What’s Under the Hood?
If you’re standing in my studio right now, you’d see bold canvases leaning against the walls, pastel dust in the air, a half-finished mural sketch on the table, maybe a camera tripod in the corner, and a stack of lesson kits waiting to head into a school. That’s pretty much my brain.
I like to create—anything. 2D, 3D, video, sculpture, curriculum, photography, graphic design. I’m wired for it. But here’s the twist: I also have an analytical mind. I love to know how things work. I love systems. I love making something more effective, more engaging, more alive.
When curiosity meets joyful storytelling, it’s like peanut butter meeting chocolate for the first time. That mash-up is where I live.
Whether I’m building a fine art painting layered with palette knife texture and dry brush nuance, designing a mural for a community space, or leading a Doodley Brain workshop, I want the experience to feel original and refreshing. I want people to feel immense joy in a way they didn’t expect. And if that joy quietly builds self-awareness, courage, and creative resourcefulness along the way? Mission accomplished.
Murals. Fine art. Creative curriculum. Professional development. Community sponsorships. Artist residencies.
Why not just pick one?
Because I’m a bit of a creative billy-goat—hopping from rock to rock, skillset to skillset. I’ll spend hours sweating out a new painting technique, then pivot into designing a learning environment that sparks bravery in a classroom of kids, then jump into refining a sponsorship model that helps fund art programs for entire school communities.
That cross-pollination is the magic. When you mix disciplines, something unexpected happens. A mural informs a lesson plan. A workshop inspires a fine art series. A conversation about mental wellness reshapes a painting concept.
I seem to have a natural temperament for sorting and filing those connections—and retrieving them instantly. I’m wired for hybrid thinking. That’s where innovation lives.
I have what I call a creative pantry.
When a project calls my name, I reach back into that pantry—techniques, stories, community experiences, visual references, life lessons—and start blending. It’s like making a smoothie. You use what you know with what you have. Experience tells you how much of each ingredient to add.
I also practice intentional dream-thinking. In that half-awake state before I rise to meet the day, I stay there on purpose. I plant seeds. I let ideas stretch and morph without gravity. It’s a playground for lucid brainstorming. I record them before they vanish and store them back in the pantry.
Nothing is wasted. Everything becomes fuel.
Rarely.
And if I feel taxed in one discipline, I pivot. I move to another medium, another challenge, another problem to solve. I trust the simmer. I’ve learned that forcing ideas only increases gravity. Letting go makes the mind nimble again.
When I committed to becoming a professional artist, I made a decision: my work would never become overly familiar. I prefer timeless over trendy. Original over predictable. I stay in the mindset of an inventor—seeking new concepts, needed solutions, radical approaches.
A block isn’t a wall. It’s an invitation to shift.
These principles are built into my consciousness:
Professional art can be tough. Uncertainty is part of the terrain. But you’re never alone in that feeling. Every artist walks through it.
I love the art of pivoting in the moment.
I don’t always know what my next painting will look like, where the next collaboration will lead, or which community project will ignite next. And I’m completely at ease with that.
Those who know me expect the unexpected. I am an ongoing experiment in color, connection, and creative empowerment.
There is no fixed “it” to what I do—which means I never have to fake it.
If you’re here in my studio, surrounded by bold color and big ideas, just know this:
We’re all works in progress. And that’s exactly where the magic lives.
