My father had a droll sense of a humor, as did the rest of the Lynch family. He spent his last seven years in a nursing home. At one point, when he lost the use of his voice and some of his muscular ability, his communication was limited to a sheet of paper with the alphabet written on it. When the doctor asked him how he felt, the family would lean in to watch his index finger travel from one letter to the next, “W_I_T_H_M_Y_F_I_N_G_E_R_S”.
My parents’ Japanese American summer camp (1972 to 1997) in NY’s Catskill Mountains became the primary subject of these paintings, and currently exists in a state half-entombed and half-revived, a Shaolin kung-fu training center in Fleischmanns, NY.