Sculptures

A few examples of my work:

The McIntosh MI3 Performance Indicator

For those who are interested in high end audio, the name McIntosh is synonymous with perfection.  McIntosh, for those less educated in the realm of audio, is more or less the Mercedes-Benz of audio equipment.  McIntosh Laboratories, has for years, maintained a classical interpretation of what constitutes high fidelity sound.  The company has chosen to maintain an allegiance to vacuum tube driven units, arguably one of the most elegant and beautiful ways to produce high quality sound.  

Vacuum tube driven audio has become almost completely obsolete from modern audio equipment and is maintained only by a handful of companies.  Most audiophiles lean towards this anachronistic method of driving audio because of the signature quality that only tubes can produce.  Vacuum tube audio systems, by their very design, introduce distortion into the audio signal.  This would typically be frowned upon, but the distortion present in tube-driven units is particularly harmonic to the human ear and thus often preferred by audio aficionados. 

I very recently acquired a vintage McIntosh product that I am extremely proud of.  This particular unit was introduced in 1964 and is known as the MI3 Maximum Performance Indicator.  The MI3 is extremely rare today in the sense that the technology utilized within the unit is completely obsolete and that the instrument itself is difficult to track down given its age and the specific nature of its utility.  The MI3 is a passive instrument, which is to say it does not affect the audio signal that is subject to.  Rather, the MI3 is an audio-testing unit; designed to visually represent an audio signal.  The MI3 achieves this objective via the use of a cathode ray tube, which is in turn driven by vacuum tube technology.  When all the shiny paper and complicated descriptions are pealed away, the MI3 is an oscilloscope, no more & no less.  The instrument allows the user access to a variety of different features, most notably the ability to monitor and thus reduce multipath.  The MI3 was designed to be used in conjunction with a tuner; allowing one to tune more accurately and be aware of the presence or lack of multipath.  The MI3 is also capable of displaying reversed polarities, out of balance audio sources, & missing channels.  When a source is accurate in its representation of a stereo signal, the screen of the MI3 is filled with dancing glowing lights, a beautiful and chaotic interpretation of the present audio signal.

While the MI3's usefulness in acquiring top-end audio clarity is minimal at best (especially the tuning utility), itself and units like it have become collectable for their use of cathode ray tubes.  The technology is beautiful and just plain cool to look at.  The build quality of the MI3 is top notch, as would be expected with any McIntosh product.  The use of black glass and anodized gold font beautifully dates the unit, as do the silver pots.  

The McIntosh MI3 Performance Indicator is two things: a rare and elegant electronic instrument produced by one of the most respectable audio houses in the world & quite literally, a visual and design-based representation of 1960s technology.            

This fantastic piece, produced in the late 1960s, is a Heuer Autavia Chronograph 2446.  I was fortunate enough to inherit this piece from my late father, who inherited it from his own father in 1980.  Many will not recognize the brand, and that stands to reason, given that it no longer exists.  The Heuer Watch Company was started by Edouard Heuer in 1860 & over a century later merged with the TAG group (Techniques d'Avant Garde Group) in the mid 1980s.  While the current TAG Heuer company is certainly a respectable and important watch maker, it is the classic Heuers (pre the merge with TAG) that are truly collectable among watch collectors, as they retain the original aesthetic and styling of the origin brand.   

The 2446 is a stunningly beautiful watch that could probably serve any occasion.  One could easily wear such a piece on a daily basis or with a suit/tuxedo (especially with the steel bracelet).  It was originally created to serve either a pilot or a diver & as such was sold with either a stainless steel Gay Freres "beads-of-rice" bracelet (for the diver) or with a leather rally band (for the pilot).  The Heuer watch company was renowned for its involvement in racing & timing events (including aviation speed testing), and took pride in their watches being considered accurate enough to serve European & American racers.  Thus, the name "Autavia" is an acronym for "Automobile" & "Aviation".   Autavias are exceedingly rare watches; odds are that if you see one on the street somewhere, it belongs to a vintage watch enthusiast.    

She's A Rainbow

Michael Canetti's work could not easily be classified, it resides somewhere between abstract, modern, and impressionistic.  To depict the female form is to tackle a fairly complicated problem, many artists try & fail.  The process of capturing a woman in art, is to capture not only the physical characteristics that compose the fairer sex, but also to faithfully represent the female essence.  

