Looking Back, Looking Forward

Video: Looking Back, Looking Forward. A sequence of Bill Hendricks’s line drawings explores maps, branching paths, and emerging patterns. Music accompanies the images, along with a message.

Maps, patterns, and finding my way

During one of my daily walks, I realized something had been quietly growing over the past few weeks.

Looking back over my life, I see a thread I hadn’t fully recognized before.

As a teacher, I wasn’t really teaching maps. I was teaching how people think. Gestalt theory, visual relationships, organizing information, recognizing connections—those ideas found their way into almost everything I taught. Site maps, mind maps, color wheels, design systems… they were never just tools. They were ways of seeing.

Now I’m beginning to notice those same patterns emerging in my artwork.

The drawings began as what I called Decision Trees. Each branch suggested another possibility, another choice, another path.

But lately I’ve started wondering if they’re about something else.

Maybe they aren’t about making decisions.

Maybe they’re about recognizing patterns.

When life becomes uncertain, my instinct is to search for a new direction. Yet I’m beginning to wonder if the path is already there, waiting to be recognized. Perhaps finding our way isn’t about inventing something new. Perhaps it’s about noticing the connections that have been quietly leading us all along.

That thought has stayed with me.

It has even changed the way I look at these drawings. They no longer feel like illustrations of an idea. They feel like evidence of a conversation I’ve been having with myself without realizing it.

I don’t know exactly where this series is going.

That’s the exciting part.

For the first time in a while, I don’t feel like I’m forcing the work toward an answer. I’m simply paying attention to where it wants to lead.

Maybe that’s what artists do.

Maybe that’s what all of us do.

We keep looking back, not to live in the past, but to recognize the patterns that help us move forward.

“Humans are pattern-seeking, storytelling animals. We look for and find patterns in our world and in our lives.”

—Michael Shermer

Source: “Chicken Soup for the Evolutionist’s Soul,” MichaelShermer.com

Carolyn, Where Are You?

Composite image of the former TR's Gallery building at 51st Street and Seventh Avenue in New York City. Carolyn Solomon gave me my opportunity there, and today the space is occupied by a souvenir shop.
The former home of TR’s Gallery at 51st Street and Seventh Avenue. Today it’s a souvenir shop, but it still holds an important place in my story.

We never know the part we’ve played in another person’s life.
— Bill Hendricks

Carolyn Solomon, where are you?

It’s a strange question to ask someone I haven’t seen in more than forty years.

A few weeks ago, while I was back  for The Ordinary at Collective Z Gallery, I walked over to the building that once housed TR’s Gallery. I managed that gallery for Circle Fine Art in the mid-1980s. Today the space is a souvenir shop.

Standing there, I found myself thinking about you.

You may not remember me. I was one of many gallery managers. But you gave me an opportunity that mattered.

A bonus I earned while managing TR’s Gallery helped Michael and me start Desired Printing. Looking back now, I can trace a line from those years in New York, to teaching, and finally back to the studio.

When I returned home, I began looking for you. I learned that Jack Solomon had passed away. My condolences. He was always kind to me. I wasn’t able to learn much more about you.

This isn’t a letter expecting an answer.

It’s a thank you.

We never know the part we’ve played in another person’s life.

Looking back, I can see that you played a part in mine.

Wherever you are, Carolyn, thank you.

Returning to 51st Street

Returning to the former TR’s Gallery connected my first years in New York with my return as an exhibiting artist over forty years later.

Interior of the former TR’s Gallery space at 51st Street and Seventh Avenue in Manhattan, now converted into a brightly lit souvenir store filled with New York-themed T-shirts, mugs, gifts, and displays beneath a large “I ♥ NY” mural.
The former TR’s Gallery space today. The gallery where I managed Circle Fine Art’s TR’s Gallery in the mid-1980s is now a New York souvenir store. Walking inside, it was hard to imagine the walls once filled with original artwork instead of T-shirts, mugs, and postcards.

When I moved to New York in 1980, I knew exactly what I was looking for.

I was looking for a place where I could live openly as a gay man. I was looking for community. I was looking for a life where I didn’t have to explain or defend who I was. Like so many people before and after me, I came to New York searching for the freedom to become myself.

