I Never Know

I never know where my photography or paintings will take me when I begin experimenting. It feels like I’m simply a conduit, channeling something beyond myself. I capture everyday objects, and when I develop the images—using just basic tools, no tricks, no Photoshop—the message begins to reveal itself. That’s when it clicks for me. I start connecting the dots between what I see, what I feel, and what’s happening in the world around us.

The state of things is unsettling. It feels like so much is spiraling out of control, but there’s a quiet hope: we still have time to take some action before it’s too late. Once something is lost—like the dinosaurs or ecosystems in decline—it’s gone forever. Yet, I rarely hear conversations about the future generations we are leaving behind. What will their world look like? What responsibilities do we owe them?

As individuals, we are more divided than ever, each of us just trying to stay afloat. We’re like the hamster on the wheel, spinning endlessly without ever getting anywhere. But amid all this, I find that my work can be both uplifting and thought-provoking. It’s a reflection of a world where we are constantly striving for happiness, sometimes at the expense of deeper reflection. For me, that's just the way it is. A delicate balance between joy and reflection, all while the world keeps turning.

Greatest Joys

One of my greatest joys in life is marveling at nature and the changing seasons in the forest I drive past every day. Watching it transform—season after season—has become a quiet practice of study and reflection.

To see and experience these changes is one thing; to translate them onto canvas requires time, contemplation, and patience. I sit with what I observe, letting it settle, until it’s ready to be released through paint. And then, like the forest itself, I rest—until the next season arrives.

The Return of Litha

We’re happy to announce the release of one of our songs, “Song for Seekers” — a song of peace, offered as a gift to all.

This release comes from The Return of Litha, a band that formed over twenty years ago and has recently reunited, bringing back positive vibrations and renewed creative energy. We’re excited to be back at work, releasing and producing more wonderful music for your listening enjoyment.

We hope this song finds you well and brings a little peace your way. Wishing you all a wonderful holiday season and a hopeful New Year — God knows we need it.

Meditation

Meditation.

My journey in painting has been a long and searching one—an ongoing question of how to make a painting reverberate with feeling, with love, with rhythm, and with color. For years I tried to force the answer, until one day it came quietly and simply: relax, let go, and trust the movement. Don’t overthink it. Enjoy the ride. Let yourself fly.

Every color has a purpose. Every rhythm has a place. And when we truly understand that, we begin to see beyond the turmoil and into possibility. In that understanding, wonders unfold—not only on the canvas, but within us.

In Life

In life there are musicians and artists who touch your soul and never truly leave. Even after they’ve journeyed on to some mystical place beyond our reach, their sound lingers in your ear. You can never forget them. In so many ways, they are still here.

They become legends, myths, and memories woven into who we are. I’m forever grateful to have shared even a moment of time with them. Tomaso was one of those rare spirits—a magical, effervescent presence whose sound digs deep and echoes through your soul. No matter the style—and he played them all—his music continues to resonate. His spirit was, and remains, a masterpiece.

Still inspiring us all.

We Flock to The Old Masters

We live in a time when our eyes grow tired—

not from seeing too much, but from seeing too much that looks the same.

Images blur, trends repeat, and originality feels rare in a world built for speed and forgetfulness.

And no—this didn’t happen by chance.

Powerful forces now guide culture: institutions, corporations that profit from predictability, platforms that promote the familiar, algorithms designed to keep us scrolling instead of seeing. Together, they decide what rises, what repeats, and what society quietly learns to call “good.”

All one needs to do is look around to see what has happened:

a world of mass-produced aesthetics, quick-hit ideas, and creativity streamlined into marketable patterns.

But here is what matters most:

The human spirit is not programmable.

No matter how strong the systems are, people still long for what feels real. We still pause for beauty. We still recognize truth when it appears—softly, unexpectedly. Deep down, we all feel the difference between something alive and something merely loud.

And this is where hope returns—

where the artist’s role becomes not only relevant, but essential.

