This will take slightly longer to read than a Tweet or FaceBook post. Read on if you want to know a thin layer about the artist, or just look at the art work–either is fine.

 

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I reside in Canada's biggest dirty city which I love, loathe and cannot live without. There is an abundance of depravity and affluence on display daily, it keeps me grounded, often it inspires. Some weekends I help out on a friend's farm in rural Ontario. It gives me a profound sense of gratitude when I am at a well stocked grocery store.  I grew up in the west end suburbs, where we wanted for nothing materially, but I found it wanting. It was a devout sort of conditional loving family that often suffocates–so I left early, while I could still breath. Growing up with those who do not value the arts is very challenging. There is a simple solution–one finds a chosen family from which to learn and grow.  On a visit to a local mall with one of my legal guardians, we came upon an art merchant kiosk with pastoral scenes, cottages on lakes, meadows and the like.  All original works with subtle notes of oak, a touch of jasmine, and more than a hint of banality.  The pair that captured fancy were a set of mills.  They were purchased on the basis that the autumnal foliage would compliment perfectly with the printed fabric of the sofa they would hang over.  Although I never expect to achieve that level of Cornelius Krieghoff photo like perfection of those orange, beige and amber hues, I do hope and intend to surpass it.

 

 

A modest reproduction of 'Boy with a Broomstick' by Rembrandt, hanging in the hall of my childhood home did nothing to prepare me for the grandeur of 'The Night Watch' at the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam.  Places like the Guggenheim (Bilbao or 5th Avenue), the Museeé D'Orsay and the more easily accessible Albright Knox or the AGO are like cathedrals to me, they are temples of creation–and the altar of sacrifice is an artist's studio.  I was most in the presence of grace at the AGO upon viewing The Armoury of the 1984 Miss General Idea Pavilion.  It spoke to me and moved me to the core.  Years later, I experienced a similar euphoria at seeing two favourite idols, Henry Moore's and Francis Bacon's works presented together.  I see so little difference between bold street graffiti and"fine art" by the old masters that adorn palaces, places of worship, or reproductions found at your local brothel.  Each can be awe-inspiring.  Like a courtesan who marries an emperor or a billionaire, yet has so much in common with the street urchin struggling to find the next quick fix.  They inspire a certain contempt, jealousy and even a dark sort of admiration.  Was Warhol an opportunist sort of whore any less than Monet?  One a master of silk screened celebrity, the other shamelessly copied and whored out versions of his own previous masterpiece paintings, because they sold well.  Andy's promised fifteen minutes of fame have now dwindled down to mere soundbites of notoriety, barely holding an attention span for fifteen seconds, yet how prophetically accurate.  Was Francis Bacon a better artist than Van Gogh?  One enjoyed a lavish success–and both lived in want and squalor.  I have a greater affinity for 'the man who paints those awful paintings' as Maggie Thatcher once said of Bacon–both the work and his tenacity.  I mention these greats, and could name many more as they ALL inspire my work and give me a sense of creative purpose.  I even enjoy re-imaging versions of my heroes' works. It is a type of shameless plagiarism of which I am very proud.

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Some of my works are meant to be either soothing or pleasing, while much of my work is meant to be jarring, offensive and thought provoking in nature.  I hope is my work makes you laugh, feel joy, sadness or anger.  If it does, then I have achieved my intent–and thank you for visiting this site.