Each brush stroke brings the painting on my canvas more into focus. But it is not just the composition that I begin to see clearer. The work, little by little, reveals to me my true self. Like a paleontologist dusting a fossil, I chip away my own self-ignorance. What does the subject I chose to paint tell me about me? Why have I chosen or been led to place it so? I find that wisdom of my subconscious - that calls to me in my dreams - nestles clues into the crannies of my oeuvre. 

And while these art facilitated discoveries buttress my growth, I realize that I am rediscovering more often than I am unearthing something new. I am reacquainted with the child within - the boy who was finger painting glittery fish on recycling bin cardboard before breakfast and gluing up balsa wood biplanes by the afternoon. He did not make with the hopes of gallery representation, to capitalize on an engaging trend, or to complete the last piece in his cohesive series. He was just passing the time.