It was my friend Tom McCormick who urged me to pursue an M.F.A. in painting. Tom was always the loving guardian angel on my shoulder, seeing my gifts, encouraging my dreams and loving me as I was. And am. Here is a photo taken at the good-bye party given my by friends when I left Loyola High to begin the pilgrimage to Brooklyn. It’s my favorite photo of Tom and Tom.

My beard is now getting white too. There are worse people to become. Tom went home to God way too soon. I miss him deeply.

Sometime in August of 2000, I packed up my life in a UHaul truck and headed east. Rather than ship things to New York, I decided to drive. I always wanted to drive across the US, and this was a chance to do so. But even more, this move was not just a move, it was a deeply felt step on a pilgrimage. I emphatically needed to see Loyola High School in the rear view mirror. Not because I didn’t love my time there. In fact, just the opposite — I loved it too much. Or too small a part of me loved it too much.

The M.F.A. was not about adding initials to my pedigree, but about allowing hidden and neglected parts of me, of my soul, to step out into the light. How that was going to happen, I wasn’t sure about. But in order for that to happen, I had to say good-bye to 1901 Venice Boulevard and Rooms 313 and 901. AMDG.

So, after spending a year taking classes at Art Center in Pasadena, Otis College of Art and Design in L.A. and a couple of classes at U.C.L.A. extension, I had built up enough of a portfolio to apply to M.F.A. programs. I had no idea what I was doing — so I picked programs in cities that I thought it would be fun to live in.

On March 11, 2000, my 44th birthday, I received 8 rejection letters in the same mail delivery. Ouch. For over 10 years, as every boys’ favorite priest at Loyola High, I had counseled and consoled many a young man that his rejection from Stanford or Yale or whatever was simply part of God’s plan and that he would end up where God wanted him in the end.

Well, rejection sucks. So figured that graduate work in Fine Art just wasn’t part of the plan. Until the first week of May. One morning, a large manila envelop appeared in my mailbox: “Congratulations…” Not only was I accepted into an M.F.A. program, but it was to be in the greatest city on earth. New York.

This was to be home for the next two years.