To me, darkness is light; light, darkness. As such, all boundaries are illusory, fear of trespass in a world of gates but not fences, concealment and invention at play with honesty and reality. Having disembroiled myself from the ravelled, choking maze of caution, I know not abhorrence, nor dread, nor precept. This is that latest all-risk: An I which mine is for the courage no other to be, if not danger's self. You can email me
This, this very scene – its feel, its allure to the the senses, its beckoning – is my comfort zone. Any deviation from this is in one way or another a challenge.

This, this very scene – its feel, its allure to the the senses, its beckoning – is my comfort zone. Any deviation from this is in one way or another a challenge.

Art speaks against the oppression of caution; it shouts against the tyranny of the unimaginative; it screams against the bondage of convention.

For art to exist, for any sort of aesthetic activity or perception to exist, a certain psychological precondition is indispensable – intoxication.

Art is personal, autobiographical. The depth of one’s experience cannot exceed the height of one’s experience, and vice versa. The depth of one’s pain cannot exceed the height of one’s joy. A life lived vicariously cannot produce art. A life without passion, devotion, adoration, sacrifice, commitment, obsession, pain, and joy cannot create art.

Art deepens the mystery. Through concealment and invention, it eludes the realms of definition, identity. Honesty is but subjective definition; reality, but subjective identity. Mystery alone is objective.

Metal, clay, and glass must all submit to fire. A vast surrender is their only strength. We are no different. A vast surrender is our only strength. To be made into bread, we must endure the threshing floor, the grinding stone, the kneading board, and then the oven. But would you be chaff, instead, worthless, blown away by the wind?