I was plucked  out of the twinkle of my father’s eye and planted in the fertile soil of my mothers womb finally to emerge in 1971. Perhaps I departed from where Dante believed souls waited for their bodies to be born, the great and luminous purgatory of the moon. Vivekananda extrapolates on this idea saying that one is but a mind fulfilling its casual destiny, evolving towards some kind of wholeness, which it seems, humorously, is one’s Self.

As I am emerging slowly and steadily from the obscurations to self-understanding, it becomes evident that there are chanceful gains, which catalyze and guide me, as if being led out of a murk of ignorance. My time in Ryozenji (Spirit Mountain Temple) in Japan, the experience of living with the First Nations in the Yukon, the Art collective in Taiwan, the luminous cave in Tiruvanumalai, the studio in Vancouver, living in Nelson, Montreal , India,  the people I’ve met and who have helped me, and many, many more events, have seemingly been choreographed to unlock my potential as a human being. It cannot be denied that the auspicious coincidences are a design for me to unfold, and it is this that proves to me the existence of something altogether mysterious and intelligent that grants me the courage and faith to trod on in this sometimes pleasurable and sometimes painful journey called life.

This incarnation is both personal and impersonal. Personal in that it is I who accumulates the memory of the events experienced, but not I who designed them, or chose them. This alchemy between surrender and will, power and faith, blends a concoction I call art. It is the art of life. The art made manifest is but a by-product which spins off like heat.

I’ve been painting for seventeen years now, and am excited to continue this adventure into language and expression. It serves to keep me from crystallization and stagnation, progressively destroying the veils which accumulate on my eyes and around my heart.

From my time growing up in Brantford Ontario, to University in Guelph, till now, living in Montreal and India, being an artist has never been defined or completely understood. And as I mature into the “profession of art” as such, I am reminded of the impossibility of defining what that means, letting meaning emerge from the concoction, unannounced, like a stranger, letting it recede again into nowhere, trusting meaning will be felt again.