I did this drawing some time ago, probably in 2023.
I found the frame a few years ago and always knew I wanted to use it. I was lucky enough to have the image that was meant for it: Directions.
I think this piece talks about both time and distance. Arrow up, arrow to the right—either works.
It’s a fun little piece, and I’m ready to part with it.
Directions, c. 2023
Pen and ink
Drawing: 3½ × 2¼ inches
Framed: 4½ × 3¾ inches
$350 framed
I find myself reminiscing about the past more often these days.
I think about Christopher Street and the wonderful life that was lived there. I think about the friends I made, and the friends who became family, during one of the most intense periods in LGBTQ+ history—the AIDS epidemic.
So many of those friends are gone now.
But I still think about them. I remember them. And I think about the wonderful life I have had, and the life I am still having, and how much fun it would have been to share some of this life with them.
Maybe that has something to do with how Marsha P. came into being.
The drawing did not begin as Marsha P. Johnson.
I know that.
It began as a very abstract sort of image. I was working with shapes and lines without any intention of making a portrait.
Then I began to see something.
First I saw the smile.
At this point, I was exploring how to tint underneath the drawing—putting color down and then bringing areas back.
As I worked, I began to see the eyes.
And all along there was a certain joy in the drawing that kept coming through.
I continued drawing, painting, changing things, covering things, uncovering things. The more I worked, the more something from my own history seemed to be coming forward.
My past became present.
Marsha was part of the world I remember.
I don’t mean that Marsha and I were close friends. We weren’t.
She was someone who passed through my life.
But she was a character on Christopher Street, just as I was a character on Christopher Street—working in a gallery among lots of other characters I loved dearly.
There was something about seeing her emerge from this drawing that gave me a way of becoming involved with that world again.
Not simply remembering it.
Participating in it.
For a little while, the distance between then and now became smaller.
The finished work became Marsha P.
For me, it carries more than the image of one person. It carries something of Christopher Street, of friendship, of loss, of survival, and of the extraordinary joy that existed alongside some very difficult years.
Maybe that is why the joy in the drawing matters so much to me.
The work later traveled to New York, where it was exhibited during Pride Month. The original Marsha P. is now available through Collective Z Gallery on Artsy.
But when I look at it, that isn’t what I think about first.
I think about the people.
I think about the life we lived.
Sometimes, while making a drawing, the past finds its way back into the room.
Collective Z is currently presenting Second Nature, bringing together painters Gwen Yip and Spencer Patrick. Their work considers the spaces New Yorkers move through—from the public world of subway platforms to the private interiors where people retreat.
Second Nature is on view through August 29, 2026, at Collective Z, 325 Broome Street, New York.
Returning to the former TR’s Gallery connected my first years in New York with my return as an exhibiting artist over forty years later.
When I moved to New York in 1980, I knew exactly what I was looking for.
I was looking for a place where I could live openly as a gay man. I was looking for community. I was looking for a life where I didn’t have to explain or defend who I was. Like so many people before and after me, I came to New York searching for the freedom to become myself.
My first job was at Kiss My Cookies. Not long afterward, I went to work at All State Art on the corner of Christopher and Bleecker. From there I moved to TR’s Gallery, one of Circle Fine Art’s galleries, where I eventually became the manager.
This week I was back in New York because one of my drawings was included in The Ordinary, a group exhibition at Collective Z Gallery on the Lower East Side.
While walking through Midtown, I found myself standing in front of the building where TR’s Gallery used to be.
The gallery is gone. The ground floor is now a souvenir store. But the building is still there.
Standing there, I realized that I had come to New York searching then, and I had come back searching now.
The questions have changed.
At twenty-six, I was trying to figure out how to live.
At seventy-three, I’m trying to understand what that life has meant.
Maybe that’s one reason I’ve returned to making art.
The drawings aren’t simply images. They have become a way of looking back, asking questions, and seeing connections I couldn’t see while I was living them. More and more, the work feels autobiographical—not because it illustrates events from my life, but because every drawing carries something of the person who made it.
The gallery is gone.
The search isn’t.
Pen on paper, 12′ × 12′
Tracing my shadow.
A drawing from 2005, one of a series called Mapping Existence.
I’ve spent a lifetime around art — teaching it, designing it, selling it, and making it.
Funny thing: becoming a full-time artist later in life may be the hardest chapter yet.
Still working.
Still becoming.
What keeps you doing what you’re doing?
Another map made years later, still wrestling with some of the same questions.
From the suite of images by Bill Hendricks, Words That I Cannot Spell.
Dyslexia is not a disability – it’s a gift. It means that I, and many other dyslexic thinkers can portray the world through images because we think in images. I can build worlds, freeze the frame, walk around and touch. I can read people’s faces, drawings, buildings, landscapes and all things in the visual world more quickly than many of my non-dyslexic friends. I paint with words; they are my colours.
~ Sally Gardner (Davis Dyslexia Association International)
Growing up, I had no idea why I had such a hard time reading and comprehending what I read. In my day, elementary school classes divided readers into groups: good, so-so, and poor. I always wanted to be in the good readers group, but I consistently found myself in the poor group with another student assigned as our tutor. I never understood why reading the things I wanted to read felt so difficult.
It was not until I joined the USAF that I discovered I was dyslexic. Reading is still a struggle, but like Sally Gardner, I believe dyslexia also allows many of us to experience the world differently. Personally, I think dyslexia contributed to my ability to express myself through art and other creative problem-solving endeavors.
I included Sally Gardner’s poem, Disobeys Me, with my suite of images titled Words That I Cannot Spell, because it speaks to an experience many people with dyslexia understand deeply.
I also want to thank Hunt and Gather Antiques for allowing me to photograph the incredible collection of letters in their backlot.
