Sometime in the winter of 1980, I left the University of Wisconsin–Green Bay and headed for the Southwestern states of Colorado, New Mexico, and Arizona. I drove my old 1965 Chevy Impala, which I had bought for two dollars from my girlfriend at the time—she had inherited it from her grandmother. I wasn’t escaping the cold Wisconsin winter; I was on a school trip as part of an independent study for my Fine Arts degree.
I had been accepted into a pioneering program called the "University Without Walls," which allowed students to design their own degree path. To qualify, applicants needed at least 37 credits and a GPA of 3.75. I met the criteria and submitted a proposal titled "Art in Quest of the Universality"—a grandiose title that somehow won over four faculty members from different departments. Surprisingly, I was accepted without even an interview.
In my proposal, I explained my disillusionment with the traditional studio setting. I needed to live art—not just practice it in sterile classrooms. One of my professors even joked, "The guys were more than happy to get rid of you, Sam!" And they probably were. With my long hair, beard, worn army jacket, torn jeans, and fondness for Guinness stout and cheese curds, I didn’t exactly fit the mold. But despite—or perhaps because of—my eccentricity, I had earned respect as an artist. I lived and breathed my work.
I was the first student to have a solo show at the University’s Lawton Gallery. At the opening, my mentor, the late Professor William (Bill) Prevetti, leaned in and whispered, "Sam, all these guys can't hold water up to your work." That moment cemented my belief in my path.
My first trip out of campus actually took me to England in 1979, alongside students from other departments. It was a transformative experience that launched me as both an artist and journal keeper. That’s when I began what would become a lifelong habit of sketchbook journaling. I called them my "Eight Ball Path" journals after a bunch of stickers I slapped on the covers—until I ran out. From England to Japan to Malaysia, these books have traveled with me, chronicling my life as a seeker, artist, father, and survivor.
I've probably written or spoken about this part of my life thirty times, often at dinner tables to amuse friends. But I revisit it now with purpose. I want my life’s journey preserved in book form—an archive of a soul on a quest.
Driving through the Southwest on that journey, I was headed north to Denver along a 65-mile stretch between Gallup and Durango on Highway 666—yes, the infamous Devil’s Highway. I had no idea of its reputation at the time. It was drizzling and pitch dark. The road rolled like a wave over small hills through the Navajo Reservation. The only company I had were occasional headlights in the distance and my faded dashboard picture of the Virgin Mary.
Suddenly, a pair of headlights appeared in my lane. At first, I thought it was just another vehicle playing tricks with my depth perception. But as it got closer, I realized with a jolt of horror—it was barreling straight at me. I barely managed to swerve at the last second, taking the hit on the passenger side. My Chevy spun a full 360 on the slick road and came to rest, engine still running. I stumbled out to inspect the damage—miraculously, the headlights were intact, and the car was still drivable. The other vehicle, however, sped off into the night, its taillights vanishing like a ghost.
About ten miles later, I saw an old man hitchhiking. Despite the surreal recent encounter, I stopped. The passenger side door wouldn’t open—it had been crushed. He climbed in from the driver’s side and slid over. He asked where I was headed. “Denver,” I told him. “You're crazy,” he said. “Haven’t you been listening to the radio? It's snowing hard up north.” I hadn’t been. He disappeared into the streets of Durango shortly afterward.
As soon as I left Durango, I found myself stuck on thick snow. The car wouldn't budge. After half an hour of effort, I turned back toward Albuquerque, hoping for help and mindful of my dwindling cash.
Years later, watching Natural Born Killers, which opens on Highway 666, I looked up the road’s history. Turns out it was once considered one of the most dangerous roads in America. In 2003, its name was changed to US 491, and almost immediately, every sign with “666” was stolen—many sold on eBay.
Looking back now, I see just how many near-misses and strange events I’ve experienced—moments that could have ended differently. Maybe it was divine protection from the Virgin Mary on my dashboard. Maybe I was just too stubborn or too lucky to die.
That trip through the Southwest—through New Mexico, Arizona, and Colorado—was packed with such moments. I slept in my car on roadsides, in parks, even in a tent pitched in places I wouldn't dare stay today. Death never crossed my mind; only running out of gas or food ever worried me.
I was a lone Malaysian artist traversing the American Southwest—and that gave me an unshakable pride. This, after all, was the life I had chosen. This was my quest for universality.
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