On a brisk February night in 1999 a live 1,250 pound bull visited the grunt Gallery.

Ancient myths and stories were re-told of the 15,000 year old Wounded Bison painting projected onto the bull (and the smooth, angular gallery walls). We talked about culture, nature, bulls and palimpsests.

The thing I remember the most from that evening was the respectful hush of the audience. Here we were, crammed into a small gallery with this unpredictable massive creature and we felt a palpable sense of reverence.

The month long exhibition closed out with an auction of Art Meat.

Capitals and Columns

I’ve been developing this series since 1983, my final year of MA Degree studies at the RCA.

I began my MA studies focusing on painterly abstractions of water surfaces (which I still like to paint). But I felt a tear between the aesthetics of my painting practice and what I saw as a resource worker: fantastic visions of wrecked car mountains spilling into a river which was lined with log booms (old growth forests) half buried in the intertidal mud.

So I turned away from painterly representations of water surfaces towards surreal stacks of automobiles piled on top of each other, with the 18th C printmaker/ architect Piranesi in mind.

We take it for granted that objects of desire and manufacture are presented in glossy magazines, on billboards, television monitors and pedestals. I’m merely re-presenting these same objects on upside down trees and Ironic Columns.

The River

The following artist statement is from the 2010 ‘Cut Blocks, Stacks & Bundles’ exhibition at the Evergreen Cultural Centre:

The Ditch / The North Arm of the Fraser

This series of paintings and sculptures began on the Fraser River in the late seventies. Back then I was fairly new to the hard and fast work on the river tugs: twelve hour shifts, mostly nights, seven days a week, one week on and one week off, sometimes weeks straight at a time.

As I recall, we were running light, against the current, our tug threw a hefty wake over the still, dry side sticks of the booms secured on the south side of the river. Logs inside the booms rose and fell in the arc of our wake. It was one of those rare, beautiful, early summer mornings, up past Barnston Island. A mist from the night before hung low over the tree shaded areas of the river and the day promised to be hot and sunburn intense. We were checking boom identification tags for numbers and the the heavy, steady freshet slammed hard into the southern bank from around a big, wide northwest bend in the river.

I spotted them on the south bank, back ends rising up, tall river grass and alders growing out of their trunks. The old cars were facing down, front ends invisible under the turbid water. I remember the pale brown river silt and the green brown algae on the faded, desaturated paint. The mostly silent, sometimes rippling, muddy current flowed through open windows and manufactured cavities. The old bodies were still stylishly intact after years and years of being there, the rounded curves cast in that heavy, solid metal that cars used to be made of. These stationary, half dry, half wet vehicles rested there, oddly perched in the mud and the flora of that bank. They formed a breakwater barrier, like the days of the week checking the flow of time. Someone, probably a farmer, put them there, hoping to keep the river from dissolving that part of the bank.

It took a few days for that vision to really sink in. I had recently graduated from the Ontario College of Art and over the next few years I would continue to work on the shift tugs and paint pictures of abstracted water surfaces after my favourite artists, away in my studio, during my time off. And we got a lot of time off in relation to the intense hours at work, that’s why I took the work in the river in the first place; it gave me more time to direct towards my painting than any other type of work.

But over the next few years I grew restless with abstraction. I made increasing efforts to incorporate direct experience into my paintings. Images of industry crept into the iconography, competing with the formal, painterly aspects of the medium. I became more and more concerned with the industrial landscape I encountered further down river in the North Arm.

This shift in focus was not an easy or seamless one. It proceeded in fits and starts: sometimes the iconography and the handling got too heavy, other times too refined and removed. Over time, I found myself turning to sculpture – in tandem with drawing and painting – in order to reckon with the multifaceted aspects of the subject matter. Sculpture introduced new problems and possibilities, an interesting counterpoint that allowed me to address, with humour, the depressing symbolism of cars stacked up and piled upon each other.

I continued to work on the river, mostly the North Arm, for the next 15 years. We who worked on the river referred to the North Arm as “the ditch” The ditch remains a compelling, and sometimes beautiful place. It’s a site of memory, meditation and inspiration for me.

And it’s a sign of our time.


Bush Dynasty


“Now you ask “What’s this romantic boy
Who laments what’s done and gone?
There was no romance on a cold winter ocean and the gale sang an awful song
But my fathers knew of wind and tide, and my blood is maritime
And I heard an old song down on Fisherman’s Wharf
Can I sing it just one time?
Can I sing it just one time?
” Lyrics from Fisherman’s Wharf by Stan Rogers

For one reason or another this song makes me think of an Art World Chorus singing “painting is done and gone”.

I confess I like singing Sea Shanties and painting pictures of ships. It started with me wanting to relate the mass of these vessels to the diminished scale of my human body, and communicate my felt sense of physical vulnerability when working on and near them.

They’re like modern mercantile equivalents of Gothic Cathedrals. As a Gothic Cathedral is a powerful symbol of an emerging medieval consciousness, these structures are poignant symbols for our time and culture. Like our mass commercial culture, they are our construct, extensions of ‘us’ and ‘our stuff’. Our boatloads of stuff. They transport our goods and tell us something about who we are.

With contradictions in mind I see these massive, ponderous entities as, at once, ominous and vulnerable. Especially in relation to the green, blue & black sea.

Cruising Arcadia


Water Surfaces