Your body is a highway, the motorcycle you ride with its wheels and steel the part of you where trust and faith reside. Handlebars are long fingers growing out of your palms, the tires the yin and yang of the universe bearing you down the long road that leads nowhere perfectly. You like it that way, your mind no longer there in the beginning of night, a god's hands tearing the sky into ribbons of blood as you take the long curves through the mountains or across the desert. Journeys are the kind of love men reach for when they no longer need to make sense. The hard part is leaving the mind behind. You make discoveries when you aren’t there, when you’re just a body feeling its way along the margins of the heart. The form you choose is made of color and line but there's always an opening in the field, a wound you make in space, so whoever stands in front of what you have made can find his way back to you. It’s strange, isn’t it, how you find the greatest freedom when you surrender? It’s always the same old question whose answer is so simple: know yourself again.
Sometimes you travel far, to the Asia you remember, the touch in the night of a slender woman's hand, the loneliness of jungles, crowded streets, and the languages you don't understand except in sleep. But every journey carries with it the burden of return. The Alexandrine poet, Cavafy, who died in 1933, knew about journeys. He wrote a poem titled, "Ithaca".The opening lines tell you to "pray that the road is long." He says:
Always keep Ithaca fixed in your mind.
To arrive there is your ultimate goal.
But do not hurry the voyage at all.
It is better to let it last for long years;
and even to anchor at the isle when you are old,
rich with all that you have gained on the way,
not expecting that Ithaca will offer you riches.
Ithaca has given you the beautiful voyage.
Without her you would never have taken the road.
But she has nothing more to give you.
And if you find her poor, Ithaca has not defrauded you.
With the great wisdom you have gained, with so much experience,
you must surely have understood by then what Ithacas mean.
     I think you know that now. These new paintings are the windows you have given us so we can see who you are when you drift down the long highway toward the Ithaca of your heart. That's what all art is in the end. It's why you go back to the night studio when the city sleeps and stand in front of the blank canvas with only your body to do the work. It's a long road, isn't it. Each painting is always a beginning and the end never arrives. It's why you start over again. That's why great work gives us our lives back. We find ourselves in you.
     Cavafy said once that, "The gods always come." When they do they tell you to start over again, not to choose and not to follow, but only to be in the place where both question and answer are one thing. That’s the simplicity you know and trust. That's the gift the gods gave you. The paintings are the gift you give us.
 
Patrick Lane
 
Patrick Lane is acknowledged by both writers and critics as being "the finest poet of his generation."  He was born in 1939 in Vernon, British Columbia and presently resides in Victoria with his wife, poet Lorna Crozier. He is the author of twenty-five books of poetry, fiction, and non-fiction. Translated into sixteen languages, his work is widely known and anthologized. In 2004 he will publish "There Is A Season," a memoir and book of healing that centers on twelve months in his garden and, as well, a new collection of poetry.
 
Acknowledgements
 
I would like to express my appreciation to the following people for their commitment and support in my career, especially for this exhibition.
Thank you Wan for years of committed friendship, belief and support, Li En for handling all the continent to continent communications, Halim for the superb design of the catalogue, my long time friend and photographer Tony Makepeace and Bettina Chua for her eloquent opening of my exhibition. My life partner Charly Lin for all her understanding and years of patience, for what I do is not always easy to live with. Mr and Mrs Gwartzman, Jacklyn Rosenblat and staff of Gwartzman’s Art Supplies in Toronto without whom, I’d have sunk years ago. My son, Zavin Bonte Harris or all his hard work in preparing the paintings for shipping.
Special thanks to Alan Bender, Bill Shropshire, Brian Lorimer and Lorimer studios in Toronto for offering a place of refuge and creativity, without Lorimer studios, none of this would have been possible.
Last but not least my deepest gratitude to Patrick Lane for expressing my art in words.
Drew
 
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