When the Mind Steps Aside: Discovering the Hidden Hand in Art

I believe I’ve stumbled upon something remarkable—perhaps even groundbreaking—about how we live and create with intention. It’s an insight into what happens when we trick the left brain—that logical, critical part of ourselves—into stepping aside long enough for something greater to emerge.

My high school art teacher used to say, “Let the right brain take over.” He’d crank up the music, stop teaching technical details, and just let us create. The idea was simple: music and rhythm help us shift from the analytical left hemisphere to the intuitive right. In that space, we loosen up. We begin to feel more than think.

Neurologically speaking, when the left brain quiets down, we can enter a blissful, flow-like state. But if it shuts off completely, we lose access to logic, speech, or even basic coordination. So the magic seems to live in that in-between—where intellect hums quietly in the background while intuition takes the lead.

The Experiment with My Daughter

A few days ago, I was looking at Pinterest images of polar bears before sitting down to draw with my daughter. She loves to scribble freely, without rules or expectations. Sometimes she’ll glance at her drawing and casually say, “cat,” or “bird,” and sometimes I may grasp something alike out of it.

Inspired, I decided to draw the way she does—fast, loose, without trying. About 25 seconds in, while my hand moved almost unconsciously, a polar bear’s face began to appear from the chaos of scribbles. Upside down, no less. And astonishingly, it was better—more alive—than what I could have drawn had I tried.

A few days later, I tested it again—drawing upside down this time while she watched from across the table. Again, the result was more natural, more expressive, more true.

The Great Egret Revelation

Recently, I was refining a 3D model of a Great Egret—a tall, elegant heron-like bird. I spent hours fine-tuning the proportions and details, guided by countless reference photos. Then, I put the file aside and started working on something abstract, purely for play.

And then it happened again. Out of the freeform shapes, without planning or intent, emerged the unmistakable form of a Great Egret. The likeness was uncanny—and somehow more beautiful than my deliberate, technical render.

That’s when I realized: my intellectual mind had laid the groundwork. It had studied, measured, analyzed. But it was only when I let go—when I stopped trying—that something extraordinary appeared.

The Art of Doing Without Doing

In Zen, this is known as Wu Wei (or Wei Wu Wei): doing without doing. It’s the state of effortless action, where mastery and surrender become one. The Zen archer doesn’t aim with his mind—he allows the arrow to find its target through presence.

There’s a story of a master archer who, when challenged by a student, drew his bow in complete darkness and split the back of a previous arrow. The shot was not a display of skill, but of connection—between spirit, mind, and motion.

Becoming the Instrument

In the same way, when artists let go of the ego—the “little self” that needs to control and perfect—we make space for something larger to flow through us.

Remote viewers describe a similar process: using intuition to perceive distant targets with uncanny accuracy, bypassing logic entirely. Could it be that this same something—this consciousness beyond the intellect—moves through us when we create?

Maybe true art begins where the self ends.

When we lend ourselves to something greater than our technical mind, we receive what can only be described as extraordinary. The key is learning how to let the extraordinary happen—by getting out of our own way.

Looking Up: Lessons from an Owl and the Art of Letting Go

There are times I’ve fallen in love with a sculpture as I’ve been working on it. Perhaps I’m not the only one who’s felt this way—but for me, it’s increasingly rare. The constant inner critic is always present, whispering in the background, even as the artist within searches for appreciation and gratitude in the process. At some point, those two voices—the critic and the creator—merge. And in that merging, something magical happens: flow. The careful turns careless, the mind quiets, and the stone begins to speak.

The last piece I produced began with an extraordinary reference—a young barn owl, wings slightly spread, head raised toward the sky as if watching the heavens. The posture reminded me of my daughter. That innocent, upward gaze of wonder. How often do we forget to look up as we grow older? As we stand taller, we begin to see others as peers—or worse, as competition—each of us fighting never to look up again.

But maybe looking up is exactly what we need to do more often.

