"Like love, art comes from a mysterious place within. To choose the artistic path or have it choose you is the same either way. You just do it because not doing it hurts worse. I don’t paint what I see, I see what I paint and move on from there. The passing of time torments me. Dust on the floor, a clogged toilet, noisy neighbours are minor irritants set against the speed at which our lives swish by. Making art makes the moment magical and eternal. When life gets in the way, like doing the dishes, walking the dog, or making a buck, we do not panic because our means of making art comes from within and we are its best friend. 

 

Art is a dirty business. You see your work go off to market like livestock. It gets slaughtered by the critics or loved to death by relatives and friends. Facing the abyss on a white piece of paper, in a lump of clay, or on a massive canvas has no value in the commercial realm. It is not considered work because no one pays you to search within for tidbits of beauty and flecks of love. True artists stay alive through the making of art. Let life come along for the dangerous ride and pay the consequences."