I seem to be like one of those finds at an antique store that you can’t decide is lovely or mortifying. You pick it up. You put it down. You pick it up. You put it down. You can’t decide.

Most of my art is me in some shape or form. If you’ve seen it, you’ve seen my face. You’ve seen my body. You’ve seen my insecurities. Perhaps you’ve seen my pain, my strength, my perseverance, and oftentimes my immaturity. I’m not sure what you’ve seen. Or perceived. Or experienced.

On a less abstract level, I have a doctorate in clinical psychology that I can not use due to debilitating illness. Losing that ability led to my feeling that I’d essentially lost my identity. I’ve scrambled and scrambled to figure out who I am and am trying to redefine myself through art because I am not the person I was before. I do what I can when I can, and art is my form of communication and gives my life meaning and a sense of productivity.