Nighttime in The Studio

I stopped by my Gillespie Park studio just to measure two bronze busts (The Best of Friends) and and an oil on linen (Nude at Sunrise).

Stopped by! Ha!

Real Time, always a questionable concept, means nothing in the studio.

The New Yorker Who Fell to Sarasota

What the heck just happened?! It has been ages since my last post.

Two and a half years have flown by since my last post!. Off the radar. But busy. I am forever inspired.

I left New York City in August 2015, and moved both home and studio 1,200 miles south to Sarasota. It was never in my plan. But I was and still am in love with Amy Davis,  and wherever she is I call home. And I have discovered that without Amy I would be an artist and not an artist in business. That said, “everybody” told me it would take a year or two to start to feel at home. And it has.

Yes, it is staggeringly beautiful on the Gulf “SunCoast”. Parenthetically, it is pouring rain and chilly as I write. And cold here is surely not the cold of the NorthEast. However, the general consensus here is that we do indeed live in paradise.


The foliage is alien; in fact, I feel like I moved to a different planet. The leaves never turn color; there are myriad species of palm trees.shrubbery and plants that yield out of this world flowers and seed cases.


When it does get cold enough in the winter;  a plethora of critters seek shelter in our home, including, but not limited to, palmettos, more species, some actually benign, of spiders just in our yard and house. I am admittedly an arachnophobe; I have no idea which are actually benign (and assume the worst). I know for sure that a Wolf Spider bite means dial 911. I’ll save that photo until I find it. Maybe I’ll do a special post.

That said I live in the only sub-tropical state. I am minutes from Siesta Key, a beach voted most beautiful so many times the sign is starting to rust.

A new world of inspiration.


Three Promised Detail Shots from last night’s Camargue Memory

oil paint is glorious, and only takes about 40 years to learn proficiency

Jonathan Herbert landscape oil painting of the Camargue

The Paint on Camargue Memory (detail 1)

Jonathan Herbert landscape oil painting

Camargue Memory (detail 2)

Jonathan Herbert landscape oil painting

Camargue Memory (detail 3)

More artwork by Jonathan Herbert at


New York City: Population Immersion and Studio Isolation

A previous body of work really put me out there on the street.

New Yorkers are not known for their reticence; therefore, I found myself interacting often with people while painting. I believe that I live in the most fascinating city in America—I can’t imagine living anywhere else. New York makes me high: this New York where I find there to be a wealth of intelligent people, intelligent conversation, and utter wackos, all of whom offer interaction and entertainment in their own unique way. I have made quite a few oil paintings of that lovely, dirty, gritty New York City full of buttinskis.

If you think about it, being lonely and isolated is a choice—or perhaps a matter of temperament. It’s not in my nature to be solitary and reclusive. The insanity of isolation makes painting an odd career choice for a guy like me. Then again, if being an artist is a career choice, you are fucking doing it wrong . . .

Photograph of Jonathan Herbert studying a painting in progress.

I saw the play RED on Broadway. Incredibly it was real and important theater. This is how Rothko often worked.

Photograph by EMMANUEL CAYERE 2013

Sneak Preview of the Two Latest Bodies of Work at the Dumbo Arts Festival this Weekend!

New Tarot and Kaballah Paintings (Oil on Linen) are hung up on the walls! Come join us. 

Friday September 27th 6 – 8 PM
Saturday Sunday 28 and 29th 12 – 5 PM

Dumbo Arts Festival 2013



68 Jay Street Studio 803
Brooklyn NY 11201

400 Other Cabbies Nicknamed Me “Madman”

Too Much Traffic on 44th Street During Theater Hour

oil painting 1985oxxxx.psd Night Driver Self-Portrait

And where may I take you? Self-portrait 1985

It’s 7:45 PM and 44th Street looks like a damn parking lot. There’s no money in sitting still, and sitting still empty is burning cash with the gas. I’m about three hours out of the garage—down two joints of Hawaiian and half a quart of tequila into my long, long night. Patience is a girl’s name, and if I could get a blond shiksa blowjob from Patience while I’m idling here, I might just idle away the time. Patience of the mental sort, however, and early evening drugs and booze don’t mix.

Fuck it! I’m driving my regular cab, my favorite of all time: a Massachusetts State Police chaser that someone neglected to turn street-legal. Five-speed overdrive transmission, racing frame and shocks, a top-end [KB1] [JH2] north of 130 mph, and acceleration that could blow you back in your seat like a dragster on nitrous. Time to send the world to my very own Hell.

I jam my left hand on the horn and spin the wheel to the right. I stomp on the accelerator and the car leaps onto the south sidewalk of 44th Street, gathering speed like the Apollo mission trying to leave Earth behind. People are terrified, diving into the air left and right to get out of the way of this obvious fucking MADMAN. I get to the end of the block, still on the sidewalk, and blast onto 8th, against the light, turning uptown in a beautiful four-wheel drift.

A siren blares behind me – sounds like it’s in the damn car, and when I look in the mirror, there’s another cab behind me. This one someone neglected to actually turn into a cab. Three very big detectives burst out of the car and approach me—really quickly and quite carelessly considering they’re in the middle of a traffic stop with a lunatic. One cop rips open my passenger door and starts searching the front seat; another does the same for the back seat. The third stomps up to where I’m sitting.

I politely roll down my window. “Yes, Officer?” I say in my best beta-dog voice. “WHAT WERE YOU FUCKING THINKING?” he screams at me. “Well, in retrospect,” I say, “it no longer seems like such a good idea.”

“Get the fuck out of the car,” says my personal detective. Which I do with that special care that drunks take to project normality. He starts to pat me down and seconds later finds the dime bag from the bodega at 14th and 3rd.

“What the fuck is this?”

“Pot, sir,” I say, as he proceeds to shove it deep back into my pocket.

“Get the fuck out of here,” he says. I stutter that I’ll just go home. “Fuck it,” he says, “go back to work, you need the money.” And they get in their unmarked and cruise into the night.

New York used to be so much fun!