Today I’m buying acrylics. I’ve decided it’s time for another tribute painting.
A tribute painting is a little like doing a cover song. You’re not trying to replace the original—you’re trying to inhabit it. To learn from it by touch. You pay your respects through replication, and in the process, you see the original more clearly.
The last time I made one, I was in Korea. Winter of 1973. I was stationed near the DMZ and had time on my hands—cold time, long time. I had a single lump of plasticine that I used again and again, carving dozens of small heads. Each one unique: expressions, angles, gestures. I shaved off beards, sculpted bald scalps, sometimes peeled back the skin to reveal muscle, then bone. One lump of clay, dozens of lives. And I still have that misshapen lump, now coated in garage grit and decades.
One day, someone rotating back to the States left behind a full set of oil pastels—messy, rich, irresistible. I decided to use them for a tribute.
I chose Starry Night.
I had a print of the painting and studied it with a magnifying glass, determined to capture the feel of it. Different medium, yes—but I could still mimic the color and flow, the way strokes danced like language. The more I worked, the more I knew that painting. I began to see the old light Vincent painted as if it were still moving. The DMZ was brutally cold, but I was warmed by those curling stars.
When I left Korea, I didn’t pack much. I left everything arranged as if I’d return in two weeks. Starry Night was tacked up on the curving wall above my bunk—a flat rectangle gently conforming to physics and corrugation. I like to imagine it stayed for a while, circling quietly with the seasons.
It’s been over forty-five years. Seems like the right time.
I’ve done other tributes—one digital, of Michelangelo’s Creation of Adam. That one taught me something I’d never noticed: inside the billowing cloak behind God is the gift of Eve, nestled among cherubs, cradled in divine intent. Everyone’s focused on those two fingers almost touching—but the real story is tucked under the swirl of crimson fabric.
Now, I’m thinking yellows.
Which might mean I’ve already made my choice.
A Work Progressing 