Our vanity, our passions, our spirit of imitation, our abstract intelligence, our habits have long been at work, and it is the task of art to undo this work of theirs, making us travel back in the direction from which we have come to the depths where what has really existed lies unknown within us.

— Marcel Proust

Life is beautiful, fascinating and complex. Yet with time, glimpses of such a life are rare. As children we explore the world with wonder. We marvel with curiosity at everything we can’t possibly understand. But all too quickly something in us shifts. We become afraid of what we do not know so we take all of that wonder and box it in with our labels, our scientific theories, and our dogmas. Life dulls and ironically we spend the rest of our days longing for something more.

We live with this blurred and fractured vision of the world, yet inside each of us there’s an undeniable conviction that something beautiful and perfect still exists just beyond our grasp. And so we chase our longings and if we’re lucky they lead us right back to the heart of life. The sublime life. The undefinable, inexplicable sacred beating heart of life.

To me, this is art. It is a humbling – a stripping away of everything I think I know in an effort to rediscover what has been lost. Its tearing down the scaffolding, looking out beyond the edge, and recognizing the unbound, insane beauty that flows eternally around us all.

In the meditation of a painting something transcends. In a moment of pure stillness or in an unchecked brushstroke, I might catch a glimpse of it – like a breathe of magic from another world. It’s intoxicating, fleeting and highly addictive because a single glimpse will never be enough. So each new work becomes a prayer, an invitation to dance with the divine… if only for another moment in time.