Artists remind us that meaning takes time, that beauty grows in silence, and that truth often lives in places algorithms overlook. Their work is a quiet rebellion, a gentle insistence that the world can still be surprising.

Every authentic creation—whether a painting, a poem, a melody, a film, or a single honest thought—is an act of resistance, a spark that refuses to be standardized.

And perhaps this is the great promise of our moment:

that even in a landscape shaped by repetition and noise, genuine creativity still breaks through. It always has. It always will. Because every time someone chooses to make something true—something risky, something tender, something only they could make—the world widens a little.

And slowly, almost imperceptibly, those small sparks gather.

They inspire others.

They remind us that culture is not a machine but a living conversation—one we are all invited to shape.

So take heart. The sameness won’t last.

Authenticity is contagious, and sincerity has a way of outliving every trend.

As long as there are people willing to see differently, to create bravely, and to share what they’ve found, the future will hold more color than the present ever could.

Hope is not an escape from reality.

Hope is the quiet, steady belief that we can still make something better— and the courage to begin.

Downtown Brooklyn

I grew up in Downtown Brooklyn — a place that truly felt like a melting pot. Cultures, languages, foods, and music from every corner of the world lived side by side. That environment shaped how I saw people, how I connected, and how deeply I appreciated the beauty each culture adds to the world.

It’s hard not to notice how differently things feel today. Without variety, the world loses its color. Just think about children: put kids from any background together, and they’ll show you how naturally humans can connect before the world teaches them otherwise. There’s a lesson in that.

Sometimes I look around and wonder how we arrived at so much chaos, division, and noise. But if you pause and really look, you start to see patterns… and maybe even the pieces that have been lost along the way.

My love for music was born from that rich mix of cultures — I blended the sounds I heard from everywhere because that’s what felt natural. But not everyone understood it. Some people have palettes, or perspectives, too limited to see the bigger picture.

I’ve always seen the world like a painter. Basquiat once got asked, “Are you a Black painter?” He said, “No — I use every color.” That’s the spirit I grew up with. That’s the spirit the world could use a little more of today

Grateful

I am grateful, Lord—yes, I am,

So grateful, Lord Almighty.

For a time, I thought You’d forgotten me,

Yet You stood beside me so quietly.

And today I thank You for every soul—

Those we love, both past and present,

Those who walked with us in joy and pain,

Whose kindness left a mark so blessed.

To every heart that showed support,

In whispered prayers or helping hands—

Thank You for sending them my way,

For weaving love into my days.

It’s been so long since I said “thank You,”

So from the deepest part of me—

Thank You, Lord, for all of it,

For every step, for every mercy.

Even when I turned away,

Even when my faith grew thin,

You held the light before my feet

And gently led me home again.

Yes, it was a long and winding road,

But somehow, Lord, we made it through.

Step by step, up every mountain,

You kept me strong—You always do.

I lift my hands in gratitude

For every breath, for every day.

You gave me love, You gave me truth,

And guide me still in every way.

The world may shake, but You stay true—

Yesterday, today, and forevermore.

With thankful heart, I walk with You,

Blessed by the love You've placed before.

Lyrics - André Martinez-Reed ©2025

If You Understand

"If you understand your painting before you paint it. You might as well not paint it!” Dali

People often ask where I found the inspiration to paint. I tell them it began in childhood, watching my aunt Myrna paint a mural of a lion on our foyer wall.

Did I ever take lessons? No—never. It was all trial and error. I’ve always loved lectures, but I don’t like being lectured to.

When did I start painting? It truly began the day I went to a show at MoMA in Queens to see a Picasso and Matisse exhibition with friends. I had an epiphany right then. I told myself, “This is it. I can do this.” And now, I could fill several museums with my work

.

I learned more from listening to discussions about the great masters—Picasso, Miró, Dalí, Renoir, John Singer Sargent, Manet, and others—and from studying their works than I ever could have learned in a classroom. I also learned from hands-on experience building homes from the ground up with my dad a master craftsman and his crew, and from my music career—learning from the titans of music about freedom, expression, and spirit.

