I am an artist. I am an artist. I am an artist.

You can’t imagine how many times I’ve said those words to someone, and I wondered if I could be taken seriously. Like somehow it’s something I have to earn. Or something someone else has to call me first. Or that I have to have produced a certain number of works or sold a certain dollar amount of my work in order for other people to take me seriously when I say those words.

But fuck that. That external acceptance is entirely beside the point.

I’m an artist in the same way that I’m brunette with blue eyes. It’s part of my DNA. It is who I am at the very core of my being. When my mind isn’t busy with the stuff I have to do every single day, it’s occupied with art. I see the world through an artistic lense. I get inspiration and ideas ALL THE TIME. I breathe in, art, I breathe out, art. I burn with it. There are times when I’m so flooded with ideas that I almost can’t breathe. If only there were more hours in the day.

My work doesn’t have to be good (though I believe it is). It doesn’t have to sell (though I believe it will). I could no more stop being an artist than I could stop being me.

There’s a certain satisfaction in recognizing a part of yourself that’s so intrinsic. There’s also a restlessness, because life goes on, and there are other things I have to do, and all I want to do is be in front of a canvas or a sheet of paper with my brushes or my pens, creative faucet wide open.


A series I’m working on that I’ll use to apply for an arts festival.

This is a really cool season for me. I’m becoming more confident in my work. I’m making plans to submit my art various places, and making inquiries in other places, and it’s really cool to feel like not only do I know what I am, but that I may just be able to convince other people.

With deep love,