No More Starry Nights

In the quiet industrial stretch of Richmond, my story unfolded in a way that never fit the usual script. I was in my mid 30s when I decided to jump headfirst into the art world, a space that usually celebrates the young and already established. But my journey wasn’t polished or poetic. It was raw. It was late. It was mine.

While most people my age were steady in their careers or building their families, I stood at a different kind of crossroads. In a move that felt part foolish and part brilliant, I stepped into the unknown and chose art. That question stayed in my head for months. Who says you can’t start an art career in your mid 30s? For me, picking up a brush at that age wasn’t a hobby. It was a rebellion. It was me refusing to follow a script that never felt like mine in the first place.

Every night, once my family was tucked away and the housed quieted down, my other work began. The living room turned into a chaotic studio and from ten at night to four in the morning I painted like I was running out of time. It was just me, the canvases, and the need to create something honest. Caffeine kept me awake, but urgency kept me moving. I knew I was late to the game, so every stroke felt like it had something to prove.

But it wasn’t only about producing work. Those nights became my therapy. The canvas was the one place I could speak without talking. In a world filled with noise and distraction, painting gave me a way to let everything out. Each stroke carried something from my day that I hadn’t processed yet. The work became a kind of quiet confession. Balancing this obsession with life at home was its own challenge. Trying to be a better partner, better parent, and an artist at the same time felt impossible most days. But somewhere in that messy overlap is where I found an honest voice. The exhaustion. The love. The frustration. All of it seeped into the work and made it feel real.

My early attempts were clumsy. A lot of them were bad. I made mistakes and wrong choices constantly. But every failure taught me something and pushed me a little closer to my own lane. Over time the work got bolder. I stopped trying to catch up to anyone and started focusing on building my own path.

Even my workspace told the story. What began in a cramped corner of my living room eventually grew into a dedicated studio. A place where chaos and clarity finally felt like they belonged together. It wasn’t just a room. It was proof that I had been building something one late night at a time.

By the time I was preparing for my showcase in LA, I had a trail of milestones behind me. The de Young Museum Open in 2023. My first solo show. Local press picking up my work. None of it was guaranteed and all of it felt earned. Every step validated the decision I made to bet on myself even when the timing made no sense. Looking back now, the story wasn’t just about becoming an artist. It was about letting life be messy and unpredictable and still choosing to move forward. It was about having the guts to start late and push anyway. And it taught me that the canvas is always wide open for anyone who’s brave enough to make their mark.