I struggled in school from the very beginning. I couldn’t understand how the other kids knew what to do in class. I was given the same instructions as everyone else, but it seemed I didn’t have a clue as to how to proceed.

On top of that, I had a short attention span.

And none of it was interesting.

Reading was difficult. Math was impossible.

So I felt stupid. The other kids picked on me, and I didn’t think any of my teachers liked me.

I started kindergarten in 1965. Back then, there wasn’t much help for kids like me.

“Timmy is capable of doing much better,” the report cards read. I dreaded parent-teacher conferences and report cards. I dreaded going to school every day. For me, school wasn’t about learning. It was about surviving the week and making it to Friday afternoon.

Sometimes I got sent to the principal‘s office. Her name was Mrs. Young. She seemed nice enough. I don’t remember anything she ever said to me.

I don’t think my teachers knew what to say to me either.

I knew that the other kids were better than me. What a disappointment I must have been to the teachers who had had my brothers in previous years.

In junior high, I took remedial math. I never memorized my times tables, other than the ones, tens, and elevens up to nine.

When I added or subtracted numbers, I saw the number as a shape in my head with points on them for counting. I did multiplication the same way.

When I got to 10th grade, they made me take algebra 1. That was a 9th grade course. They let me pass it with a D-, and I never took another math course. Now I wonder how I graduated from high school.

Colleges have always accepted my high school transcripts. I have a feeling they don’t read them. After all, I have a diploma.

Arithmetic continued to intimidate me. I didn’t need to take math in Bible School or Art School.

After I finished my prerequisites for Nursing School, I was told I needed to take a math aptitude test. I said, “I might as well quit now, because I can’t do math.”

After living so long with my dyslexic brain, I had learned to compensate for my difficulties with learning. So much so, that now people are surprised to hear about my learning disability. I prefer to call it a “Teaching Disability.”

I like to read, but I am a very slow reader. I get tired staring at words on a page. If I am at all tired, the words bounce around on the page so much that I lose my place.

I got through Nursing School by reading the text book chapters aloud to myself or to a fellow student who lived next door to me. I let my Mac read text to me aloud.

Writing is completely different. I get lost in writing. It’s a creative expression like painting. It is painting with words, and I love that.

Until recently, I never talked about being dyslexic. It was something to be ashamed of. It made me feel stupid. Out of place in the world like a fish in a tree.

But there are gifts, too. My daughter and I have persevered through the difficulties (they are still there). Like me, she is creative, telling stories through video.

Everyone’s brain is different, and everyone’s challenges in life are different. That makes each one of us unique. Special. If I could go back in time and change myself, I wouldn’t.

In my nursing career, I talk a lot about “self actualization.” What I mean by that is that everyone deserves to be given the opportunity to be the best them that they can be, taking into account their limitations and their strengths.

For years, I’ve had Einstein’s quote on my blog: “Everybody is a genius. But if you judge a fish by its ability to climb a tree, it will live its whole life believing that it is stupid.”

I spent most of my life thinking I was stupid.

This was reinforced by my 2nd grade teacher who told my mother “I don’t believe Timmy has the ability to learn.”

We didn’t have words like attention deficit hyperactivity disorder, but I struggled with a learning disorder. This continued on through high school and college.

I believed that all of my four brothers were better than me in every way. They ate their vegetables. I was a picky eater. They did their homework and got good grades. I never memorized my times tables. They played instruments in band. I quit trombone on my first day of 7th grade.

Schoolwork was difficult for me, and I didn’t really see the value in it. I was described as a “happy go lucky” kid. I liked to socialize with my friends and create art.

None of my teachers found a way to connect learning with creativity. I don’t believe that the problem was that Timmy didn’t have the ability to learn, it was that Ms. Feldsenfeld didn’t have the ability to teach Timmy. If I had only known that art was math, and that language could lead to expressing myself with words, I think my life could have unfolded very differently. Sooner.

I’m not feeling sorry for myself. My life has unfolded at my own pace, and I’ve slowly gained some of the confidence that I was lacking as a kid. The past is the past, and it’s made me who I am today. I am still learning and growing.

I want to instill confidence in kids today, and sometimes my art gives me opportunities to do that. I have mentored kids over the past 25 years, and it has been exciting to see them go out and do wonderful things as adults.

We all need someone to encourage us. To believe in us. especially those kids who feel out of place in the world, like a fish in a tree.

Take heart. It’s not every fish that can scale the heights. You have a unique perspective from the treetops, even if you don’t exactly fit into the school of fish in the pond below. What makes you different? That is your unique gift. There is nothing wrong with you.

Test for Dyslexia: 37 Common Traits – Dyslexia the Gift

I believe that our brains are wired in certain ways. We each have our our gifts or talents. Some people just seem to know how to play musical instruments. I know several gifted self taught guitar players. So there seems to be something that is born into us. I also believe that we can learn and master new skills. You’re good at what you practice. So from an early age, art was what I did. I’m not saying I’m the world’s greatest artist, but over many years, I have developed a familiarity not only with painting technique, but also with that invisible part of me that wants to communicate something. I’m not so unique, and yet within the human race, which makes us alike, we each have a unique voice. We all experience life on planet Earth in our own individual way… from our own perspective. So I do what I do to show you what is unique about me, but also to relate to you.

