by Charles Yoder
There are many stories in a man’s life. Al Taylor’s life is no different. There is the story of his conception on a Greyhound bus. There is the mystery of his Native American blood. There is the one about his abduction by gypsies as a child. Then there is the tale of the All Kansas Long Distance Running champion from Wichita who transformed himself into the New York City artist.
But the story I’m telling here is about Al Taylor’s stay in Hawaii in the late summer and fall months of 1987. He and I were part of a crew of about fifty artists from all over the states who had been hired to install a lot of really bad art in some newly constructed Japanese-owned hotels on Maui. There was a tight schedule and a looming deadline. All of us were put up in time share, beach front condos and worked 12 to 14 hour days, six days a week. The sunrise to sunset routine was numbing. In a short while, there was nothing other than get up, go to work, come back, go to bed, get up, etc. You get the picture.