Our mission, whether as artists or simply as people, is to remain teachable—to learn from something higher, to serve others as if we were entertaining the children of God. To be both young and old at once requires humility and adaptability. It calls on us to forgive, to turn the cheek, and to love even our adversaries.

When I carve an owl, I often sense that same paradox: a creature both feared and revered. Its silent watchfulness commands respect, but in its eyes I see gentleness, understanding, and beauty. In this particular owl, I saw my daughter’s spirit—bright, alert, full of promise.

So when it came time to bring the sculpture to the gallery in Niagara-on-the-Lake, it wasn’t easy. Letting go never is. Yet, I know there will be more. I will see my daughter in many future works and strive to make each piece more beautiful than the last—for love’s sake, for the art, and for whoever the piece connects with. Because in the end, we’re all connected in ways we can’t yet imagine.

Chasing Ghosts: The Struggle and Truth of an Artist’s Life

A little honesty here.

As an artist, I often wrestle with the gap between the effort I pour into a sculpture and the income it brings back. The balance is rarely even. For every hour invested in a piece, there’s the weight of tools, materials, and years of skill behind it—all against a reality where profit margins sometimes point to loss rather than gain.

If you’re not an artist, perhaps it’s easier to picture another trade. Imagine being a carpenter. Your shop has to be massive. Your investment in wood is significant. Your skills take decades to sharpen. And when your work finally reaches a level of perfection, few people can truly afford it. That’s the paradox—mastery often makes the work rarer, but not always more profitable.

Yet I can’t turn away from this path. The detail of the craft pulls me in. Stone carving is an ancient art, one that carries traditions worth preserving. There’s meaning in taking something inert—stone—and giving it a form that might outlast us, transforming it into something that feels immortal.

But the pursuit isn’t easy. Striving for excellence can become a mirror, one that reflects not just our progress but also our insecurities. It’s hard not to feel burdened when the practice demands so much and rewards so little. In times like these, when it feels as if the benchmark for performance keeps climbing higher, it’s tempting to believe that some unseen hand is forcing us to chase endlessly.

This is what I think of as “chasing ghosts.” These ghosts are the illusions of perfection—false visions of what we think we should be, or what others expect us to be. But perfection is an illusion. We are all evolving, becoming truer versions of ourselves, shaped not by flawless outcomes but by persistence, honesty, and individuality.

Sometimes, simply staying true to our craft—whether it’s widely celebrated or quietly overlooked—is more meaningful than any price tag. Art is not only about success in the eyes of others; it’s about grounding ourselves in something real, something lasting.

I hope, in time, we learn to stop chasing these ghosts. To lay them to rest. And to continue forward, more true to ourselves than any imagined version of perfection could ever be.

Details Matter: From Studio Setup to Digital Presence

The tug-of-war on a day off is real. Part of me knows I need to get downstairs to carve, but the other part just wants to sit outside, sip coffee, and enjoy the breeze. The details matter, though—and I’ve learned the hard way. The last time I ignored the “small stuff,” I missed a tick no bigger than a poppy seed on my foot.

Yesterday’s energy went into prepping my studio: setting up a new carving table, arranging cords and lights, and streamlining everything for safety and efficiency. I like things neat, with each tool exactly where it needs to be. Now the space is ready for the work ahead.

In the spirit of “details,” I’ve also updated my portfolio with a few pieces that hadn’t been shared before—outside of the occasional blog mention. In today’s world, we live in two spaces: the physical galleries where art can be experienced in person, and the digital spaces where it must also live to be found. I don’t have the time or resources to run a shop of my own, so my sculptures find homes in galleries. But managing an online presence has become its own kind of craft, and it takes just as much dedication.

So take a look through my updated portfolio when you can, and explore the new works I’ve added. My efforts in both stone and digital spaces feel more meaningful when they’re seen. And if you’re curious, you can always find more through my YouTube process videos, my Instagram feed, or even on Facebook and Threads. Every detail adds up—and hopefully, each step reveals more of the story behind the work.

