About

I am not a fan of this cause, or need to explain that every element of life is an influence to an artist no matter what their medium or subject. But as I must, I may. Lately I find my work to be rooted in nostalgia. As a person works on themselves they always go back to their younger self, those little trauma points, misunderstanding, internal voices, those seeds that set the tone for decades of anxiety and depression, oh little 7 year old Suzy was a bitch wasn’t she, she deserves what life hands her after breaking up her parents and disappointing their family. Something along those lines. 

I recently found that my inner child has been craving one thing, the representation that didn't exist. Queer people of all ages, body shapes and sizes as well as skin color basking in the glory of loving tenderness. Taking up space in nature, in public. New love, old love, friendships and beyond, it's a vulnerability most queer people didn't grow up with in my age. So I'm painting it, I'm planting those seeds, I'm paving new roads and amending old contracts I had with myself. 

My youth had a nice splash of drug addicted parental units, a slathering of white trash base with a heavy influence of skateboarding and music culture and the heavy shame of religion and midwestern values. Add to that the queerness of a young closet case, and the complex PTSD of addiction and you’ve got yourself a lovely kid with a life time of therapy ahead of them. Coming out as queer in 1994, aids was still claiming bodies and souls regularly, so compound the previous with a heaping fear of sexual or physical contact.

The contemplation of life has always been plentiful. Now decades later I’m in that odd place my younger self never thought possible, semi happy, or happy’ish. In a relationship with a partner and step daughter, small house in New Mexico with Mountain View’s and a yard for the dog, a good circle of friends and the means to pursue art full time. I never expected to live this long much less this well. So now I’m hitting the age where illnesses set in and the friend pool dwindles a bit. Cancer knows its place apparently, picking many of them off one by one. So the meaning of life becomes nothing more than nurturing connections, letting go of control and learning to soften the hard edges life shaped and be kinder to one’s self both internally and externally. The work becomes a reflection of it all. The new and the old, the lessons learned and the failures a plenty. Building blocks for future mistakes.

So I mentor my younger self now, reminiscing on those fleeting moments of careless abandonment as a kid. The wind in my hair, battle scares from the skateboard, destroying my body, rotting my mind, living for death, skulls and loud music. A white kid who loves hip hop and hardcore, a weird kid who has a heart for Disney and an eye for ugly design. I remember all my friends and family passed, my little sister, my mother, my grandparents, the numerous friends taken by aids, drugs and alcohol. Everything is a nod to them, my friends, they’re watching my life like a bad TikTok reel, and I’m conscious of my shenanigans but not strong enough to change it, so might as well honor it. Thank you for the chaos, thank you for the death, thank you for the freedom and thank you for the rest, it’s all one in the same and my story, while mine is that of many and new to none. We’re but a reflection of the world around us and how deeply we delve into its grips.