Hey, you.
Thanks for stopping by. I’m really glad you’re here.
I love art—the good, the bad, the ugly, and the completely psychotic. I’ve seen pieces that turned my stomach, and honestly, I think that’s the point. Art is meant to affect the viewer, and sometimes that means being downright disgusted by it.
Since childhood, art has always been a true love of mine. I loved drawing and coloring. I even had a favorite crayon—a fat red one, worn down to a nub, label long gone. It was beat, but I loved that crayon so much. One day after school, I put it in the basket on my bike, and by the time I got home, it was gone. I went back to look, but I never found it. I cried so hard. I mean, that was a big loss for a six-year-old. To this day, red is still my favorite color.
In high school, I studied graphics. We ran old-school press machines, did bookbinding, developed film. It was fun—hands-on and creative. A couple of years after graduation, I earned my associate degree in Visual Communications, which led to a career in graphic design and production art. A career I walked away from ten years later.
Despite my background—and my lifelong love of art—I never considered myself an artist. Only recently have I dared to call myself one. It may sound strange, but my relationship with art has been a tumultuous one. It’s probably one of my deepest wounds.
Before I even graduated high school, I was accepted into a prestigious art school in Boston, Massachusetts. I turned it down because I didn’t feel good enough. I wasn’t good enough. Looking back, it’s one of my biggest regrets. For the interview, I had to submit a portfolio with specific pieces using specific mediums. So I put one together—and somehow, they accepted me. Honestly, I was a little disgusted by their decision. Why? Because I wasn’t an artist. When they asked for a portfolio, I didn’t even have one. I wasn’t someone who spent time making art. I didn’t even have the supplies—my parents had to buy them for me.
I felt like an imposter. I was an imposter. But that’s not what made me walk away. It was the dorm tour—meeting my potential roommate. She was very cool, but once I saw how I’d be living, I knew I didn’t have the life skills—or social skills—to navigate such a major transition. I should have at that age. But I didn’t.
That realization hit hard. I didn’t yet understand how deeply I was struggling—that would take years to unravel—I just saw the storm up ahead and said no. I declined the offer. I had to apologize to the school and to my high school art teacher, Mrs. McCloud, who had written me a letter of recommendation. It was awful. I wanted to go—I just couldn’t.
Ironically, I ended up in a dorm a few years later—but that’s another story, and one I’d rather not tell.
Here’s the tumultuous part: I’ve always thought about making art. Ideas for paintings come to me constantly. I daydream about having a studio, painting for hours and hours, letting time slip away as I create a window to another world. I love art. I truly love art—but I’ve never given myself the chance to just sit down and make it. Why? Because I’ve spent my entire life in survival mode. And if anyone knows what that’s like, they know—you don’t focus on anything other than, well, surviving.
After high school, I couldn’t even picture a future—let alone a career in art. When people asked what I planned to do after graduation, I’d crack a joke and say I’d probably just go home and make a sandwich. I couldn’t imagine myself becoming a successful artist. I couldn’t even imagine being worthy of a job that paid me well. None of those things were in my realm of thinking—though they should have been.
My heart aches when I think about the years I’ve lost not making art.
So here I am now—not to rewrite my past, but to finally live for my future and do what I truly love: making art. Whether I succeed or not, I don’t want to be on my deathbed daydreaming about being an artist. I want to be one. And maybe that’s all that really matters—that I’m finally doing it.
It’s funny—back in college, critiques used to terrify me. I wanted to throw up every time I had to show my work. It felt like being naked in front of everyone. Maybe it’s because I’m older now, and I’ve reached that “I don’t give a shit” stage of life. Because really—I don’t give a shit anymore. Not about judgment, and not about being perfect. I love making art. And I love that I’m finally doing it—nearly every day. What was once my biggest wound is becoming my greatest healer.
A window to another world… that’s what art is to me. In every painting, I see a portal to some other place, in some other dimension. I can’t step into that world, but I can take a peek inside. That’s the draw—the beauty and the ache. Wanting so badly to step inside something that doesn’t exist.
I love that I live in a time where it’s so easy to connect with other artists. There are so many worlds of art at our fingertips—constantly being created, simply for the joy of creation. And it’s amazing. That’s life. Art is life.
So if something’s been tugging at you for years—maybe it’s time to finally answer it. It might just change your life. It might be the very path you were always meant to walk.