Sweater Weather, New Beginnings, and the Upper Canada Native Art Gallery

This morning I’m sitting on the porch with a cup of coffee, taking in what feels like the best time of year. Sweater weather—cool air that clears out the heaviness of summer and makes you pause for a breath of gratitude. It’s a reminder that the simplest moments can hold so much weight.

Yesterday was a milestone for me. I was accepted into the Upper Canada Native Art Gallery in Niagara-on-the-Lake—a place my wife and I have always loved for its preserved history and calm spirit. To have my work resting there feels deeply right. The gallery owner, someone with great experience curating sculpture, offered me kind words that helped lift the doubts that so often come with being an artist. As I’ve come to learn, where art finds its home is just as important as the piece itself. My hope is that my work offers the same rest and repose to others that it has given me in creating it.

But even in this moment of gratitude, I feel the pull back to the studio. The next piece is already waiting for me in the stone—a soapstone owl on a cherry wood base. The form is there, hidden inside, and my role is to carve gently so as not to disturb it too soon. With new tools and a fresh workspace ready, I’m eager to begin. Every new work feels like a conversation with the stone, and I’m looking forward to seeing where this one leads.

Let There Be Light: A Small Change That Transforms Everything

I had a realization recently that’s changed my approach to both my craft and my life. It came down to one small tweak: more light.

Like any artist, I invest in tools carefully. Each purchase must justify itself in the long run. Two months ago, I decided to add a second LED strip light to my studio—a modest 800 lumens of flexible, battery-powered brightness. I already had one and found it useful, but adding a second transformed everything. With two angles of light, I could see details in my carving that I’d missed before. What was once hidden in shadow became clear.

It struck me: how often do we work in environments with too little light, not just physically but spiritually? No wonder we miss the details.

We’ve all heard the phrase “swept under the rug.” The truth is, much stays hidden in darkness. In our homes, the brightest sunlight of morning or evening reveals dust, clutter, and imperfections we’d rather ignore. Likewise, in our lives, we often dim the light intentionally—closing blinds, staring into screens, avoiding what needs our attention.

But it’s only when the light shines that we can see clearly. Only when we let it in do we realize what needs cleaning, what needs tending, what needs healing. The same is true in our hearts and minds.

All it took was a simple LED light to remind me of this. And it brought me back to an old, timeless verse:

“And God said, ‘Let there be light!’ … and there was light.”

It’s in that light—whether in art, work, or life—that creation begins to appear.

Keeping the Moment Holy: Mindfulness in Stone Carving and Life

“There’s a rhythm and rush these days, where the lights don’t move and the colours don’t fade.” — José González, Stay Alive

We often find ourselves moving task to task in a blur, rushing through life without pausing to breathe. For me, stone carving is where the rush stops. It’s a mindful practice, a way to return to presence. To carve well, I must set aside the moment—make it “holy.”

In scripture, the Sabbath was meant as a day of rest, set apart from work. It was a practice of abstaining from productivity, a way of fasting from the rush of doing. Ascetic monks extended this rhythm into daily life through abstinence and devotion. In the modern West, we’ve reshaped this idea into what we now call mindfulness—bringing ourselves back into the present moment.

But what if we went a step further? What if every act was set aside as “holy”?

We lose presence in daily life when we lose gratitude. The little things—our morning coffee, sunlight on the window, an old song on the drive home—become invisible. Stone carving has taught me this lesson repeatedly. Some days the work feels like strain and frustration, but when I remember to treat the act itself as sacred, the process shifts. Each mark of the chisel becomes a prayer, a moment of presence, a reminder that the craft cannot be rushed.

Without this, life quickly slips into what González describes as a “world gone shallow and a world gone mean.” The antidote is simple: notice, give thanks, and let each moment last.

We are here only a short while. Let us honor the small rhythms of life as gifts from the Creator—moments set apart, holy, eternal.

Returning to the Studio: Bears, Stone, and Strength in Motion

Today I stepped back into the carving studio for the first time in almost a month. It’s been a difficult stretch—Lyme disease put me in the ICU with a third-degree heart block. That experience forced me to learn rest in a way I never had before. Even now, I know I need to move slowly, listen to my body, and not rush back into life.