My first job was at Kiss My Cookies. Not long afterward, I went to work at All State Art on the corner of Christopher and Bleecker. From there I moved to TR’s Gallery, one of Circle Fine Art’s galleries, where I eventually became the manager.

This week I was back in New York because one of my drawings was included in The Ordinary, a group exhibition at Collective Z Gallery on the Lower East Side.

While walking through Midtown, I found myself standing in front of the building where TR’s Gallery used to be.

The gallery is gone. The ground floor is now a souvenir store. But the building is still there.

Standing there, I realized that I had come to New York searching then, and I had come back searching now.

The questions have changed.

At twenty-six, I was trying to figure out how to live.

At seventy-three, I’m trying to understand what that life has meant.

Maybe that’s one reason I’ve returned to making art.

The drawings aren’t simply images. They have become a way of looking back, asking questions, and seeing connections I couldn’t see while I was living them. More and more, the work feels autobiographical—not because it illustrates events from my life, but because every drawing carries something of the person who made it.

The gallery is gone.

The search isn’t.

Gratitude on the Last Day of Pride

Bill Hendricks sitting on rocks overlooking the Pacific Ocean in San Francisco, 1976, wearing puka shell necklaces and smiling into the camera. The photograph accompanies a reflection on gratitude, authenticity, and Pride.
San Francisco, 1976. Looking back at a younger version of myself—and feeling grateful for all the people who helped me become the person I am today.

Nobody, but nobody can make it out here alone.

—Maya Angelou, Alone

On this last day of Pride, I’ve been thinking about gratitude.

Looking back at this photograph from San Francisco in 1976, it’s pretty obvious I wasn’t trying to blend in.

Over the years, so many people looked beyond appearances and gave me the chance to learn, to serve, to teach, to create, and simply to become myself.

I’m grateful to my parents, my sister, and especially the Reid family, who became part of my chosen family. I’m grateful to my commanding officers in the Air Force, my professors, employers, colleagues, students, volunteers, and friends. I’m grateful to Minneapolis College, MCAD, Minneapolis Friends Meeting, and to Michael, who has walked beside me through it all.

None of us gets where we are alone. My life has been shaped by people who chose encouragement over fear, curiosity over judgment, and kindness over assumption.

As Pride Month comes to a close, thank you. You helped make my life possible.

Related post: This reflection continues many of the themes I explored in my recent post, Reflections on Collective Z.

Art Re-Education Revisited

I’ve been thinking about that phrase.

A few years ago, while attending Friends General Conference, I took a Zentangle workshop. Part of my interest was practical. As a teacher, I was always looking for things I could bring back to my students. At the same time, I was doing some spiritual searching of my own.

When I retired, my intention was simple. I thought I would return to the work I had left behind years earlier when I completed my MFA. While teaching, my focus had been on technology, my students, and teaching itself. I assumed I would pick up where my thesis left off and continue from there.

I did return to my thesis and to its central ideas: how perception and physiology affect our vision of reality.

What I discovered, however, was that too much had changed. The media I was working with had changed. My interests had changed. Instead of continuing where I left off, I found myself asking some of the same questions I had wrestled with in graduate school.

What is my art about?

What am I trying to say?

And what medium is best suited to saying it?

At some point, I began to wonder if I was engaged in a kind of re-education.

Looking back at those early pieces now, I can see that many of them focused on value, texture, repetition, and mark-making. At the time, I didn’t really realize what I was exploring, but now they feel a bit like exercises in learning how to see and do again. To me, that’s my art re-education.

What I do know is that one thing kept leading to another.

A drawing would spark an idea for the next drawing, and little by little my curiosity carried me beyond the boundaries of Zentangle itself. Questions about line and pattern turned into questions about color, surface, and different ways to make marks.

Before I knew it, ink led to watercolor, watercolor led to gouache, gouache led to colored pencil, digital work, and eventually oil paint.

The recent exhibition at Collective Z feels like a milestone along that path. With the show entering its final week, I’ve found myself taking a breath and wondering what comes next.

And perhaps that’s the point: I’m still asking questions.

I’m not sure where the path leads from here, but I’m still eager to follow it.

“Art does not reproduce what we see. It makes us see.”

— Paul Klee