What if these cards we’re actually messages from the cosmos? Could they be talismans sent from another dimension to guide me along the treacherous path of life? Incredibly, at that young age, notions like that made perfect sense. But how would I figure out the meanings? One afternoon in a used bookshop, I found a tattered paperback on the Tarot and began to carry it around in my bag. When I found my cards, I’d immediately reference their meanings in the book. Surprisingly, the results were always remarkably telling and relevant to my experience. The nine of hearts signaled a wish come true. The ace of spades a rebirth. Three of clubs showed that one must forge a new path. Once I was able to accept the fact that I was being cosmically guided so many other things in my life began to make sense as well. I began saving each card I found in a small drawer near my bed. Sometimes, late at night, I would pull them out and randomly choose one. I’d close my eyes and ask it a question and in turn the card would tell my fortune. This went on for years and over time I had amassed almost enough examples to create an entire working deck. 

Finding cards on the street, which has since become even more frequent over the years, no longer mystifies me. Instead I find them strangely comforting. Rather than the vast, mysterious universe being a source of intimidation, it has instead, on most days, become my partner in crime. Early on, beyond the mystical qualities of my found cards, and being that my collection had grown so large, I also became enamored with the artwork on each one. I had never paid much attention to the designs of playing cards. I’m not a gambler, so the creative legacy of card-making occupied only a peripheral place in my vision. Then one night during an LSD trip that all changed. I sat on my bed in my fourth-floor walkup on West 14th Street. Just as I started to trip, I pulled out my cards. Rather than reading the fronts and looking for meaning as I usually had, this time I focused on the backs. As the acid took full effect, the artwork began to explode outward from the cards and animate the walls and ceilings of the room. Soon I was swimming in super graphics and ornament. I had made the transition from the realm of the real to the universe of Cosmic Poker. 

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As though it were imparted to me as a divine gift, I understood then and there that I needed to paint these designs. It was not a desire. It was a duty. The next day I went out and bought materials and executed my first piece. I sprawled out on my floor and laboriously rendered a large work of acrylic on paper based on the Ace of Spades. The painting was rough around the edges, but I had discovered something that has become a central part of my artistic practice ever since. My work has developed, yet the same basic premise has continued throughout my career. At times I’ve tried to hide my inspirations, assuming that my peers wouldn’t take me seriously and relegate my work to the realm of “visionary art.” Ascribing magical influence to artworks can be a huge faux-pas in academic circles. For me, however, the power of Cosmic Poker has never been stronger. I still continue to find cards on the street. Now they seem to come in waves as opposed to the constant barrage of my youth. Yet, just as before, I’ll be strolling along casually, turn a corner and there they are, beckoning me from the pavement. I’ve never been able to ascertain exactly who is sending them to me. It’s actually not that important. When people ask me I say that it’s the universe. Just me and the stars in a casual conversation, playing an intimate game together for which only we know the rules.