"Inspiration is for amateurs. The rest of us just show up for work." - the great contemporary artist Chuck Close - 17-04-05

Being ordinary people creating extraordinary things is no longer a consideration. Our desperate need to be perceived as something special surpasses our desire to do anything well. . . and so, we are so many extraordinary persons producing lowest common denominator nothings.- 27-03-08

"Foremost" artist, "renowned" portraitist, "master" landscape painter. . . These phrases are so very often used by "us" - painters and sculptors, to "colour" our resumés. If foremost, renowned and master are defined as: ranking ourselves above all others, does it not follow that when we describe ourselves thus we are foremost, rem=nowned or masterful at exaggerating? But even if we are "foremost" at anything. . . is it not better left to others to describe us so? - 09-08-06

Calling oneself an “artist”is so evidently more a desperate emotional craving than it is a statement of fact that the world is not now more blessed with greater works or more democratic because of it. Rather this era's creative juices have been so diluted the resulting artworks would be better promoted in big box stores than in art galleries. - 02-08-05

Everyone needs to get away  - at least once in awhile. Surviving the craziness of North American "thinking" (now that's an exaggeration if I've ever heard one!) is at times an emotionally draining exercise. It is therefore necessary to go places - anywhere where lives aren't lived according to a frenzied kid-sport schedule, where parents aren't afraid to say "no", where obsessive mood-altering tv fare isn't blaring from morning til night, where frightened parents and teachers don't pop tranquilizers or feed them to their charges, where believing pop psychology soft-cover book theories is deemed eccentric if not insane or where fast-food ecstasy isn't yet another reason to take your blood pressure at every bite.

I was recently awarded such a break by my wife (who knows of my need for respite from self-inflicted "emotional overload" reactions. And, it wasn't long before I felt it. . .  that most exhilerating sensation of supernatural contentment and relief. . .  We were well ensconced in a small (permanent population: 80) medieval hill-top village in the south of France. I was sketching a rustic architectural backdrop when I noticed a mother and her son calmly pass by.. Their sounds were musical. Their conversation animated and inttelligent and "mature". There was no condescension on the part of the adult, no manipulation or whining on the part of the child. There was only a connectedness so rarely seen or felt at home that I was enamored with them both. I am sure I stared more than I observed.

A "baguette" under his arm, the boy shared ideas, explained, asked questions. . There was no competition for either speaking or listening time. The hand-holding was gentle and the walk serene and comfortable. Their puppy, oblivious to all intellectual fare, simply played the dog - tongue flapping in the breeze to the measured rhythm of a feverishly wagging tail.

As I admired the trio, the boy of nine or ten looked over as he passed, smiled and said: "Bonjour monsieur." My ears and heart were not used to such "stranger induced spontaneity". It wasn't the tired regurgitation of a North American store cashier's "have a nice day"; a hired help's "rules of engagement" recitation - another practiced lie, another union reason to complain. No, It was a simple, kind social gesture, a recognition of "another", a pleasant aside from an otherwise engaging conversation, a courtesy so assimilated it had become part of the boy's whole persona. A warm recognition of the value of another. His reaching out and touching reminded me of those times, long ago, when Bonjour or good day sir was not a "startling" comment but natural. The boy reminded me of Bermudian women who, not so long ago, called you "dear" and "honey" and "sweetie" - but that was before the age of enlightened, before we all discovered that we were slaves of sexism and the hidden meanings in an abusive vocabulary.

"Bonjour monsieur" as a natural reaction of a North American child to a a passerby? No. . . our children are much too leery and even frightened of adults now and consequently would never dare take the initiative in greeting a complete stranger. Such an activity involves emotionally touching someone and being touched back - and that is perverted, isn't it? But when it does occur, that one rare time a two year old babe in arms stares back in awe at you the stranger, and smiles. . .  How wondrous is that gem-like moment. How reassuring it is that these children will one day reverse our crude attempts at self-destruction. . .

The day we no longer have the need or inclination to reach out and touch will be the day that the power of the brush and chisel, of dance shoes and violins and of poetry will disappear and we will be the sadder for it. - 15-01-05

I don’t want answers, I want questions. Once I have an answer I look for another question. Questions are exciting. They look for answers but then run from them in quest of another query. Silly as it may be, life would be unbearable without questions. - 03

A craze. . . is nothing more than a prelude to destruction, a passion. . . prelude to creativity. - 03

The title of artist is rarely appropriated by those who really are. - 03

If there are no questions left in need of answers, life as it is ceases to exist. Though an inhale’s requirements are met by a follow-up exhale, there is no life continuum without the upcoming, spontaneous inhale. - 03

After 33 years as a professional painter I have been interviewed more than  five hundred times. Less than a half-dozen of those times was I being interviewed by someone who actually knew something about the process involved in the visual arts. - 00

My imagination has allowed me to create a world within worlds. As a small child, I would immediately react to the all-encompassing shadow cast by a beach parasol - the space created between the wall of the parasol and the shadow diving for a horizontal environment to land on. I had the same sentiments when I would see a large sumac bush. Its interior would call to me, ask me to enter the confines of its branches, the solitary pleasure of being near yet so far from passers-by who would not know I was there - not hiding, but enjoying the pleasure of mental and imaginary wanderings, creating images of me within and the rest of the world “out there”. I still feel that thrill when I pass a sumac clump of trees. - 99

I enjoy small intimate places which offer peace and personal space. - 98

Of those who wear the crown before the coronation, beware. - 97

I'm an emotional painter. I only use collected academic formulae as a tool chest from which I select what is needed to render symbolic feelings, ideas and thoughts more clearly - at least to me. Formulae can never “be” those ideas, thoughts or feelings. . . They're only tools. - 97

Being “in the collection of...” does not make you a good artist, just the recipient of a cheque signed by an institution or individual who generally has more money than you do. - 96

Being in the collection of says less of the painter than it does the collector. - 95

I don't like civic holidays - never have. Every time I desperately need to purchase something for the studio it always seems to be on one of those days. - 95

I don't "look like" an artist because I don't know what an artist is supposed to look like. Despite this, I would rather labour at being one than to waste my time and energy trying to convince others, (or even myself), that I am one. - 88