Together, my voice joins with your voice, and those of the ancient cave painters… great painters, sculptors, writers that have been celebrated by society, and everyone that has followed through on a creative urge, to express what it feels like to be human.

Mostly, I paint alone in my studio. I paint quickly, and while I do, my mind is very active. That part is unintentional. Memories come bubbling up from my distant past, or my brain comes up with answers to current questions. That’s why I say painting is meditative. Time in the studio passes very quickly.

The way those thoughts surface is similar to how the paint lays itself onto the canvas.

Sometimes I paint in a social setting. Friends come over and hang out, or I’ll do a demonstration in front of a group. When that happens, I tend to verbalize those thoughts that come with the process.

My grandfather was an artist and an art teacher. I didn’t live near him, and didn’t really “discover” his art until after his death.

I was born in Michigan, which is where I later attended art school. I graduated from High School in Liberia, West Africa. These experiences laid the foundation for what I do now, but I really developed as an artist right here in Grand Marais, Minnesota.

This is where I developed confidence and intention as an artist.

I think it is essential to have a viewpoint. Art is communication. It is language.

The meaning that compels an artist to create is the meaning that will resonate with the viewer. What has a specific meaning to me may strike a chord that is specific in you. Our individual experiences stem from greater themes that run through all of us. That’s why popular music is popular. You sing about your break-up, and I apply your song to my break-up.

It is the role of the artist to be the voice of their generation.

Throughout the first half of my life, I learned the mechanics of drawing. I hadn’t connected drawing with expressing until the Grand Marais Art Colony hosted a show called PROUD FLESH, that I discovered that I could tell personal stories through the images.

Art doesn’t have to be pretty to be beautiful or poignant.

It made me feel vulnerable to tell such personal stories and have them hanging on a wall for everyone to see. But it was liberating.

Fearless art appeals to me. Bold, abstract paintings tend to draw me in, maybe with a mid century vibe.

I have a studio in my basement where I have created my paintings for the past 25 years. I like it because I don’t worry so much about getting paint on the floor. I have a big sink and adequate lighting, so it works for me.

I guess I am moved by my memories and the emotions I find attached to them.

As I have said, my mind wanders when I paint. The recollections influence what flows off the brush, though that information would not be obvious to anyone but me. Still those people, places and times are embedded right in the paint. It’s hidden. Sometimes intentionally cryptic. Or so I tell myself. Once in a while, strangers look at my paintings and then surprise me with what they saw. My daughter, on the other hand, generally knows exactly what I was thinking about at first glance.

I believe art is going the easy route. You can “create a painting of your profile picture with just one click.” But that isn’t art, is it? Is it? I’m not sure. The art of a programmer, maybe.

The urge to create is so strong in artists that I think it can go any and every direction.

When all the digital files are erased, and aliens visit our vacant planet, the drawings at Chauvet Cave will still be there. After all the cities topple.

I paint quickly, usually in bright colors. I use my old worn out or misshapen brushes, and find myself digging through my art box for one with a point on it.

The local newspaper described my style as “casual, creative fearlessness.” That’s at least something to strive for.

Art is communication. You can learn all the rules of painting, but if you have nothing to say, who cares?

I general, I like a more energetic and expressive approach. I like to see the process in the painting. Like showing your work in a math problem.

I like to see the brushstrokes.

Inspiration comes from everything I have seen or heard. Everything I have experienced in this world or in dreams.

When I am painting, I feel like myself. When I am in that mode of focused creativity, I’m free. I’m not thinking about whether anyone will like what I produce. I’m just making decisions. Playing. I don’t have to justify it.

I guess I am most proud of the Fish In Trees with the cobalt sky. It’s kind of the classic version of that theme. I’m proud of it because it was an original idea that came to me organically, and has taken on more meaning than I realized it would.

The original idea for this came about because a certain tree branch reminded me of a fish with its mouth open.

As it turns out, there are many instances of fish in trees in the world.

More compelling to me than the Amazon flood plains or mangrove swamps, though, is that feeling of being out of place.

A friend told me about a book called Fish In A Tree, which is a novel about someone with dyslexia. That is the most powerful interpretation for me. I think we all feel out of place sometimes.

Paint, brushes and canvas are things I need for painting. But the medium isn’t the most important thing. The most important thing is imagination.

There are so many components of art that I love. The inspiration or idea which leads to creating the piece, and then, maybe my favorite part, is when a painting goes up on a wall. It goes out into the world and has a life of its own.

I’ve always made art. I do it because I am an artist. It’s my identity. My form of expression. It’s the way I interpret the world, and stay sane.

I talk about my paintings being my fingerprints that I will leave on the world after I’m gone. My hope has always been that they will touch someone. Touch their spirit, and maybe inspire them to create something. I hope they at least communicate something from my mind… my imagination. I’m not so unique. The things I think and feel are shared by many, I’m sure. Having said that, I have a unique voice in this sea of unique voices called humanity.

