ANYONE WHO HAS EVER heard me speak publicly about Flash and what led me to this industry might recognize the term “moment of clarity”. As an artist, there have been several of these moments – the most memorable transpired long before Flash was around.

It was spring of 1989 and after four fulfilling years at the Hartford Art School, I was finally about to receive my BFA degree. My drawing style during this time could best be described as hyper-realistic. I was illustrating images that looked like actual photographs. Sometimes the illustrations would fool even a well-trained eye into thinking they were real – at least at first glance. Objects caught in motion as if snapped by some high speed camera shutter, and foreshortened as if they were literally flying out from the page and about to hit you square between the eyes. I can only imagine this style represented my excitement as a young artist having this ability to push the limits of light and dark onto a two-dimensional surface, with only the best professors looking over my shoulder. I spent so many hours trying to master this drawing style that I would often have to use my left hand to pry the fingers of my right hand off of the pencil.

Most of my work was large in scale, 18” × 24” and even as large as 30” × 40”. A large majority of it was lithographs and etchings that took weeks and often months to create. One afternoon I had a leftover piece of copper plate that I was about to discard. It was small, about 3” × 7”, and tiny compared with what I was used to. For no particular reason I drew a rough study of a figure of a woman. I spent no more than 10 minutes on the drawing before throwing it in the acid bath so it could be etched. I rolled some ink into it and printed about six copies of it. It was a simple drawing, loose in line style, and very much the opposite of the hyper-realistic style I was known for, and for this reason I didn’t think it was a very impressive piece. I contemplated tossing the print and the copper plate in the trash and going back to my much larger and more realistic pieces. But something told me to hang on to it, at least for a little while. So I slid it between the pages of a book in my backpack.

Like all graduating seniors, we were celebrated with our own showing in the school’s gallery. While setting up my show, I carefully chose my biggest and most realistic drawings and prints. While hanging the last piece, the small etching of the girl slipped out onto the floor. I reluctantly decided to include it in my show next to the light switch in the darkest corner of the room.

The night of the show was a success and, a few days later, my illustration professor, Dennis Nolan, who was unable to attend, asked to see my work before it was to be taken down. He was one of the professors I most admired and to this day I adore his skill and dedication as an illustrator. He quietly perused each lithograph, etching, watercolor and pen and ink illustration. When he finished, he turned to me and asked, “Want to know what is your best piece?” Confident he was going to point to the largest and most realistic piece, I was shocked when he turned and pointed to the small etching next to the light switch. My heart sank and for a moment I felt as though I might be insane.

He explained to me that its simplicity and essential quality provoked an emotion within him, and compared it to Rembrandt or Da Vinci. He told me it was a milestone not only in my career, but in any artist’s career to draw like that. It was subtle, and that subtlety made more of an impact than any of the other pieces I had done in my four years as a student. The world of art changed for me that day and, in some ways, the way I looked at life changed as well. It took four years and that very moment for my eyes to be opened as an artist. I was changed forever. It taught me more than I ever thought I would be able to know and it’s a lesson I carry with me to this very day. Being subtle is powerful.