For two decades, I didn’t actively paint, but I stayed connected to my creative side through drawing and experiencing art. Being an artist isn’t something you choose; it’s something you are. I put my painting practice on hold in 1995, and by then, I had three kids. By 1998, I would have five. When they were old enough, I made a habit of taking them out on Sundays—whether for hikes in the mountains or trips to the mall for movies and shopping.
I developed a system to keep track of my kids when we went out. I would hold my youngest’s hand and assign the older ones to pair off, holding hands with the younger children. This made it easier for me to keep an eye on everyone without the stress of trying to manage them all individually in busy places.
On certain Sundays, we’d visit a museum, often the Metropolitan Museum of Art, because it offered such a wide range of exhibits. I had a rule: no lingering too long in one spot. I’d have a specific route mapped out in my head that would ensure my kids were engaged, and we’d end up in the modern or Impressionist galleries where I was most interested. We’d usually begin in the medieval armory section—after all, what kid doesn’t find knights and armor exciting? We’d pause if any of the children found something that caught their attention, discuss it briefly, and continue on. Sometimes, we’d check out the guns or the suits of armor, which seemed to heighten their appreciation for the stories and movies they were enjoying at the time.
To keep them from getting bored, I would gather them together before we entered the modern galleries. I’d hold my youngest’s hand, and the older ones would hold hands with the next youngest. Then, I’d ask them to each pick their favorite painting in the room. We’d all stand in front of each one, and each child would explain why it was their favorite. I’d share my own thoughts as well. When we decided it was time to move on, I’d ask if they wanted to visit the Egyptian collection and the Temple of Dendur. They’d always say yes.
Visiting the museum became a cherished routine. But one Sunday, when I announced we were going to the museum, they all protested. I decided to switch things up and suggested, “How about we take a ‘Mystery Car Ride’?” The idea immediately caught their attention, and they were thrilled by the prospect of going somewhere unknown and exciting. They asked where we were headed, but I kept the mystery alive. As we got closer to the museum, I finally told them—by then, it was too late to turn back, and they enjoyed the surprise just the same.
The next time I mentioned a “Mystery Car Ride,” they already knew it meant the museum. No one complained, and they played along. We’d all pile into our light blue Chevy Impala and make our way down the Palisades Parkway, across the George Washington Bridge, and along the Henry Hudson Parkway. Then, we’d cross Central Park on 86th Street, searching for parking near the Met.
Now that my kids are older, they happily visit museums with their friends or even attend art shows with me. We often reflect on the days of the “Mystery Car Rides” with fondness, knowing we’ve shared something special—a culture of experiencing art together. These rides have become part of our family’s folklore, a story we share with people we meet.
Looking back on those years, I remember the Sundays spent as a single parent, walking through the galleries with my kids. I’d hold my youngest’s hand, while the others eagerly searched for their favorite artwork. We’d gather close to the paintings, examining the mastery behind each piece, breaking down the techniques and understanding what made the art so special. It was a moment where being a father, an artist, and a person in this world all came together, and I realized how much art played a role in shaping those experiences.
Sometimes, as I paint in my studio, I imagine future parents bringing their children to museums on a warm, lazy Sunday afternoon. I picture them standing close to a painting, holding their child’s hand, and I hope that if they come across one of my works, they might feel a quiet connection—a sense that I, too, once stood in a gallery, sharing that moment with my children.