Once in a while, and this is what makes it all relevant and worthwhile, I hear from someone out of the blue, who related to my work. (I call it “work,” but it feels more like play).

Without me there, one of my paintings speaks to someone I’ve never met, and we find that we are made out of the same stuff. We think similar thoughts. And a connection is formed.

Art is a language that can transcend age or gender. What a beautiful thing.

A fish swims up to another fish in the treetops and asks “Why are you swimming way up here?”

“Because I can.”

Today I was inspired by a painting I saw in a thrift store. I came home and painted this.

It’s Christmas. This is a bittersweet day for me. A year ago, Maddee, Luuka and Dylan moved out to Colorado. I was devastated by that news, and am still trying to come to terms with it. My knee jerk reaction was to put my house on the market, quit my job and move to North Carolina. I took a job as a spinal cord injury nurse at a large hospital, and it looked like everything was happening according to my plan. But I was miserable. I was so homesick for Grand Marais, and the life I had built here over the last 30 years. Thank God no one bought my house. After less than two months, I came back home.

This is Christmas morning. I don’t have to work today. I am all alone, and that is sad. I got a little emotional, laying in my dark bedroom, when Alexa sang “I wish you a merry Christmas” to me. That was sweet.

I am volunteering at work this afternoon, where I am going to read a couple of Christmas stories to the residents. So I am not all alone. Even though it’s just Lempi and me at home… Even though I didn’t put up my Christmas tree… It’s Christmas.

It has been about four months since I have painted, and now I’m going back into the studio.

I’m always trying to think of something new to paint. Some new direction to take my art in…

It doesn’t usually work that way, though. If I just paint, the images evolve. It’s in painting that I learn to paint.

I took a few months off. I bought a house down south and moved away from Grand Marais.

What a silly thing to do. But I didn’t know better. I’ve been here for 30 years. I thought I could go to a new city and that everything I had done here would translate.

I was in the truck heading south, towing my car behind me. By the time I hit Indianapolis, it dawned on me that I was probably making a mistake.

I closed on the house anyway, and took a job at a big hospital. I kept saying “I want to be me again.”

Two months later, I was back in Minnesota trying to put the pieces back together the way they were before.

I’ve said I’m not going to paint fish in trees anymore. But guess what… I am.

Fish in trees. It was my idea, and it was a risky one. I had to explain “Why?”

And so I pointed out that this area was built on fishing and lumber. I referenced many instances where fish find themselves swimming amongst the branches of trees in the real world.

I was drawing and painting from an early age. Before I could read and write, I was drawing pictures. I took every art class available in my high school, so in my senior year, I got to teach a class (with the real art teacher present).

I think art should challenge us. To ask questions. To think about a deeper meaning, not only in art, but in our lives.

So I am not afraid of questions. Or of criticism. I would much rather have someone say they despise my work than shrug and say it’s ok. “Whatever.”

So yes. There will be more fish in treetops. But not only that.

For me, painting is so much more than just creating an image. It is therapy. It is meditation. It is breathing. It is being me.

I am connected to this place.

Before I went to art school, my father admonished me not to make abstract art.  I think it was because he didn’t understand it.  I didn’t understand it, either.

  When I was in 4th or 5th grade, we took a field trip to the Detroit Institute of Arts.  There was a large canvas by Mark Rothko hanging over the staircase in the museum lobby, and I remember the other kids laughing at it.  A tour guide pointed out that an abstract sculpture was worth just as much as one of the old marble statues.  Our minds were boggled.

At the end of our tour, we went to the gift shop, and I bought several postcards.  All of them were of abstract art.  The other kids couldn’t believe that I had chosen those.

Nonetheless, years later when I got to art school (which was right next to the DIA), I had a kind of mental roadblock that kept me from embracing art that was not representational.  In my mind, a drawing was better, the closer it resembled the subject.  I admired abstract art, but found myself unable to create it.

I think my parents thought it was just throwing paint at a canvas and calling it art.  And I guess you can do that.  Of course you can.

You can express a lot with color or lines, even if they don’t conjure up objects or landscapes.

A friend of mine was in art school when his father died.  After the funeral, he had to do some paintings for a class, but he didn’t feel like painting.  So he told me he painted “nothing”.  Just filled four canvases with paint.

I own two of those paintings, along with several other abstract pieces by friends, and I love them.

I love them for the colors, for the shapes, and for the stories they remind me of. The stories my friends told me about creating the images, and stories my mind tells me when I look at them.

I do a lot of abstract paintings now. Bright colors flow out of my thoughts and work their way down my arm, and out of my hand, through the brush and onto the canvas.

My father also makes beautiful little abstract paintings sometimes. My daughter saw some of my dad’s painted blocks, and said, “Now I see where you get it from!”

“No,” I said, “I was doing this before he was.”

Our paintings are similar.

My grandfather was a painter too, and an art teacher. Something from him was passed on to my father, and from my father to me.

We dip our nets into the collective unconscious and we catch similar things.

I think this is how we are reincarnated. The cells of my ancestors live on in me.

I like to think that my brain cells can inspire, and live on in others through my art.

Or better yet, that we can be mutually inspired and changed by each others’ creativity.