Some of the most valuable time I ever spent were the years I worked as a gallery director, studying the works of the great artists and photographers whose shows I curated, in those long, silent hours that shape the everyday life of a working gallery.

There is never a right or wrong time to change your life and begin doing something you love. What matters is that when the moment arrives, you have the courage and the will to follow it through and keep going.

In the end, people often ask where spirit, beauty, or inspiration truly come from—as if they can be taught like steps in a lesson.

But spirit cannot be taught, and beauty cannot be diagrammed. They are the natural conclusion of a life fully lived—the sum of every experience, set free from constraint. What I create now is shaped by every memory, every mistake, every sound, every stroke—by everything the world has whispered to me rather than anything I’ve been instructed to do. When the mind is unbound and the heart is allowed to move without fear, inspiration arrives on its own terms, and art becomes the echo of a life finally set free.

Once you grasp that, you become unstoppable in everything you choose to do

When Eyes Grow Tired

We live in a time when our eyes grow tired—

not from seeing too much, but from seeing too much that looks the same.

Images blur, trends repeat, and originality feels rare in a world built for speed and forgetfulness.

And no—this didn’t happen by chance.

Powerful forces now guide culture: institutions, corporations that profit from predictability, platforms that promote the familiar, algorithms designed to keep us scrolling instead of seeing. Together, they decide what rises, what repeats, and what society quietly learns to call “good.”

All one needs to do is look around to see what has happened:

a world of mass-produced aesthetics, quick-hit ideas, and creativity streamlined into marketable patterns.

But here is what matters most:

The human spirit is not programmable.

No matter how strong the systems are, people still long for what feels real. We still pause for beauty. We still recognize truth when it appears—softly, unexpectedly. Deep down, we all feel the difference between something alive and something merely loud.

And this is where hope returns—

where the artist’s role becomes not only relevant, but essential.

Artists remind us that meaning takes time, that beauty grows in silence, and that truth often lives in places algorithms overlook. Their work is a quiet rebellion, a gentle insistence that the world can still be surprising.

Every authentic creation—whether a painting, a poem, a melody, a film, or a single honest thought—is an act of resistance, a spark that refuses to be standardized.

And perhaps this is the great promise of our moment:

that even in a landscape shaped by repetition and noise, genuine creativity still breaks through. It always has. It always will. Because every time someone chooses to make something true—something risky, something tender, something only they could make—the world widens a little.

And slowly, almost imperceptibly, those small sparks gather.

They inspire others.

They remind us that culture is not a machine but a living conversation—one we are all invited to shape.

So take heart. The sameness won’t last.

Authenticity is contagious, and sincerity has a way of outliving every trend.

As long as there are people willing to see differently, to create bravely, and to share what they’ve found, the future will hold more color than the present ever could.

Hope is not an escape from reality.

Hope is the quiet, steady belief that we can still make something better— and the courage to begin.

Thanksgiving Metaphor for The Real World

This Thanksgiving, I found myself thinking about a simple trip to a big-box store—a place known worldwide, a place we all visit without thinking. I went in early, just to pick up a turkey. Something simple. But instead, I was told I couldn’t enter until 10 o’clock because I didn’t have the “right” tier of membership—even though, in life, I am an executive in ways no card can measure.

They called over a guard. They told me it was “policy.” They asked if I wanted to upgrade. I said no. So, I waited outside, and in that moment, I started seeing clearly: the shrinkflation, the upsells, the subtle ways they train people to accept less while paying more. People herded like Pavlov’s dogs toward convenience, toward brand loyalty, toward whatever keeps the money flowing upward.

Corporations act like they are divine entities—untouchable, almost holy—but at the end of the day, they’re just humans making choices. And some of those choices are driven more by greed than by service.

But here’s the Thanksgiving truth—the real metaphor:

One pencil breaks easily. Two are harder. Ten together are nearly impossible to snap.

