I used to make up stories called “The Adventures of Mr. Pumpkinhead.” They were silly, fantastic stories about an enchanted jack-o-lantern who loved Kraft Deluxe Macaroni and Cheese Dinner. He had a friend named Rocky, who was an enchanted Lake Superior beach stone, and another friend named Sylvia, who was an enchanted spaghetti squash. I’ve lost my one copy of the book I made, and maybe it will show up again somewhere, someday. One day as I was recounting the time Mr. Pumpkin head used his magic finger to open and start a car at a car dealership, drive it away, get arrested for grand theft auto, and then be put in jail (he used his magic finger to unlock the jail cell and walk out), my friend’s son looked at me and said “You’re Mr. Pumpkinhead, aren’t you?” I don’t know that I’d thought of it that way before, but the question resulted in this oil pastel that I call “Self Portrait as Mr. Pumpkinhead.”

I used to make up stories called “The Adventures of Mr. Pumpkinhead.” They were silly, fantastic stories about an enchanted jack-o-lantern who loved Kraft Deluxe Macaroni and Cheese Dinner. He had a friend named Rocky, who was an enchanted Lake Superior beach stone, and another friend named Sylvia, who was an enchanted spaghetti squash. I’ve lost my one copy of the book I made, and maybe it will show up again somewhere, someday. One day as I was recounting the time Mr. Pumpkin head used his magic finger to open and start a car at a car dealership, drive it away, get arrested for grand theft auto, and then be put in jail (he used his magic finger to unlock the jail cell and walk out), my friend’s son looked at me and said “You’re Mr. Pumpkinhead, aren’t you?” I don’t know that I’d thought of it that way before, but the question resulted in this oil pastel that I call “Self Portrait as Mr. Pumpkinhead.”