Sometimes I think too much. It's so strange that on one day I can feel invincibly impassioned about my work where every nuance is magic, and the next I am asking myself repeatedly "What is it that I am doing?" with each brushstroke a burden of responsibility. Nothing has changed, if anything I should be most proud of what I'm working on right now, and yet everything suddenly feels fake. I've gone from being an observant student of life to a critic holding a critique of things that do not even exist yet. I know that all of this is the result of my wild hormones and the new pressure of bigger better things on the horizon... if only I do everything "perfectly". But it doesn't matter if I do anything perfectly. It only matters that I do it; show up and paint everyday. My intentions are good - I really want my paintings to affect change in people. If I have to, I'll stand in front of my easel with my hands painting away while my mind swims circles in pools of driveling self-critique. Eventually this process always leads to a catharsis, and I am quite lucky to have such a viable outlet with which to exorcise my demons. Once the paintings are done, however they look doesn't really matter because I can't predict what will or won't inspire someone. I only know that honest art is the most powerful. I also know that my art isn't the be all end all of how I can make a difference, it's simply another tool.
End ranty pep talk.
Thanks for reading, here's some art that's in progress.


End ranty pep talk.
Thanks for reading, here's some art that's in progress.








