Painting is my perpetual life companion, but writing is its quiet twin. It’s an act that I’ve done for as long as I’ve been drawing. Poring over Dickens, Alcott, Dahl and other 19th-20th century books as a kid became the catalyst for my fascination with words. My paintings are what gets flung on the public ring, writing stays on the seat. But I do both with equal intensity. In fact, when I start a painting, I don’t sketch, but write. And at one point in my life, my heart’s desire was to be a writer.

I do believe the art of combining words crafted in a way as to be sipped and relished-like that of the old writers of the same grain as Kerouac, Twain or Steinbeck - is slowly getting lost, albeit there are more writers now than at any point in history. We chew and expel words at an impatient pace. When I happen upon someone’s writing so incredibly crafted it triggers a momentary state of illuminated pause, I rejoice inwardly. It’s a feat to achieve this with just a combination of words, unlike in music where it’s easiest, or painting where it’s easier.

An artist/writer I greatly admire is Mercedes Helnwein. Maybe the sense of affinity is strong solely because she is both. An artist who is also a writer talks more on her sketchbook than doodle.

I’ll be writing more this year, slowly shoving this more introverted child into the same ring as its brazen twin.

Here’s a theatre review I’ve recently done for McCaulay + Maestro, 2 Dimensional Life of Her.