It began when I fell down the front stairs when I was not quite three years old. I had been painting—safely, as my mother presumed—and may have stepped back to admire my work, a portrait of a streetcar, as she used to tell, done in red poster paint. The red paint came down with me, on me, with momentarily startling results, and since then, I suppose, it would be safe to say that paint of one sort or another has been in my blood. By the time I was nine, I had decided (with parental encouragement) that I would become an artist, but thought it best to combine that ambition with something distinctly practical, farming. I had never lived on a farm, but the life of a farmer-artist (or artist-farmer) seemed about right in my mind. That fall my father, himself the son and grandson of printers, took me down to the old Vancouver School of Art on Hamilton Street and enrolled me in Saturday morning art classes. There I made mobiles, messed around with clay, discovered India ink and oil paint and, most importantly, learned fundamental drawing skills. That first encounter led to nine years of Saturday mornings, to painting in the parks, and to learning to look at the world through the experience of Art. Eventually I became an almost-Fine Arts major at UBC, but I discovered that the demands of the right side of my brain tended to overwhelm the other half, and, besides, “Artspeak” never much appealed to me. While my formal art education may have ended there, leaving the left brain to lead, Art never left me, nor I it. Sixty years later, I am still that child exploring the wonder of form and colour, still in love with line, still learning to look, looking to learn.