"Art is a kind of innate drive that seizes a human being and makes him its instrument. The artist is not a person endowed with free will who seeks his own ends, but one who allows art to realize its purpose through him." - Carl Jung

Born to a father, a political refugee, imprisoned for his nationality, shot through the chest, saved by a stranger who subsequently bore me. As an infant, homeless, perplexed by the thud of bombs exploding. Later, taunted as an enemy alien, arrested for possession of recorded music, separated by authorities from my family, crossing borders illicitly, mounted police trampling me underfoot.

Is it any wonder that I discovered release in an engagement with art. Is it any wonder that I found my voice, on the one hand, in the daydreaming of pure, abstract aesthetic images, and, on the other, in the working thorough of images of dirt and decay.