Regarding mentors: When I was six years old and already determined to be an artist I learned much by copying Donald Duck's beak and that prepared me to easily absorb the lessons of foreshortening and perspective. Go look at Donald's weirdly twisted beak as if you were six years old. Very subtle convolutions, no? So, Donald Duck was one of my first mentors. But I had already been fascinated by a Rembrandt portrait jigsaw puzzle -- all those smokey darks and glints of gold, each one just hint on some tiny jigsaw piece. Ah, a little mark could be the whole night sky. Then at age ten there was my first immersion with Van Gogh at a huge exhibition of his work. I understood him instantly. Then and there we became life-long pals. He still visits my studio daily. And so do many others. My studio is packed with artists and critics of every type and era. Why, even Velasquez stops by now and then. This is the joy of pure creative solitude. Mentors? Legions of them. I see everything as if it were teaching me something. Nothing is mute. And the Bava Ray is OK with me.
WC How does > this person discern mere virtuosity (which beguiled the > mentor-less > William) from genius or true artistic accomplishment? > Besides, of > course, being suffused in the Bava Ray.
