Each word I write and line I draw is an artist’s statement — not because I am an artist, but because life itself, in every moment and every fiber, is the art I am called to practice and to live. I do not say, Art here, and practical matters there, or, Dreams and imagination here, and real life there, for the truth is, I not only see no need to make such distinctions, but all my life as a waking child, I have been unable to tell if or where one begins and the other ends. And so in my mind, making a bed and peeling an onion is every bit as artistic and creative as giving birth to a poem. If it does not seem so, it is only because I am inattentive, and have foolishly allowed myself to believe in a future which does not and can never exist, and which I have nevertheless convinced myself will be better, more noble, more worthwhile than the present. And in effect, by doing so, I will have closed the door on the moment. Further, it is arrogance on my part to assume I will be alive in the next. And so the understanding arises that I am not here to prove anything or to demonstrate one or more isolated, dubious skills. I am here to be grateful, and to let life and love do with me as they will. This is the only kind of Artist’s Statement I can live by. Anything more specific would be precious and redundant at best, and restrictive and dangerous at worst, because I would be subconsciously bound to live by it. Thank goodness I have learned to not be that stubborn and proud. One death is enough — but it is not all.