The truth is, my body reminded me quickly that I wasn’t invincible. After a short studio session, running on little sleep from nightshift, I ended up wrecked—palpitations, sweats, my heart struggling to keep up. For a moment, I thought I had lost my momentum as an artist.

But stepping back into the studio today, I realized something powerful: the work hadn’t gone anywhere. My tools were waiting. My bear sculpture was waiting. And I was able to pick up right where I left off.

This piece is carved from a soapstone sourced in Labrador, Canada, known for its strong fracture lines that create a striking natural appearance. I can’t wait to see it polished, as it’s a stone I’ve never worked with before.

My carving style is often described as wave-like—fluid lines that run across the body of the form. For me, this isn’t just aesthetic; it’s a way to capture timing and energy. Once an animal’s anatomy is sculpted—the muscles, fur, facial features, the grounding of feet and toes—the real fun begins. I carve intuitive gestures into the form, subtle contours that echo movement and energy. These lines accentuate natural rhythms, exaggerate certain features, and give the sculpture its vitality.

With animals like the black bear, motion itself is a study in grace. Their strides flow effortlessly from step to step, despite their immense weight—anywhere from 250 to 550 pounds in adulthood. I’ve spent countless hours analyzing those small differences in movement, how weight shifts through the muscles and bones, creating the illusion of something almost weightless. That balance is what I try to capture in stone.

To me, it’s not just physical movement but energy itself. Rocks, like living beings, shift, grow, and change over time. Stone has a life force of its own, and many traditions speak to the subtle energy within minerals. Whether you believe that or not, I know carving is my way of translating those energies into form.

This bear is still in progress. There are imbalances in the proportions, partly because I chose a stone that naturally tapers from back to front. But that taper, that weight carried toward the back, feels right—it echoes the stealth and strength of black bears themselves.

I’m grateful to be carving again. To be reminded that even after illness, even after rest, strength returns. Like the stone, like the bear, we move forward. Slowly, but with power.

NORTHERNER ROOTS : Finding Strength and Silence in the North

If I were to describe myself and my work, both are tied deeply to the North. My carving feels like an echo of the granite channels of the Canadian Shield, slowly hollowed out over millennia by ice, wind, and water. The rhythm of that landscape—the ebb and flow of seasons, the migration of visitors, the steady endurance of those who stay—has shaped my outlook and my hands as a sculptor.

Granite teaches us strength. It has endured millennia, while our own lives are fleeting by comparison. Yet even the softest stone can be shaped into something lasting and beautiful. I find peace in that paradox—something so solid, yet so vulnerable to time and touch.

I long for the North often. I grew up there, and I returned for a few years to rejuvenate my soul. The isolation and silence suited me. My perfect afternoon was to lose myself in the wild, go as far as I dared, and find a quiet place to rest. That kind of stillness is meditation. Nature does not need words—it teaches simply by being.

There’s a line in The Secret Life of Walter Mitty: “Beautiful things don’t ask for attention.” That is the North. The fleeting glimpse of a moose in the fog, the hush of a lake at dawn, the sudden flight of an owl—all are moments that slip away as quietly as they arrive. They don’t perform for us; they exist in their own truth. And too often, we rush past, consuming rather than observing, forgetting that we depend on nature more than it depends on us.

Roots, though, run deep. They hold fast when the storms come. My hope is that mine are strong enough to take root again when I return to the North someday. I dream of a time when my work can grow in that soil, less bound by the city’s demands, more in tune with the silence of the wild.

The wild offers encounters that stay with you forever—moments with animals, fleeting as they are, that feel like gifts. Each one carries a small story, shaping the way I see the world and the way I carve. I hope those who see my work can sense some of that presence—an echo of the North, of the land’s silence and strength.

The North teaches us that silence is not emptiness. It is belonging. Its strength is not loud, but enduring. And once you have lived with it, the North never leaves you.

This last picture is a bronze cast bear made from the original stone sculpture called ‘Brother’. For enquires, please ask.