I don’t make art to please; I make it to confront. My work is about the struggle between vulnerability and strength—two things we all have but rarely show at the same time. I grew up in the inner city of Chicago, surrounded by raw energy and stories of survival, which shaped the way I see the world. Life isn't clean-cut, and neither is my art. Every piece I create is an extension of what’s been stuck in my head for years. I paint with a dry brush because it mirrors how life leaves marks on you—sometimes incomplete, sometimes smeared, but always there. Black and white dominate my work because they strip everything down to its bare bones. Then there’s the red—representing blood, pain, and strength—always present but never overpowering. I wasn’t supposed to become an artist, but given where life has taken me, I feel I have no other choice. After military school, I ended up in California, a world away from where I started. Later in life art became my way to connect with everything I left behind and everything I’m still chasing. It's my therapy, my rebellion, my way of saying, "I’m here, and I’ve got something to say." My first series, Eyes Cry I Don’t, started in therapy. It’s about confronting the tears we swallow, the ones people don’t see because we don’t let them. Each painting has a teardrop—most of the time red—because, in my world, pain isn’t weakness. It’s fuel. I paint because words aren’t enough. My art is for anyone who’s ever felt like they didn’t have a voice or a space to be seen. It’s messy, but so is life.