Doug Swinton

I am often surprised at how my life has unfolded. At no point do I recall making the decision to become an artist, yet as I reflect on it, the drive to create is central to my character. My grade school math books were embellished with countless doodles and drawings. My mom was a painter. Most days after school I’d find her in our kitchen – her makeshift studio – rendering images of Chianti in stemmed wine glasses, perennial flowers from her garden, and wicker baskets filled with the harvest of bright vegetables that my dad grew. The spectacular prairie and mountain landscapes of Calgary where I have lived my entire life, have provided endless inspiration. I have developed a fondness for the level of concentration required to paint well. It challenges me unlike anything else. The press of viscid paint from its tube – quinacridone rose…manganese blue – satisfies. The anticipation of the first brush marks on a blank canvas exhilarates me. When a painting turns out just right, I still feel like my ten-year-old self, racing into the kitchen to share my accomplishment, “Hey Mom, look what I made!” Hoping to make it onto the world-class “refrigerator” gallery. My paintings are now housed in private and public collections around the world. I am fortunate now to earn a living from my art. I teach my craft to amateur and professional artists alike and operate an art supply store in Calgary. Yet, art is and always has been more than a job. In many ways, I feel like I’m still discovering what it means to be an artist, filled with the same wonder and delight I experienced as a child. The early twentieth-century American painter Robert Henri described my sentiment best when he wrote, “I am interested in art as a means of living a life; not as a means of making a living.” Art is not about a living; it’s living the art.