I"m Anthony Borden Ward. This is my name. It was inspired by the name of a friend of my fathers with whom he had served time in the pokey for dealing some shady business. I always thought that was cool and quite mysterious. My father never explained the shade. The funny thing is, my father’s friend’s name was Antonio. See, the mix up started from day one.
Some people think they know me. That’s funny.
Just to start off on the right foot, you can call me mr.ward...
I started drawing as early as I can remember and it ramped up as soon as I got into school. I self-diagnosed and self-treated my severe A.D.D. before it was noted as a rampant syndrome. Drawing and sketching and exorcizing the demons of a pre-pubescent frustrated life was the only way to cope with the crumbling marriage of my parents. Years and years of drawing away the confusion and torrent of wildly whipping emotions of a young child was my first schooling in the arts.
One day during class in middle school, I was called to the office which worried me because the last time I was called out of class someone had died. My heart started to beat again and my breathing eased as I rounded the corner and saw my mother’s face She turned to me and looked at me with a cold humor in her eyes - then frowned. Ooops! Shit! What had I done? Then as I approached the principal’s desk, I saw the art that I had handed in just the morning before. It made me smirk. I then was served a serious knuckled backhand to the shoulder and an swelling charley horse. The principal expressed his concern that I was not a very good student and that I most likely had problems with women. and that maybe I had severe issues that needed immediate attention. To stem the problem as early as possible, I should see a psychiatrist. That was probably the only way for me - medication would probably be the answer. These problems can be handled if they are attended to right away, he added. I piped in with, "Thats a bunch of bull crap! I was just following…”, my mother raised the iron fist again, "direction, uhm, darnit!"... I piped right out again.
"Thanks for bringing this to my attention, I'll get right on that" my mother said and she pulled me out the door as if I was going to receive the worst whipping of my life. The principal had a big self-righteous smile plastered to his mug as we tore out of the office. We drove away in silence for a while. My mom reached over to me and put her hand on my shoulder where she had delivered the sock, and touched me gently. "Sorry"... my mom chimed... "I can't believe that friggin idiot"! Son I love you to pieces but please do not ever draw anything like that again in school. Wanna get an ice cream at Farrell’s . My mom was awesome. She took me to see Fellini's Satyricon and A Boy and His Dog, and inspired me to read great books like The Shining and War and Peace. She taught me one of my great lessons. "There is no such thing as perfection in this life... lighten up kid…”
Oh, yes, and also, "Don't hate any one or thing, this is a true sign of human weakness". I read about the lives of my favorite artists, read their writings I fantasized a lot. I was the midget “Walter Mitty” with Rabbit teeth. I hated my face and my nose and my teeth and my shortness. I hated having my picture taken, anyways - you get the point. I wasn't super happy with my cards.

So, today minus the self-effacement, it's not all that different. I channel what is in me out onto a canvas, negative film, a wall or whatever material I’ve got at my disposal, when i'm inspired. I am not hampered with correct-ness. There are no rules in my art today, absolutely none! They would not serve me well anyways. I am spewing my insides out, so you and I can examine it - like it or not. My art is directionless and pointed straight at your energy. I dare any to walk by it and not have a thought in that big piney box we call our heads. I picked up a brush much the same way as the #2 pencil in frustration. I just could not pace circles around my apartment enough... chain smoking, boozing or drugging my self into being cool enough and having some bohemian life full of pain and the problems with humanity. I was trying to keep two steps ahead of my racing thoughts, and I was losing...
Oh... and my thoughts about my art... it's an exorcism, plain and simple. I need to get what is tearing around in me - outside of me, or I'm going do something real ugly., no doubt! I just couldn't figure out for the life of me what the hell I was supposed to do with all this crazy energy of mine. I hadn't been writing or drawing for many years and I was really losing my shit and a light bulb went off in a close friend’s head. "You are like an great artist with no art, you should be a painter... maybe that would chill you out". And about a year later, almost to the day... my dear friend bought me my first paints, canvases and brushes as I was busy checking into my first stint in rehab. Yes, my very first paintings - in the hospital... cool I thought, and I was hooked...
I discovered a great relief... and the brevity of it was staggering, like an insane pulse-pounding, sweaty, joyous masturbation that leaves you in the end staring, listening to your heart beat in your temples and not ever quite happy,exactly. Something is just not right. This is the push. This is why the artist keeps going...
I imagine, if the fucking asshole that told Hitler, with a scholarly smugness...
"Your work is shit, you have no ability or talent - your art is going nowhere. Give up!"
We could have had an entirely different history, had he said... "My dear boy you are beautiful and your vision devine... paint and discover the truth inside of you, discard what is not of any use to you any longer, but which may be useful to others... take part in the movement of history and the brotherhood and peace making of humankind... share, inspire and relate!"
This is my art. More or less...

Mr.Ward