Born: September 13, 1980

Raised: Blind River, Ontario

Residing: Goderich, Ontario

I was born with the eyes I was born with, and they’ve been sending signals to my brain every moment of every year for thirty-eight years, and I can’t take credit for that. My brain seems able to avoid adding much interpretive nonsense before sending the signals on to my hands for replication, and that in itself is Art, and so I can’t take much credit for that, either.

 

The real work of Art is Practice, and for that all credit goes to Story. You see, without proper Story – a real heart-tugger – I can’t bear to tear my eyes from the signals, to nudge my brain into a commanding role, to pull my hands into submission to practise replicating the signals. Story tugs my heart: suddenly, all else steps into line and must, absolutely must, make Art; for Art has become the retelling of Story, the creating of Beauty.

 

I turn to the broken ones. Beauty shines between the pieces: I replicate it, retell the Story, seek to add to the Beauty. My heart leans heavy upon the hurting, calls them to lean on me. My heart believes that in so doing, we will rise together – or fall together, but no matter; we will be together, be redeemed, create Art, add to the Beauty.

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