So long, Peter Dean.

I just learned of the passing of an artist I respected very much. Surreal is the word because we weren't actually friends, I just fell into his online world of images and sometimes unbelievable remarks that left my jaw open at times. He made me look into other sides of my birth land Jamaica, sideways, vertical, black and white, portrait, editorial...absolutely anyway feasible for a talented photographer and overall artist to get the point said and done. I went offline for a while on some sites like facebook and Instagram so now that I've resurfaced, I've learned he died of cancer. Cancer, you son of a bitch, you strike again! I'm beyond myself, mystified, with the amount of cancer growing in the world. The artists that pushed boundaries, ones I fear pushing all the time, will always be remembered. Peter Dean Rickards, #afflictedyard, pushed through to make some very frank, beautiful art and journalism. I'm glad I was on the journey all these years, just a bystander in the grand matrix, watching on the sidelines, in my heart, cheering him on to dig deeper, find that shot, which he did often, the shocker, the one that leaves you silent.

The roses up top are my roses, not his. Not his style, I don't think. But one time I asked him to critique my art gallery, mostly my paintings, and his response, "Now I know why you like me. You are weird." I basked in the glory of that comment for a long time. Here I am thinking I'm just soft mush and low and behold, I've got a little edge in my work. I don't get critiqued often so I took those words as the highest compliment. I'll take weird any day. If I could give him a couple words, dangerous and bold. And most definitely weird. Okay, that was a few words. 

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