It is far too simple to clutter female art with an overuse of sexual imagery.  Many artists find it necessary to depict the sexual appeal of women by using light & shadow, focusing on highly detailed expressions, or utilizing explicit exposure.  Despite efforts, such an approach is conducive to the opposite of the intended effect; hyper-sexuality and a tendency towards the dramatic ultimately lead to an overly masculine representation of women.  After all, the sex appeal of a real woman is rarely blatant and overly exposed but rather found in the subtleties; the way light seems to form a halo around a beautiful girl, the soft movement of long locks across a nude back, or even the gentle grasp of a female hand around a glass of wine.  The biology of women may be accurately depicted in such work, but the more delicate side of women-the grace & finesse the opposite sex seem to exude, is forgotten. 

Canetti picks up where most have failed and exudes unparalleled originality and beauty.  His art is whimsical and full of bright color, devoid of overly complex structure and instead leaves more to the imagination.  Canetti fully realizes the secret of great art; the viewer's mind.  An artist's most powerful tool is the imagination of his viewer and Canetti capitalizes here.  He gives us just enough to get our creative juices flowing and then gracefully exits.  His minimalist approach utilizes the power of form, especially through the contrast between curvature and linearity.  Canetti's women are undoubtedly sexy, even erotic, but never pornographic.  The art is light and playful, never serious or hard edged, and depicts the sexual allure of women not through the use of high contrast or sharp focus but rather via abstraction.  Thus, Canetti's chosen medium comes as no surprise; only watercolors could faithfully portray such an ethereal subject matter.

Canetti's work, while modern in classification, is far from anything typical of today's art scene-especially in regards to the depiction of women.  His work is more grounded in the 1960s and his use of colors is reminiscent of the Washington Color School movement.  I could not help but be reminded of artists like  Morris Louis & Piero Dorazio while studying Canetti's color palette.  Canetti's blend of color, form, and  abstract propensity culminate in genius-an almost mythical representation of sexuality and women.  A kaleidoscope of color, form, and sensuality...Michel Canetti.  

My Father's Watch

There is a time in every boy's life where he feels a yearning to mimic everything his father does.  No decision or choice can possibly be wrong if he follows in his old man's footsteps.  As the boy grows older he becomes his own man, forms his own opinions on the world around him, and eventually no longer feels a need to follow in his father's wake.  Somethings, however, never change.  I would dare you to find a single man on this planet that does not, even in the smallest way, mimic his father's actions.  Whether it be a certain gesture, a way of speaking, handling money, or a lifestyle choice, our fathers seem destined to rub off on us in one way or another, for better or for worse.  

Growing up in a divorced household meant I did not see my father all too often, but when I did I paid close attention to him.  It seemed important to me get to know the parent that I spent less time with, to truly value every second of interaction and to learn his nuances.  I watched carefully, always from a distance, eager to understand what composed my father.  My father was an interesting man, certainly peculiar, but also highly methodical and efficient.  He lived by a certain set of rules which most other men, including myself, would have found too stringent and impossible to follow.  These rules governed everything from his dress code to his outlook on personal economics.  My father's perspective on life was that time is the most valuable thing a person has, more than money or possessions, one's time is the greatest commodity.  His endeavors and the strict rules he lived by seemed always to link back to this outlook and always served the same purpose, to save time. 

 To a man whose time was so important to him, it came as no surprise that my father wore a watch every day of his life.  He had a small collection of watches, pieces that he found interesting or had picked up over the years.  But out of all his watches, my father remained loyal only to one and it was rare the day that I ever saw it off his wrist.  It was a 1978 1680 Rolex Submariner that he had inherited from his late father.  Children have a tendency to latch on to the same tangible objects that they see their parents infatuated with.  For me, my father's watch represented a detailed record of my father and what composed his most important concern in life, time.  I would often admire the watch on my father's wrist, always doing my best to not let my eagerness to inspect it become noticeable.  My father was a fairly judgmental man and I did not want him to think I was envious of one of his most sacred possessions.  The watch itself was beautiful, a perfect blend of masculinity, utilitarianism, & elegance.  The design of the dial and the almost excessive use of text always made me think the watch had some importance greater than timekeeping.  I remember as a young boy, thinking the watch must serve some other purpose, it looked far too solid & important to simply be just a watch.  I had not yet learned the mark of true quality, and was too young to understand that what I was looking at was a fine timekeeping instrument, made by one of the best watch manufacturers in the world.  

