“My works follow my personal journey of recovery from addiction through the past year while rediscovering myself and Newfoundland’s natural beauty.”
Closing my eyes, I can still vividly recall the first time my grandfather taught me to paint. The sole light in the basement, a dimly lit chocolate-brown, fluorescent lamp, stained with blotches every imaginable colour, like little jigsaw pieces flickered in a slow rhythmic pattern. The dreary accompanist for the ever-present faint whirr of its electrical circuits, worn out from watching a lifetime of creative symphonies. The comforting scent of yellowed and tattered sketch books, old photographs, and the stereotypical array of Canadian and Newfoundland calendars, depicting all manners of wilderness, landscape, and natural beauty, mixed with the lingering smell of forgotten pages, newly unturned in search of inspiration. Few were from recent years, as we often joked, saying that other than my younger brother I was the “newest” thing in the room.