I remember myself at nine or ten, in front of my junior easel with my brushes and paints. The tubes of pigment were held in a proper wooden artist’s box, suffused with the aroma of linseed oil. I remember my joy in those hours — which often included dancing around my Art Totem to the exuberant strains of The King and I — attempting to bring to life and color the black and white image of an old Belarusian lady I found in my National Geographic magazine, or trying to copy an Edward Hopper seascape. 

All of my art equipment was, in retrospect, an astonishing gift from my parents, in some vague recognition of what they already knew: Theirs was a post-WWII, not-quite-standard only son, indifferent to the demands of white middle-class suburbia. Not knowing quite what to do, they most likely thought that Frankie had “a nice little hobby” — something for him to grow out of as he inevitably pursued a more traditional path. 

It did not take me long to realize, however, that my mother was becoming uncomfortable with my growing attachment to anything “artistic.” Questions like, “Why don’t you just go out and play?” or “Why aren’t you like the other boys at school?” began to make me feel ashamed of my artistic bent. Eventually, intimidated by these psychological pressures, I abandoned painting entirely. By then — 13 or so years old — I realized I was dancing to the beat of a different drummer, with a growing awareness that I would have to work hard to navigate the difficult disconnects between my own desires and others’ demands. 

My solution was to create a doppelgänger: the Other Frank who toed the line but who had a rich inner life. To assist in this survivalist’s deception, there were plenty of other interests to keep me busy — as a “let’s-do-it” fund-raising kid in school… tutoring the captain of my high school’s football team, etc. A constant supply of new things to explore and plates to spin. 

Yet I was always mindful of the need to be released from the Other Frank, and that opportunity started to take shape with my escape to Chile as a foreign exchange student, which opened my eyes to other possibilities. And then on to an out-of-state university. But even here — hidden desires vs. expectations — the baggage was never fully dispensed with, and my internal world remained veiled in shadows. 

From the time I abandoned painting, almost 45 years would pass before I took it up again to reveal my view of the Temporal World. Even longer before I discovered what I could do photographically. Yet none of those intervening decades, I believe, were “lost.” During that time I enjoyed a fulfilling professional life, which always kept the creative pot more than a little on the boil. 

I worked in publishing, as designer and art director. Then, producing industrial theater events throughout Europe and Asia for major international companies. After that, with my late, beloved partner, Malcolm Hoare, I produced and directed more than 200 theatrical, film, and video projects. So many new roads to take and learn from! 

Yet, while Malcolm and I received plenty of peer recognition, wearing all those many diverse hats, the final product was always in service to the needs of others. Naturally, there was a seductive quality to all the voices telling us how much they loved the commercial and broadcast films we had made for them — and could we please do it again? 

The answer was generally “yes” — at least until Malcolm’s death. The personal loss was devastating. But beyond that was the fact that we had been a team for so many years and that I had become accustomed to thinking and acting jointly — my singular voice gently subsumed by the combined effort. 

Now alone, I knew I had to find my own voice: It was a matter of survival. I knew I wanted to paint, and the lure of the commercial world had become less compelling. But by now, my old childhood discouragement had been overlaid by an adult’s fear of unworthiness: Who was I, with no formal art training whatsoever, to presume to paint? Better to keep on making films… winning awards… receiving lavish praise from well-intentioned people for the work I continued to do for them. 

But while they were satisfied, I was not. And, small beat by small beat, my heart succeeded where my mind could not: Coaxing me back to my first love. If Home is the place where one feels in one’s element — at peace and connected — this was surely a homecoming. Art is the one place where I don’t feel phony and where I am not playing a game, but simply following my instincts and need for self-expression. 

Here, no one can touch me. In this oasis, I am free of all the people I believe I need to “save.” Art — meaning both the painting and photography — is where I save my Self. 

In both of these areas, I have the absolute freedom to display those repressed feelings that say, “This is me.” Here, I journey unfettered through my inner landscape, grown larger as the years have passed. The “brain terrain” both beguiles and occasionally intimidates me. But I endeavor to understand it as fully as I can. 

Which is, after all, what a Life should be about: endeavoring to understand ourselves and others. In other words: Seeking.