Beyond my attraction to the watch's physical characteristics, I envied the bond the watch represented.  My father's Rolex Submariner clearly represented a tie between men of the same blood; a generational leap preserved between father & son.  On a few occasions I got up the nerve to ask to see the piece and my father was always willing.  Perhaps he knew that someday the watch would be mine and despite my all efforts, most likely had observed my desire for it.  I was always surprised by the weight of the watch, heavy and solid, unlike any other watch I had ever held.  Every conceivable detail was perfected; there were no flaws in its design.  I loved to press it up to my ear so that I could hear the mechanical ticks of the gears.  When my father explained to me the concept of a perpetual watch my transfixion grew only deeper.  He explained to me that a mechanical watch could never be as accurate as a Quartz watch, but would always be more elegant; a testament to the wonders of mechanical engineering and romantic in the sense that a perpetual watch relies on its wearer as much as the wearer relies on it. 

As I grew older, my desire for his watch never wavered.  I often daydreamed of my father giving it to me for my college graduation or perhaps as a wedding gift.  Unfortunately, my father was never able to gift me the watch (if he ever intended to), he passed away before I ever had the chance to graduate college or marry a woman.  The watch came into my ownership in the most bittersweet of ways; it was handed to me by his widow who knew fully well its symbolic meaning to me. 

There is not a day that I do not wear the piece and think of my father in doing so.  Every glance at the dial reminds me of my father's precious treatment of time and its preservation.  Just as his father before him, the watch slowly ticked away his life, and I suspect it will do the same for me.  I am the third man in my family to wear it, and if romanticism and idealism prevail, my son will be the fourth.  

A Love Affair: Vintage Marantz

Growing up the son of an analog electrical engineer had its perks but I did not learn to truly appreciate them from the get-go.  I would often find myself roaming the seemingly infinite isles of Silicon Valley "junk stores"; large warehouses filled with electronic odds & ends that had either been scrapped or sold by defunct companies.  My father would drag me to these stores & I would typically pace around the store impatiently, waiting on my father to finish his routine scans of the mountains of electronic components.  At such a young age as I was then, it was difficult for me to find any pleasure in such a venture & I quickly learned to dread this seemingly unavoidable errand.  As the years went on, my father's hunt for rare electronic equipment led us beyond the fringe of the stereotypical Silicon Valley scene & into a darker if not edgier side of the industry.  

The junk stores we visited became more junk & less store & it was not long before my father had graduated us to electronic flea markets.  These flea markets were unlike anything I had ever seen; enormous gatherings of analog aficionados searching for some rare VU meter or oscilloscope that they could take apart & gawk at.  It was at one such flea market where I was first introduced to Marantz.  I remember walking with my father; casually probing through vendors' boxes & counting the minutes till we could leave, when out of the corner of my eye, I caught the glimmer of a Marantz 2270's chrome faceplate.  The receiver was plugged in, an intelligent choice by the vendor, as a vintage Marantz is ever more beautiful & enticing when its electric blue light is glowing in stark contrast with cool metallic veneer.  The 2270 was in excellent condition & it was immediately evident that this particular Marantz had been loved by its previous owner(s).  Having no idea what I was looking at, I called my father over, who immediately smiled & hovered over me, inspecting the 2270.  He turned a few knobs & pots, checked the balance knob, turned the unit on & off, & smiled when he realized how fascinated I was by the object.  Here was his son, a staunch protestor of anything even resembling an electronics store, head over heels for his first electronic crush.  My father was undoubtedly wise enough to realize that despite his son having no idea what a Marantz was, the unit's aesthetic appearance was what had initially grabbed my attention.  My father patiently explained what a receiver was & how it differed from a boom box or any other kind of stereo equipment I was familiar with at the time.  The vendor, upon request, was even nice enough to hook the 2270 up to a pair of old speakers.  Despite not being particularly interested in music at the time, I knew that I had to have a Marantz receiver.  Upon checking the price tag of the unit, my hopes dwindled & I retracted into a deep melancholy, knowing my father would not buy me such an exorbitantly priced piece of audio equipment.    

