Macon Magazine

October/November 2026 | maconmagazine.com 91 in Lynn Haven, Florida, ten days a er Michael blew through. I called it We Named the Trees. It just hit me." Hearing that story standing in front of the painting had my eyes swimming. History runs throughout his work. Thinking of his father's work in textiles, Eric began using lace curtains as patterns. "Like Penelope weaving and unweaving the shroud." His mother, and her absence, can be felt in his art. "My daughters' wedding bouquets and table settings, and then my mother through her whole life made baskets. It's always had a presence to me. I always think of painting as a kind of weaving." And yet, he keeps moving forward. "Every brush mark is wrong until the last one." Macon was not simply the path of least resistance. There were chances to leave, but they "just didn't feel right." "Having a studio, that's kept me in town in large part. It's not what pays all the bills, but I know if I didn't do it, I wouldn't be me. Macon has afforded me time and space." Is it a good city to be an artist in now? "There are a lot more opportunities." But not 'yes'? "Well... at the Arts Exchange, First Fridays had 800 people or something showing up, and I sold the hell out of some work. But I was like a farmer with his turnip truck on the side of the road. I wasn't in a gallery. "It's a great place to be creative. A great place to find your voice. But we're kind of in a black hole of the visual art world. We need to attract curators and collectors. You shouldn't have to leave to have success. You can stay here, be rooted and get Macon recognition from more than just the region." His solution is simple: pay artists to make art. Eric sees Macon's tough audience as a litmus test. He came back to the idea through something a writer told him at Mercer. "It's like being a gardener. You plant the plants, amend the soil, get them growing. If you're lucky, the lightning bugs show up. That's the magic. You can't control that, only hope for it. If the lightning bugs land on something in Macon, they'll land on it anywhere." Knowing what to do when that magic happens might matter even more. "Otis Redding, the Allman Brothers, and of course Little Richard, who's like Einstein, split the atom for music. Now they put billboards up and name sandwiches a er him. But during their day, nobody of any official role wanted anything to do with [him]." While teaching drawing in Paris, an elderly French woman sat next to Eric in a park. She began speaking to him while her grandchildren played. Eric only spoke English. She pantomimed playing a trumpet and pointed to the park sign, identifying the place through the musician it was named for. She tried to ask where he was from. "Atlanta...?" Nothing. "I was like, all right, I am going to do this because it's all I got. I looked at this old lady, my two kids playing there, and I said, 'Wop bop a loo bop a lop bam boom!'" Her face lit up. "Ah! Petit Richard!" "I could not believe it. But that is Macon language, right? It might scare the hell out of the sound engineers in the booth during its time, but that is the stuff that is on fire. And we should, as a community, do what we can to feed it oxygen. Space, time, support. That's what it needs to develop. Because ultimately, people are going to remember 'wop bop a loo bop' before they remember a new traffic circle."

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