Brenton Holliday

The echo of biblical chants mingles my mind with the rouge counterparts of world histories that have me befuddled. As a little boy, I got sick, a veil of high fever draped me, left me with deafness. My mother gave me a brush, and some paints to use. I have masqueraded the colors in free kindred spirits. Today, as an adult in world’s distress and many sporadic joys, I’d paint about those fate.