Art is but the manifest outgrowth of unseen forces; the result of invisible subterranean mechanics. And the living process of creation itself is bound by the very same laws and nameless energies as the galaxies and planets. The artist’s role is not to create, but to be a medium for creation, his body is but the instrument of a higher principle of which he can only dimly guess the outline. Perhaps we are wrong to demand of life that it hold aloft the banner of its meaning, to insist that existence should have a goal and a purpose. For is it not obvious that behind the numberless entities, beyond the realm of the contrasting senses, a natural intelligence sets the clockwork of the universe? And that this great unifying axiom bestows with absolute equanimity the fruits of the creative powers that set it in motion?

I paint to know myself; to gage the limits of my being; for knowledge and for truth. I care not that my pictures please, my only concern is that they be faithful portraits of that invisible reality, emissaries of the unknown. In a sense, it is far more important to me how a thing is depicted than what is actually portrayed. Because it is in the character of a line that one feels the presence of the hand that traced it. Case in point, this beautiful painting from Chauvet Cave, painted some 32 000 years ago by someone not entirely different from you and me…


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