People are no different. Alone, we’re told to wait outside. But together, we can walk through any door.

This holiday isn’t just about gratitude for what we have—it’s about humility, awareness, and the power we share when we look out for one another instead of feeding the greed machine. If we choose wisely—if we stand together and refuse to be manipulated—those who profit from control and scarcity will be the first to lose their grip.

So, this Thanksgiving, I’m grateful for clarity.

I’m grateful for community.

I’m grateful for the reminder that humility builds, while greed breaks.

Happy Thanksgiving to all.

And thank you—for the support, for the awareness, and for standing as unbreakable pencils in a world that needs strength.

My Mind

My mind as an artist has always been deeply observant of the world around me, driven by an endless curiosity about everything I encounter. Because of that, I could never confine myself to doing just one thing—one style, one genre of music, one form of art, one type of food, or one culture. I find beauty in all of it, especially when it contributes to something greater than myself and serves the collective good. Variety keeps my creativity alive—it keeps everything exciting, evolving, and forever fresh.

I Never Know

I never know where my photography or paintings will take me when I begin experimenting. It feels like I’m simply a conduit, channeling something beyond myself. I capture everyday objects, and when I develop the images—using just basic tools, no tricks, no Photoshop—the message begins to reveal itself. That’s when it clicks for me. I start connecting the dots between what I see, what I feel, and what’s happening in the world around us.

The state of things is unsettling. It feels like so much is spiraling out of control, but there’s a quiet hope: we still have time to take some action before it’s too late. Once something is lost—like the dinosaurs or ecosystems in decline—it’s gone forever. Yet, I rarely hear conversations about the future generations we are leaving behind. What will their world look like? What responsibilities do we owe them?

As individuals, we are more divided than ever, each of us just trying to stay afloat. We’re like the hamster on the wheel, spinning endlessly without ever getting anywhere. But amid all this, I find that my work can be both uplifting and thought-provoking. It’s a reflection of a world where we are constantly striving for happiness, sometimes at the expense of deeper reflection. For me, that's just the way it is. A delicate balance between joy and reflection, all while the world keeps turning.

Through Out History

Throughout history…long before the Renaissance and far beyond any single era…artists created in conversation with something greater than themselves. Their paintings were offerings, gestures of devotion, attempts to touch the sacred through color, form, and spirit.

Today, that sense of the sacred can feel dimmed. In a world overwhelmed by noise and haste, art is too often treated as a commodity—packaged, priced, and speculated upon in systems shaped by decades of distortion. What once carried reverence has been pulled into the marketplace, stripped of its deeper purpose.

I stand here to break that spell.

My work is a refusal—an invitation to remember. A reminder that art can still be a vessel of light, wonder, and truth.

So when people ask, “How much is your painting?” I answer, “Priceless.” Not out of arrogance, but because anything born from a moment of genuine inspiration resists being reduced to a number.

And when others caution, “If you share too much, someone will steal your ideas,” I say: let them try. Even I cannot recreate my own paintings. I could not name the exact colors I reached for or retrace the steps that revealed themselves only in that unrepeatable moment. Inspiration is a visitation, not a formula.

You cannot imitate the sacred.

It is either present—or it is not.

Through Music & Art

Through music and art, I discovered transformation — not as an escape, but as a return. A return to truth, to purpose, to the divine flow that connects us all. My evolution as an artist is also the story of my soul learning to trust the process, to honor its own revolution, and to surrender to something greater.

This quote from John Coltrane has always been a guiding light for me: “I think music is an instrument. It can break the initial thought patterns that can change the re-thinking of the people. Once you become aware of this force for unity in life, you can’t ever forget it. It becomes a part of everything you do.”

His words remind me that music is not just sound — it’s spirit. It’s the pulse of transformation itself. And once you feel that unity, you can never un-feel it. It becomes who you are, and everything you create becomes an offering to that truth.

