Panel One of the Triptych; “Birth, Death... aaand Action”. This love letter to New York City where Vincent D’Onofrio forged his artistic journey since the Eighties to the present day. Collaborating with Laurence Fuller, in the new mediums of poetic cinematic fine art, to create a story in three panels ~ redefining the concept of the triptych in contemporary digital art. This body of work is the genesis of their new artistic partnership Graphite Method ~ www.graphitemethod.xyz Welcome to my world. Pinned to the hood of car. One slam on the head. One punch to the cheek bone and; “Bang!" I'm living the street life. A lizard with no lounge. A monk with no religion. In my dream there was a lantern to light the city of Manhattan but there's no lantern really. No no, not really. You'll have to wait until daylight comes to find your wounds. You can feel your bleeding, but you can't find the cut. Street Dogs are smarter than you as their eyes follow, while they sniff the crust on the ground. They are no signs of a life. No simple poetry shouted from a roof top. No one tips their hat to you.   There is no Father Connolly. No angels. Just dirty faces. Traffic lights and Yellow Taxis. Rat and pigeon flood and flood and flood the streets. Hallelujah! Hallelujah! I'm an embryo on a long walk down a plank. Sharks circling below. Blood in water, oh my! Taking myself into the arts, taking myself in. Talking to myself. Talking myself out of them. Day after day crying out to the gods, “Save me, save me! Fuck me.” Is that trumpets singing. Nah, nah it ain't trumpets. New York dolls, Blondie, Dead Kennedy's, Bad brains and... chucked down the stairs while Burning Spears were playing on. Ricky stabbed 27 times in his forearm but he kept his face untouched. Me rolling on down a marble staircase over wetness and bottles of foreign beers and cigarettes butts. This is a dose of rock and roll for the kid off the bus. Tails of the Sex Pistols. Piss stained wood floors from their moshing followers who had much more than a sense of relief. Iggy Pop. Kid Creole and the coconuts. Public Image. And those coconuts, oh those coconuts. And you, Fresh meat. Naive as the chick that pecks out of the egg. Virgin in the streets of NYC. NYC doesn't make you loud, oh no, it quiets you down. They are stricken by the snap of it all. That snap. That has taken your mind for a ride. Your hopes, your dreams and tossed them out of your mouth and tossed them onto a bench in Thompson Square Park. Your bothers and sisters of the street just watch and stare. They are experiencing your unclean birth. They too were born again. Dropped kicked across the goal. Slammed on to the concrete. Punched and kicked and squashed like a roach. And still Oingo boingo's rings along. Talking Heads spout and spasm. Elvis Costello, his dreams come true. Every artist as bold as you were. To show up and ask.. Can I wave the same flag as you and you and you and you? Can be a lost soul and roll along and roll along and maybe just maybe be worthwhile? The Cure sings the truth with a jumping dark melody. The decadence of The Rolling Stones, make you want, make you want your dreams to come true. And once again it's early morning you're home again sitting on your window sill peering down onto the street from above, as you watch a drug dealer die. The sidewalk streaked with bright red. The night crashes and burns and up comes the sun thrown to you as a life line. Welcome to my world. You've placed St James Infirmary to play quietly on the table that turns. His voice brings clarity to you. Because Louie is a friend to you always. He's been there before you. And yet he's still turning. Hallelujah, hallelujah. By Laurence Fuller and Vincent D’Onofrio, 2023