Andy Thurber's prolific work spans all mediums and nearly 25 years.  His original artworks are available for sale now. Andy's agent Nance Frank is available to communicate the history and talents of his art work.  Visit the Gallery on Greene or call  305 294 1669 - View some of his work
​"Andy is this generations folk artist, remembering colorful characters, loose lifestyles, and American culture far from the mainstream." 
  - Judi Bradford 
Andy Thurber was born here. He gets it. He sees everything, judges little, knows what to laugh at, who to talk to at a party, when to go home. (It's earlier than you think.) 
He knows that the old blood needs the new blood to keep going, no matter how much they bitch about it, and he moves between the seemingly mutually exclusive habitats of Conch land and newcomer land like the world's mellowest hummingbird, picking up a little nectar here, dropping off a little pollen there, spinning in the air once in a while just for the fun of it. 

His work is informed by the woodcarver Mario Sanchez, and by the big-eyed kitsch paintings of the 1960s, and also by DaVinci, Picasso, R. Crumb, Thomas Hart Benton,  Magritte, what he saw on TV last week, what he saw on his drive into work this morning, by several decades of reading the funny papers, and by the long forgotten guys who hand painted the signs for long forgotten restaurants. Picasso should probably get another mention. 

Behind the smile and the crew cut and the cuzzy bubba fast talk are a lucid set of eyes that take in everything that is and was Key West: the blue skies, the poinciana trees, the coffee stands, the bicycles, the dog walkers, the leafblowers, the chickens, the Cuban finches, the rust, the rot, the rain, the mom and pop stores, the street dancers, the smugglers at sea, the hemophiliacs, the doorway drunks, the lobstermen, the fishermen, the firemen, the cops, the queens, the kids, the pretty girls, the nuns, the soup-making tias and abuelas, the hustlers of both genders, and the mad dogs, tourists, and Mosquito Control employees in the noonday sun.

Mention offhandedly that your drunk neighbor Charlie knocked on the door at 2 a.m. and asked for a tire iron, and a week later he will hand you a small painting depicting such a scene.

It would be surprising to learn he actually has to pay for his cafe con leche. Smart people have paid good money for his paintings. Other people have stolen them off the wall.  

Mark Hedden