The years went by & electronic flea markets with my old man came & went, & every now & then I would find one.  Some were in terrible condition, others practically perfect, but no matter what their condition I would always gravitate towards them.  They seemed impossible to miss, with their endless array of switches & knobs that served some purpose beyond me.  It did not matter, what mattered was that there were switches; switches that required turning & adjusting & checking.  I loved the metallic clicks they would make when depressed or turned.  No piece of modern electronic equipment I had ever seen looked like a vintage Marantz.  

It was not until after my father passed away that I acquired my first Marantz, a 2220.  I had learned the benefits of vintage audio equipment prior to making the purchase & was now fully confident with my decision to finally buy my dream audio receiver.  I purchased the unit from a seller on Ebay, whose reputation preceded him.  His entire business rested on his ability to fully restore these fantastic machines to their original state.  The unit arrived at my apartment, & after weeks of waiting impatiently, I stood around with my roommates as we carefully dissected the box containing the unit.  I was ecstatic to see that the seller had even included the original Marantz cardboard box, from 1973.  The receiver was everything I could have hoped for, absolutely beautiful & free of scratches or dents. I hooked the Marantz up to my Definitive Technology BP 7004 towers, & after weeks of serious listening I truly began to appreciate the Marantz's capabilities.  

The Marantz sounded unlike anything I had ever heard.  Up to that point, I had learned the sound differences that come between listening to music piped through an analog unit versus a digital one, but nothing could have prepared me for the warmth that Marantz brought to my music.  Everything sounded brighter & thicker & I quickly resorted to researching the issue; I wanted some sort of evidence, anything to validate my epiphany & give substance to what I thought I heard coming from this stunning piece of antiquated machinery.  After some extensive web browsing, I learned that old Marantz audio receivers are famous for their warm/buttery sound, my opinion was validated, &  I was now safe to be totally & completely...hooked.  Here was a unit that blended the best of both worlds, cosmetic beauty & beautiful sound.  For the rest of the school year I took pleasure in throwing all kinds of music at that Marantz, everything from jazz to rap.  While everything sounded fabulous, what really stood out, was the Marantz's playback of vinyl records.  Nothing I had ever heard compared to the fidelity of a vintage Marantz playing a vinyl record.  Whether laying on my bed with the volume cranked or sitting in a chair with my headphones plugged in, the music came to life off my records.  Louis Armstrong's voice crooned, Miles Davis' trumpet soared, & Springsteen's voice sounded throatier & more present.  

This summer I have been fortunate enough to acquire three more Marantz pieces, all of which have sentimental value to me.  A close friend of my father's, himself a vintage Marantz collector, gave me two excellent units.  One, a small 1030 Marantz Amplifier, & the other a monster 2325 Marantz Receiver.  The 2325 will return with me to college so as to retire the 2220 for the time being.  The 2325, with all of its 70lbs & 125 watts per channel, will certainly make a dent in my neighbor's sleeping patterns.  The last piece, which I inherited after my father's death, is a Marantz 10b tuner.  This a particularly special piece because it belonged to my father, but also because of its significance to Marantz's history.  Marantz was started by Saul Marantz, who had a vision that closely resembles Apple's current philosophy.  His aim was to make top of the line equipment that was as beautiful & attractive to the eye as it was efficient & technically superior.  Marantz's success as a privately owned company was short lived however...all due to the 10b.

Saul Marantz was eager to make the best tuner ever made & the result was the 10b.  It was a fantastic piece of equipment & its specifications at the time were enough to make any audiophile drool.  But what truly made the 10b significant, was its inclusion of a small onboard oscilloscope that displayed a wavelength representation of the incoming radio signal.  Marantz explained the scope as a fine-tuning instrument that served to further enhance/tune the incoming signal & thus allow for better audio quality. In reality, the scope was fairly arbitrary & it would probably be generous to say it even moderately affected audio quality... but it sure as hell was cool to look at.  Unfortunately, the 10b was also extremely expensive to make & back in the late 1960s, demanded a whopping $600.  The 10b effectively bankrupted Marantz & ended the company's run as an independent entity.  Shortly thereafter, Marantz was purchased by SuperScope.  Today, the 10b tuner has reached a cult level status of popularity & is widely sought after by collectors.  It represents the pinnacle of the original Marantz corporation prior to their purchase by SuperScope, & for many is one of the most beautiful & interesting tuners ever made.  

