About Thaddeus
I was born in Connecticut, but eventually settled in Tucson, AZ with my wife Rachel. Prior to settling down in Tucson, I lived in some inspiringly beautiful places that encircle my preference for nature- Hawaii, Wyoming, China, and Oregon. I used to teach writing at the University of Arizona, but, like many, COVID killed my job. While there’s plenty I miss about teaching, the unique opportunity to be a full time artist has been amazing, if involuntary. The ability to do so is because of my supportive wife (and the fragmentary child care requirements a pandemic creates).
The majority of my work is heavily influenced by nature. In my worke nature shows as either an overwhelming presence (Sandia Stormfront), or an aching absence (portrait of my late father, Strange Clouds). I dislike naming pieces and think I’m pretty awful at it. One example is my painting of the South Rim of the Grand Canyon. At one point I called it “Completed Arizona Artist Residency Requirement.” At its best, making art is a mindless, time warping meditation that silences consciousness. At its worst, it is a very expensive and messy way to bolster your low self-esteem. Each project is a journey; for me, these journeys run the gambit from quitting painting (a place I get to about once each project) and a Wile E. Coyote delusional belief in one’s own super genius-ness.
My favorite places are Eastern Oregon in the summer, Makapu’u or Diamond Head on an crowd-less day, and upstate Connecticut in the fall. You know, anywhere close to some water. It makes me wonder what I’m doing in the middle of the desert. It wasn’t until my wife brought me to Tucson that I really started to enjoy community as an enjoyable environment. In my 50s, I’m still a social novice. I’ll go even further and say I’m still learning the basics of human interaction. When Phoebe was into Daniel Tiger (an animated reboot of Mr. Rodger’s Neighborhood) I never watched an episode without learning something – which is either endearing or pathetic (I’d say both).
My daughter Phoebe is named for the bird my father and I used to enjoy listening to at a cabin in the woods of northwestern Connecticut. Though a tough critic with a keen eye for color, she would like every single one of my paintings. She cries sometimes when I sell them and is always upset when they leave the house for a show. One that she does have is a still-life of a bust used in art classes (I tried a few but was, sadly, unteachable) She tells people it is a painting of a god because “gods don’t have arms.”
