "Of course, it is, and how have you been after all these years?"

I do love to travel almost as much as I enjoy returning home from my sojourns, back to Utah, back to all of my security blankets: my children, my guitars, my music, my mountains, my mortorcycles, my friends, my books, my dog, my fish, my....

I hope you do not find this painting overly "risque." If you do, I apologize. I find the human form, in particular, the female human form of which my only live model is my wife, a fascinatingly beautiful subject for my art, and this is a piece I did a couple of years ago. It remains one of my favorite paintings. I call it "Angel with a Hat." It looks quite a bit like my wife whose life I try to celebrate as often as I can. Without her I would be lost, helpless--lifeless. In real life, she's quite modest, but she likes this painting too. I hope you do as well.

This is one of about three versions of a set of paintings I called "Relationships." Some day, I'll expand on my theory of relationships. I'm too tired to do so right now. Bye.