Entering Year Four...

As I step into my fourth year as an artist, I do so with less pressure on my shoulders, eyes wider than before, and notebooks packed with ideas. Somewhere along the way, the urgency to prove myself softened. What replaced it was intention. By now, I know I have a distinct visual language. Red tears cutting through monochrome faces. Interlocking hands forming objects, faces, and symbols tied to social tension and personal memory. These elements didn’t arrive overnight, and they weren’t planned. They emerged through repetition, obsession, and a willingness to sit with discomfort.

Early on, speed felt like progress. More pieces meant more momentum. Lately, that equation has flipped. Time matters. Quality matters. I’m learning that optimization isn’t about doing less work, but about doing the right work with full attention. The balance everyone talks about still doesn’t exist, but the pursuit of it has changed how I move.

If I’m being honest, this path is brutal. It’s me, a brush, some half-formed dreams, and an unhealthy amount of confidence pushing me forward. I’m not naive about the talent in the world. There are countless great artists out there. The only thing I can control is myself and the work in front of me. Everything else is noise.

Being an artist today isn’t just about making art. It’s marketing, writing, installing, pitching, documenting, networking, promoting, and repeating. Layer that on top of being a husband, a father, and an employee, and something has to give. For me, it’s sleep and a social life that extends beyond family. When my responsibilities at home are met, I take a short breath on the couch and then I go back to work.

The studio is one of the last spaces that belongs entirely to me. Inside it, I don’t owe anyone clarity or comfort. I let go of control and allow the work to lead. There’s something spiritual about painting, not in a romantic sense, but in its honesty. It exposes what’s buried. It reminds me that I’m not yet who I think I am. I don’t often talk about these things out loud. Vulnerability feels indulgent when the world is on fire. It’s a privilege to say “I’m an artist,” and I carry that awareness with guilt and gratitude. People are losing homes. Wars are raging. Homelessness mutates and spreads. Pain is everywhere, so I swallow mine, tell myself it doesn’t matter, and keep moving.

My therapist would probably call that trauma. She wouldn’t be wrong. But it’s 2026. Who hasn’t been shaped by it? Most days, I show up to work, crack a practiced smile, and say “Happy Monday” like I’m unaffected by the weight of everything. Reading this, you might assume bitterness or a need for attention. It’s neither. It’s clarity. Life isn’t about becoming someone new. There’s no reset button. No “new year, new me.” The person you were last night is the same person who woke up this morning.

That realization changed everything. We don’t erase our past. We carry it. The sooner we accept that, the more honest our lives become. What started as reflection on the year ahead turned into something rawer. Writing it down helped. Art has always done that for me. It absorbs what I can’t say and reflects it back without judgment.

I miss friendship. I miss spaces where you can unload, be roasted, and receive terrible advice that somehow still helps. But for now, I’ll keep being “strong.” I’ll keep being dependable. I’ll keep being present for my wife and kids, because that’s the foundation. If they’re healthy and cared for, I can deal with the rest. This body of work, the one I’m bringing to Tiburon, comes from that place. Not answers, but tension. Not resolutions, but honesty. It’s the byproduct of showing up when it would be easier not to. Of listening when the work speaks quietly. Of accepting who I’m not, so I can keep discovering who I am.

That’s where I’m standing now. Year four. Still learning.

Still here.