John Beardman

I’m caught in the mill of shifting life as all are who live. Painting is my expression of that process. Most forms occur to me while glimpsing the work fresh, “out of the corner of my eye” as it were.

Dealing with a form that has historically long past has made me more inventive and more defiant of convention and fashion.

The spark that I’m trying to fan is small and easily forgotten, but very deep and quite formative

My work is haptic; it has to do with touch, perception of touch through sight.

Each major shift in my art comes about when I am sequestered for a significant period of time. Paris, Rochester Mi, New York, Cape Breton. The milieu affects the work, but the solitude is the same. And the awareness of integration that solitude brings is the same. Sort of like the movie Home Alone, only the bad guys are within.

In working much is destroyed. I watch beauty being destroyed all the time. I live in Cape Breton. I watch the sunsets. I garden and I paint.

The rules are simple: go to the breaking point, hold it there, find the humor.

I have spent most of my adult life encouraging the urge to find form.

Much of that search involves dealing with the past. What has been and what might have been can meet in the present, if we can give it form. It’s not like the past is revisited. It’s like there is no past, it’s all now.