“Art should comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable.” Bansky

Biking the boards opens one up to sea, sky, salt air, and the people who bike, run, skate, or walk on this two-mile—way of wood.

The people seem like lone entities, but they are each the center of a universe, and as they meet, they become part of another’s universe. Their stories intertwine; they touch each other, they change each other.

I love to meet them and tell you the stories in their universe as best I can.

As I pedaled west, the sky couldn’t have been bluer; story-book clouds only accented the blue.

Then, I came upon Jackson Overhuls.

Now, we all know just seeing the name—Jackson Overhuls—that it is a name that needs to be on a record album or an oil paint canvas. And it is—on canvas. But it took a lady, as is often the case, to change a man’s orbit and his destiny.

Jackson set up his easel at the boardwalk’s rail and displayed his striking art nearby.

It’s “Fan art and portrait art,” he said. I noted Jackson is a man of few words; I think he prefers to speak with his brush—which I found eloquent.

Jackson had his paintings spread on the boardwalk’s edge, his prints at the foot of the spread. The stiff breeze from the sea caused the prints to fly now and then.

Jack, he calls himself, said he liked to draw as a child and took art in high school. But he said working with acrylics, he was an average student.

Sometimes, a person’s gift lies dormant for years before surfacing; it sounded like that in Jack’s case. Five years ago a friend, a girl got his attention—she painted in oils. He thought he’d give it a try. Jack wouldn’t give me her name but he said simply, “She taught me to paint in oils.”

Jackson’s day job is cleaning up oil spills for us; he works for Oil Solutions in Amityville, NY. Sometimes, the work is local: Long Island, NYC, and the metro area. Sometimes, they send their Solution to more distant, urgent needs, as in the Gulf oil spill.

I never heard of the company, but I was impressed when I found this video on YouTube.

Jack says the work is okay, but he finds fun with oil paints.

A single guy, Jack lived near Manhattan’s Washington Square Park, where he sold some of his paintings. He now lives in nearby Bellmore, selling his art at Massapequa Preserve. He also sells it online through Instagram, and he does home art, as you’ll see on his Facebook page.

In my short time at his boardwalk spread, I did see enthusiastic viewers.

One dad wanted Jackson to paint his family then and there. But Jackson said it would take too long; an appointment was best.

Many passers-by used terms foreign to this old biker of boards—or I forgot them. Tommy, looking over the art, liked Gizmo, the gremlin, and anime Sandy; Jack spoke of Defnote. I’d be more familiar with Captain Marvel, The Lone Ranger, Mickey and Donald.

Tommy said Jackson’s “work is very impressive, eye-popping.”

Tommy didn’t want his photo taken or his last name used, but he did say he pulled a man from the sea Thursday, at Rockaway’s Beach 86th St. Tommy said he gave the man CPR, and a first responder told him he saved the man’s life. Tommy said the man looked terrible when he was taken away and asked if I could find out if he later survived. I Googled it; the man lived two days, then died. But Tommy did his part.

He is still a hero.

I’m more an old Hopper, Wyeth guy, a Van Goghist, a Hedy Pagremanskist. But Jackson’s paintings revealed talent just breaking the surface of life’s sea of art. His work was evocative, and I could see he loved doing it.

You might have noticed, dear readers, that I love to find people having fun, even joy, in our often horror-filled world. Biking while the sun shines brightens my day, but yes, the morning news still lingers.

Jackson’s cleaning oil spills through Oil Solutions is so polar to his joy of sea-breeze painting that it enhances the bright days. So also is biking in bright sun and puffy clouds polar to Earth’s black smoke and spilled blood. Blood spills with—No Solutions.

And the world weeps.

“Leaders,” like unsupervised children, are wreaking havoc. They need someone to separate them and send them to their rooms with, “If you keep this up, someone’s going to be crying.” But there is no such powerful guardian. Let’s make one and call it the Reunited Nations.

It’s been five years since a girl gave Jackson her gift of oil paint lessons. You won’t learn her name here, but he was part of her universe, and she caused change in him. Maybe he in her, too. I hope she continues affecting others as she did Jackson. But I know her influence will live on—in Jackson’e every brush stroke.

Be well,

Leebythesea