Way back, since I was a little kid, I wanted to be creative. I remember watching a movie on Thomas Alva Edison when I was about 8. I was so inspired, after the movie I ran down into our basement where my dad had a long work bench and many tools. There I stood, trembling with inspiration, not having the slightest idea of what to do.
Now, here I sit at my kitchen table on a cold January morning trying not to drink my coffee too quickly so I don’t have to get up and pour more. My head is full of wonder. Full of great mysterious questions as I see the birds dart across the window and land concisely on the bird feeder.
The snow has laid down gently over the landscape like a slightly wrinkled sheet upon which blue shadows move with clock like precision. Time has brought me here. I have made decisions along the way. I am grateful to have had choices. Creativity is my calling, making something with meaning from something else.
Someplace along the way I developed this notion to look deeper inside, celebrate my uniqueness. When I drag a loaded brush across the canvas it is me that is being dragged by my own hand into a place where I want to be. At it’s best, this place is always unknown to me and yet familiar.
My quest has always been to go to the heart of the matter. Often I am compelled to discard idiosyncrasies, dogmas and disavow acquired skills. My heart is full of joy that I bring back to the studio after long walks in the woods. Nature is my mentor and I pray that we always walk hand in hand.
I cannot imagine a life without cadmium yellow, the ever present white rectangle, a new brush every so often and one or two friends with open eyes and open heart. To paint, for me, is to unfold greater mysteries and share.