Mysterious Entities

When I first began painting, my dream was simple yet ambitious: to create works that carried the same intensity and emotion as a Renaissance masterpiece. I envisioned each piece not just as a work of art, but as something deserving of its own golden frame, the kind you’d find in a museum, timeless and revered.

I remember an old friend of mine, Burt, who was a master framer and the owner of Frame Art. Years ago, when I was just starting out, he told me something I’ve never forgotten. With a kind smile, he said, "Your paintings belong in a beautiful gold frame, like the ones you see in museums. They’re the tuxedo of your work." Burt has long since passed, but I still hold his words close to my heart. One day, I hope to fulfill that promise—both to myself and to him.

I’ve never been one to follow the crowd, and I don’t intend to start now, not in art, nor in music. My path has always been my own, and though it may not always be the easiest, it’s the only one I know. In my work, I strive for something that feels both personal and profound, something that stands outside of the trends and the noise of the world. That, I believe, is where true art lies

When I First Began.

When I first began painting, my dream was simple yet ambitious: to create works that carried the same intensity and emotion as a Renaissance masterpiece. I envisioned each piece not just as a work of art, but as something deserving of its own golden frame, the kind you’d find in a museum, timeless and revered.

I remember an old friend of mine, Burt, who was a master framer and the owner of Frame Art. Years ago, when I was just starting out, he told me something I’ve never forgotten. With a kind smile, he said, "Your paintings belong in a beautiful gold frame, like the ones you see in museums. They’re the tuxedo of your work." Burt has long since passed, but I still hold his words close to my heart. One day, I hope to fulfill that promise—both to myself and to him.

I’ve never been one to follow the crowd, and I don’t intend to start now, not in art, nor in music. My path has always been my own, and though it may not always be the easiest, it’s the only one I know. In my work, I strive for something that feels both personal and profound, something that stands outside of the trends and the noise of the world. That, I believe, is where true art lies

Rhumba

"Rhumba to Save the Plantains"

These days, buying fruits and vegetables feels like an experiment in faith — a quiet gamble played under fluorescent light. The aisles of New York’s corner markets hum like old radios, each shelf broadcasting a different mood: bright, dull, hopeful, betrayed.

I move through them like a dancer out of step — basket in hand, rhythm in heart — searching for the right beat, the right color, the right give beneath the thumb. The mango glows but hides its bruise. The avocado smiles a little too easily. The plantains, proud and green, stand like soldiers pretending not to be tired.

It didn’t used to be this way. I remember when shopping was simple — when you could walk into a store, inhale the scent of ripeness, and know what you were getting. Back then, you trusted your senses; the fruit trusted you back. The exchange was honest.

Now it feels like Russian roulette with your groceries. Spin the wheel, hold your breath, and pray the produce isn’t already past saving. Still, I keep coming back — each visit a small act of defiance, a little rhumba of hope.

Because somewhere in the pile, I believe one plantain still carries the song of sunlight. And maybe, just maybe, if I move gently enough — if I listen closely — I can still find the rhythm that once made this city taste like home.

Friends

A metaphor, a thought—

Friends drift through my mind like film stills,

fading at the edges.

Once, we spoke for hours,

voices looping through the night,

the silence between words soft and full.

Now, in this conveyor-belt world,

everything moves too fast—

moments packaged, sent, forgotten.

A call feels like intrusion.

Please text.

Ink and paper—artifacts of another era.

Messages blur,

meanings bend,

and what you meant to say never lands quite right.

In a blink, it’s over—

the message, the moment, the memory.

And you find yourself wishing

for just a little more time,

a little more of them.

In Solitude

"In solitude, the blank canvas becomes the open sea—vast, uncertain, full of promise. Each brushstroke carries me through calm waters and storms alike, mirroring the triumphs and failures that shape my journey. The colors mix like memories—some bright, some heavy—and out of that tension something beautiful begins to form. Like a clam transforming discomfort into a pearl, the painting becomes a quiet reflection of all I’ve endured and overcome. And when I finally step back, I see not just color and form, but the story of becoming.”