I entered the world riding the tail of green summer into fiery autumn, in a city sprouted from a rainforest. As a child, long before I understood what “practical” careers were, I had a burning desire to bring magic into the world. I wanted to take people on a journey to a place, an experience, a moment outside of time, on the outskirts of reality where their everyday lives could be, however briefly, shelved in favour of a brush with enchantment and child-like wonder. I wanted to tap them on the shoulder and whisper in their ear … “Pssst … come with me! Let me show you something!”
As I grew older, “magic” appeared to be a lame and unattainable career goal … so I headed off to college and the world of practical and safe (as if any such thing exists) jobs. Looking back, I can see how I spent a great deal of time trying to shoehorn creative pursuits into non-creative jobs, sometimes with a surprising amount of success. Eventually I found my way into the film industry where I created behind-the-scenes make-believe to support other people's visions. But the siren song of magic still licked my ears in the quiet moments. So I undertook a journey; climbed the stairs back into the childhood me that knew the way of things. There I found the artist, the writer, the magician … dreamer and architect of the unseen … waiting to be pressed back into service.
My images are steeped in symbolism. They are the quiet still spots in the dappled light off the main path; rooms hidden behind false walls; moments frozen in time; small sacred rituals from a long-ago otherworld reality; myths and secrets of the collective psyche; reality stretched and twisted to suit my imagination. I gather the misty fragments of imagery and set them down on paper to give life and voice to them and let them weave their stories in paint.
Art is how I speak in the world. It's how I tell my stories, how I invite you to share a moment with me – a visual conversation just between the two of us.
If you feel so inclined, step through the doorway with me; reach for the enchantment that lurks on the periphery, and there catch a glimpse of the world that might ... could ... maybe does ... exist amid the sun-dappled shadows of our imaginations. A world where all nights are sacred Celtic groves forever lit by a harvest moon and a cotillion of winking fireflies. Where shamans pass like mist in a flurry of feathers and talismans and softly chiming bells sewn into their robes. Where totem animals are your companions on the road, and ancient symbols are scribbled hastily with quill pens on parchment. Where clocks steadfastly refuse to keep linear time and the cosmos can be found in a keyhole or the gaze of an owl.
Magic exists in the still, quiet places … in a snatch of sunlight, the reflection of sky in a puddle, the woods when the sun goes down, inside of all of us. We need only get still and quiet and look within.
Pssst … come with me! Let me show you something!