Why would anyone choose to spend countless hours creating an image on a sheet of paper or canvas with no evidence whatsoever that anyone would be remotely interested in viewing it, much less acquiring it? Furthermore, why create anything that isn't approved of in the eyes of the world? The act of creating art that is, among other things, pictures, songs, stories, experiences and the like always starts and often ends in a form that appears utterly useless in the eyes of the world. Anything created for the purpose of selling is a product or a commodity, what we might call commercial art. This is, on a scale, prostitution of a person's God -given talents. This doesn't mean that all created things for sale are simply products that were made for profit, just that many are. Creating art, which is creating beauty, succeeds in being best exists when it is free of this longing for approval or acceptance, i .e. sellable. A single want for each created object is to be what it is free and clear of what anyone prefers it to be.

The directions to go are endless. The ocean of images and sounds is bottomless. The options for tools to make a single mark are infinite. All of this to say one simple thing. I am. I have created many unforgettable things under a different proclamation. I will. I want. I can. I should. I need to. These are a few that come to mind. These have faded into the Eternal. I am. If we are the children that we are, then every reason for doing what we do funnels to who we are. Now I enter the Christian dimension in which no proof is needed. No earnings are kept and no fortune is withheld. Prayer and meditation are my preparation and many times they continue into and out of the process of creating. I have the trust that these elements are taken care of by my commitment to my craft. Every time I accept the invitation to be me, which is simply to be, I am rewarded with another invitation. Another opportunity always. This is now and this is the only time that exists. I have thought a lot about them, but I have never physically lived in the future or the past. No one has. Now I step into the room. I light the candle out of habit. I raise the shades and I sit. I am called to by all kinds of ideas and I greet each one. I am thankful for these because I know that they are invitations. A voice whispers, Come boy, be me. I used to say without thinking to myself that this is what I'm doing. Now I think to myself, so this is what is doing me. I am his child and in this precious. I see all around the beauty created, this terrible beauty that causes so much destruction and growth, the smell of the woods where life is given but taken all the same every single moment, the sun that throws bright shapes on the floor, warmth for the cat to bask in, but then gone and replaced by dark clouds or cool, serious moonlight at the hour of the wolves, the mysterious fog and the headlights emerging, the gnarly cedar with the funny baritone voice, the sincerity in the sheep's eyes, the hobbling rooster named after a Pokemon character, his battle to heal from a fatal virus and a determination to eat. I see and hear all of these creations, ever changing, ever proclaiming the glory of God. This is love, not happiness. This is joy, not health. This is truth, not history. I ask myself, what do I do? I answer with the only thing I know. Act like him. Trust that you will be. Trust that being is truth. Trust that truth and love are inseparable. I have no words to describe this well enough and I'm riddled with brokenness. And so I listen for the call and I accept the invitation. Now I know where these hours are to be spent and this is all I was asking. Every other question was answered when I answered the question “Are you willing to accept that who you are is, and always has been, enough?” with “I am.”

I have no idea how or why I am driven to make paintings. I have made substantial money selling paintings, but I make more money touring as a member of the band. I don't need to sell my work, and I have never felt especially fulfilled when I have sold it. I always assumed that I would enjoy making work and then selling it, especially if the price was one that I set and approved of myself. This has been relative to my growth as a painter, and I have been satisfied with the direction it has gone regarding the business of it all. As for what I make, I have maintained my curiosity by simply following it, and surprisingly by not following it at times also. There has been no template for how I work and beyond two years of art school in my early 20s. There has been no formal training. I have never been close to any community or school of thought in the arts. I have no idea where I have been or where I am headed. I am simply called, and I answer or I don't. This is tricky because when the call is a voice in my head stemming from a dream, then I move toward the invitation with love and joy. I can easily accept the invitation because I recognize it as one that came from a mysterious place. On the contrary, when the call is an idea or suggestion from a gallery owner or an agent or even a fellow painter, I may accept the invitation as a great idea, but with tension and apprehension. Great ideas are dime a dozen. There is no end to the great ideas floating in the cosmos. No end at all. This is beyond remarkable. This is beyond description. This is eternal. This is God at work. It's quite possible that it makes no difference where the calling comes from, be it a dream or a formula. It may come from a fellow artist or a banker. The important thing here is that I remain committed to my purpose.