I am in my work, occupied with visions and images that emanate from the heart and the mind. It is by a peculiar compulsion that I am driven to bring these to life in a visual form. This is a force of memory that I understand but little and is dependent on a craft collectively rooted in a mysterious tradition whose secret and sacred tenets I am constantly in the process of reaffirming. Therefore, The language of painting must be painstakingly reinvented and it’s art continually rediscovered. It is a language whose vocabulary is based on a vision of ideal forms, an ideal that is illusive and impossible to reach. It is only in allegory that I can hope to garner a meager understanding of the hidden forces that drive my compulsion to create. What I do not see dimly but clearly, is wisely versed by a dear friend and mentor: ‘Unless the painter continues to grow as a draftsman, as a designer and as a colorist, the hands that fashion form fail to nurse it to life. The tragedy for the artist is when poorly disciplined hands hold, lifeless, the dreams of the heart and the mind.’