The thing about being an artist; you just are.

I remember the first time I realized that I was artistic and different. At Hazelwood Elementary, I think I was around 6 or 7, we had a tear-paper collage art project. Everyone did houses, family, tree, sun, hand-holding, ground at the bottom, blue sky at the top, etc, etc, etc. What did I do? A black cat on a fence. I filled the whole sheet of construction paper with that fence and that cat… and snow. I made it snow.

What on earth was I thinking? It was so different, and good, that the principal framed it and hung it in the front office. I didn’t get paid and I’m pretty sure they just stole it but that was the first time I felt something. Pride—too young, I suppose. Compelled—more likely.

Artists just need to create art, images, draw, paint, sculpt, sing, dance, compose, or whatever it is that just can not be contained. It’s not done for money, fame, recognition, or even love; it’s just in us and it must come out.

Life pushes us forward and we go in the direction of cultural fissures. School, college, work, marriage, children, death, divorce, more work. All of it I did and nothing I regret. But a part of me was always empty and lost so when there was a big crash of my vehicle through life, I decided to take this year and dedicate 100% of my time to being an artist. Make art, create art, teach art, with the end goal of doing what I was placed on the planet to do.

At the end of 2024, I don’t want to have to get a real job, commute, and die a little each day to pay the bills so…