As I look back on traumatic, pivotal, disheartening, gut wrenching confusing times in my life and I felt I just couldn't breathe...Randomly I wrote. Spontaneously I'd sketch. Randomly I'd design. Spontaneously I'd scuplt. I could always feel the air returning. My thoughts became more clear. Hopelessness would subside.
At the age of three my birth father was killed on Christmas morning picking up gifts for us he hid at a friend's house. When my mom received word of his passing, she tucked us into bed, went down stairs, sat at the dining room table facing the wall and just stared into the darkness. I couldn't sleep. It was as if the pain she was consumed with overflowed, crept up the stairs and pulled me from my bed. I was drawn to her. I traveled downstairs and laid my head on her knee until she shared the load. What she shared was incredibly painful. But what was more painful was feeling her heart exploding into millions of pieces and what the heaviness of this new reality was doing to her.
In the days and years to come, one life altering experience after another; randomly I wrote. Spontaneous I'd sketch. Randomly I designed. Until I could feel the air returning. My thoughts becoming more clear. And hopelessness subsiding.
My father was a construction worker and artist himself. After his passing, I began to draw images houses from my head that I felt would make everything feel like home again and/or sketch wild horses as a way of escape. With each additional trauma, unsurety, disappointment, heartbreak or important decision. Randomly I wrote. Spontaneously I'd sketch. Randomly I designed. Until I could feel the air returning. My thoughts becoming more clear. And hopelessness subsiding. I then knew art was more than just a way to pass time, it was and still is my therapy.