I came to be when Mennonite and Ukrainian bloodlines—each having set out long ago from separate origins near the Black Sea—finally converged in mid-’70s Winnipeg. Faced with the prospect of raising a family, my parents fled to a village east of the city, where they became wedding photographers. Between gigs they would subject my brother and myself to traumatizing experiments they called "portraiture". Consequence laid dormant for years. It was not until the dawn of the new millennium—when humankind was facing its greatest threat of extinction from a virus called “Y2K”—that I instead caught the photo bug.