There is a certain approach to design that defines every decade, & for me it is the years long passed that truly perfected the approach.  Whether it be the utilitarian & intricate face of a 1960s luxury watch, the wooden paneling on the dashboard of a classic Mercedes, or the glowing blue light of a Marantz receiver, the attention to every possible detail & the overall solidity of products from yesteryear is long gone.  It has been replaced by cheap & affordable plastics & the ones & zeroes of a digital age.  Technology may have become more efficient & all together more advanced, but it has certainly become uglier.  A lack of style & taste has paved the road for cheaper operating costs in the audio industry, & the results are black monoliths that bare no resemblance to their superior ancestors.  For me, Marantz is the end of line, the pinnace of an era that is no more.  My affinity for these instruments remains strong, & how could it not?  Marantz combined beauty & tonal quality unlike any of its competitors.  They strove to please the ears as well as the eyes & they innovated in a market that has always been over-saturated; truly, American design at its best.

   

Cinema Paradiso: A Film for Romantics

One of the most common debates I often get dragged into as a film buff is the difference between a romantic film & a chick-flick.  Operating off my own set of standards for film, I would define a "chick-flick" as a light and ultimately shallow film that utilizes tired cliches and fails to surprise or challenge its audience.  A chick-flick, by all means, is a marketing ploy by today's Hollywood; a ploy to lure in single mothers and teenage girls that desperately need their fix of 180 minutes of whimsical but all together trashy romantic romps.  These films lack substance and class.  Don't get me wrong, some chick -flicks are enjoyable, especially when they're self-aware in nature and half satirical.  Pretty Woman & Serendipity come to mind; after all, sometimes we need a popcorn movie that is palatable & does not demand our every braincell to understand.  


Cinema Paradiso is a 1988 Italian film directed by Giuseppe Tornatore and is easily one of the most romantic films I have ever seen.  I felt it necessary to differentiate between a chick-flick & romantic film  at the beginning of this post, because I would never classify Tornatore's film as a chick-flick.  Cinema Paradiso is romance done right.  The film's approach seems founded in the belief that romance is not defined by a cliched love story; but rather by a certain approach to life...an eager desire to live life to the fullest.  To examine true romance is to feel the greatest highs and suffer the worst lows.  A well made romantic film propels its audience through a spectrum of emotion but ultimately does what all great art must, provide unflinching truth, because in real life the boy does not always get the girl.

Cinema Paradiso tells the story of Salvatore "Toto" Di Vita, a young boy who lives in a small town in Italy.  The film examines Toto's undying love for cinema; even from an early age Toto demonstrates a passion for cinema, constantly harassing his local theater's projectionist, Alfredo.  Toto soon wins over Alfredo's heart and the two become inseparable.  Alfredo is wise and scarred by life and takes Toto in as his own, teaching him the art of film projection and occasionally instructing him on life's more serious matters.  Toto, an orphan after losing his father to WWII, is receptive and Alfredo quickly becomes a father figure for him.  Much of the magic from this film is derived from watching the onscreen chemistry between Alfredo & Toto.  Their relationship is sweet and pure but not devoid of flaw and is fascinating to watch.  While the saga could certainly be categorized as a romance film, it could just as easily be considered a character study.  Every major character in the film has layers & depth and most importantly are human in nature; they make mistakes, have regrets, and do not always find the happy ending.  Many have described this film as a love letter of sorts to cinema and the magic of the movies.  The director's cut of this film however, features an additional fifty minutes of footage cut from the theatrical version that focus more on Toto's love story with a young girl in his village named Elena.  

The film is shot beautifully and the score by Ennio Morricone is nothing short of marvelous.  Powerful scenes coupled with great acting and a haunting score will surely cause some spine tingling.  Films that can actually effect a psychosomatic reaction are few and far between and this is one of them.  Tornatore's subject matter in this film is tribute to old cinema but his styling and the overall feel of the film is nothing less.  Men courting women from underneath their balconies and kisses in the rain are a plenty, but rather than falling into cliche, Tornatore excels at maintaining good taste and within the context of the film, everything presented feels legitimate.  Easily one of the best films I have ever seen, Cinema Paradiso is a movie for romantics and anyone who loves the cinema.