I’ve drawn and painted since I could hold a crayon. My French Cajun grandmother used to save the cardboard that my uncle’s pressed shirts came with. They were kept in the sideboard with pencils and crayons. When we visited her, I’d kiss her and head for the sideboard and to my aunt’s dressing room. That was the sanctum where I drew for as long as the visit lasted. I was the only one of scores of grandchildren who did this, who had the interest, who was encouraged. I wonder why now. Why not everyone else? Do I share the propensity of a distant line of the ‘those who draw’ dating back from the Lascaux cave paintings and perhaps even further? Do we channel the spirits, the truth? Or is this our own search or both?

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“The moment one gives close attention to anything, even a blade of grass, it becomes a mysterious, awesome, indescribably magnificent world in itself.” — Henry Miller

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I sometimes think I make sense of that world when I paint and other times I go beyond sensibility to a place outside of daily life. I paint and find that same feeling of being five years old in the grass, of just existing beyond the thoughts I can be mired in. I travel and find that logic is only logical in its own confines. I paint mostly Nature, outside of ordinary time references. She mirrors me. And that search for her and painting is intertwined.