Saviour and Lord by David Goatley

was born in the attic rooms atop a large Victorian house on the once-fashionable approaches to the Crystal Palace, the glass wonder Joseph Paxton built to impress the world with the marvels of Britain's Empire, though both Empire and Palace were long gone by the time I arrived.

This was London, 1954. Rationing still had a year to run, the roads were largely empty of private cars, popular television had yet to arrive and we still burned huge quantities of coal in our attempts to stay warm. War damaged buildings were still plentiful and amputees stumped the streets in search of spare change and gratitude. Beckenham, where we moved in '56, still had a village green, complete with a barrel organ and monkey that fascinated me as it danced for its living. Sainsbury's still had marble counters, ladies in starched linen caps patted butter into blocks and wrapped it by hand, change flew overhead in little carts on a system of pulleys and chemists had beautiful glass jars in the windows that spoke of apothecary and mystery.

I went to the same primary school where my mother had dodged bullets from a low flying Heinkel, strafing the children in revenge for Dresden, and hid in the same air raid shelters to explore the hidden secrets of Beverley C. among the stored gym equipment. This was a happy time; a time when I discovered I could draw well enough to humiliate my teacher and earn her undying hatred. Drawing seemed in my blood, my father was a commercial artist, leaving for "town" every morning in fashionable corduroy and cravat, while my mother had dabbled a little and certainly encouraged my efforts.

Someone to Watch Over You by David Goatley

High school began well enough, then went rapidly downhill as the 60's gained pace, my hair grew longer, the music got louder and my home life came apart. I passed - just --sufficient exams to win a place at Camberwell School of Art, and took my immaturity and inexperience somewhere where it could be given free reign for the next several years. This was not a happy time, the first of many periods of my life characterized by excess and confusion.

I left Art School none the wiser, worked variously as a laundryman, furniture remover, insurance agent, brewery clerk (a job tolerable only for the numbing effect of free beer) and eventually found myself in Italy - a tale I will one day tell, probably under a pseudonym, to protect those involved. Suffice to say that here, under the Mediterranean sun, where wine flows all to freely, my increasing need for alcohol was more than met. Back in London, under a cloud of disgrace, it seemed pertinent to get a life -- or at least a job.

Against all advice (why do we never listen to our parents at this age?) I began a career in advertising, starting as a messenger, then an illustrator, storyboard artist, studio manager, art director, copywriter and creative director, finally becoming a founding partner in a small agency. This was a long and liquid progression in search of creative satisfaction and meaning in all the wrong places. My liver suffered along with my mental health. My marriage began to feel the strain too; how my lovely wife tolerated it only God knows. And He was watching. One night, after what was to be my final bender, I collapsed into bed at my mother's, unconscious,

Greater Love Hath No Man Than This by David Goatley

all memory erased, beside my tearful wife. The following morning my mother, a devoutly Christian lady, looked at me and said "Don't you think it's time you stopped this?" I could only agree. She then said something that amazed and irritated me. She asked if she could pray over me, believing her God could heal me. I did not believe this -- or anything else -- and refused. Bless her heart, my Mom is nothing if not persistent and she wore me down, so that twenty-five minutes later I found myself kneeling on her kitchen floor in front of my angry and incredulous wife, with my mother about to place her hands on my head. Suddenly, as she prayed in the Spirit, imploring God to touch me, something inside me broke and I wept. I cried until I was helpless and as I did a great weight lifted off me. My mother held me in her arms and said, "You'll never need to drink again my son." And I never have.

So there, at 32, my life began again. As I came to realize the depth of the miracle that had occurred in me I went looking for the God who had healed me and I found he has a name - Jesus -- the name above all names. I wanted to know him as I now knew he knew me. I was truly born again.

Sober at last, after sixteen punishing years, I took stock. I hated advertising. It was time to paint. Epiphany! Light poured in, my soul took flight, and I had discovered why I was put here, as I learned who to thank for it. It took a huge leap of my new faith to fold a successful business and pursue something I wasn't entirely sure I could do. My wife is a saint. Kissing good-bye a tolerable income and the English countryside we brought our fledgling family (as I recovered, so did our marriage, and God blessed us with the children we had thought we would never have) to Canada in the spring of '92. This is not a place with a history of portraiture (or even much of a history at all) so the fact that we have done all we have here seems like a series of small daily miracles sometimes. I hope my work will speak for itself at this point, and fill in a few blanks in the story. Canada has been kind to us. But a journey is never over.

I went to India early in '97 searching for a cohesive theme for an exhibition. I went to record, to observe, to come away with a head full of images and I came back stretched into many new shapes. I had accompanied a group of missionaries; fascinated to see the workings of God in so alien a setting, content to be a shadow, an eye and an ear. Instead I saw the ancient stories of healing, redemption and victory over unseen darkness come gloriously alive before my eyes as the blind saw, the lame walked, the dumb spoke and spirits fled screaming into the night. I walked in the New Testament with both eyes open and new paintings being born every minute. So far I have only scratched the surface of all this has bought me. Some of the work you'll discover at thewords.com and the accompanying stories are part of an ongoing response to that.

And then there's the portraiture itself, each one a fresh journey, a voyage of discovery, as I am privileged to explore the uniqueness of others. A portrait affirms; it gives the gift of self to its subject. It says: "Yes, you are worth spending this time over, your story deserves to be told, you should be recorded for you will not pass this way again." This has absolutely nothing to do with vanity and everything to do with the value of each and every one of us. There is still so much to learn, so many people to paint, so much room to grow. The mystery has never seemed richer, the journey more worthwhile. All praise to Jesus who made it all possible.

David Goatley
Victoria, British, Columbia
February 2001