A: I come from a place that defies convention. My perspective isn’t shaped by the norm, so don’t assume you know how I feel or what I think. But if you ask, I’ll always give you the truth.

A: On top of being a new artist, I am also a writer. I just finished my first novel and look for agents in the publishing world...anyone?

A: It’s in my DNA. Nothing has ever come easily, but those early struggles lit a fire in me. Once I commit, I’m unstoppable. That energy signals to others: I’m here, and I’m not backing down.

A: I paint, draw, read, binge Star Wars, and explore creative expression through live performance and digital intimacy. I love connecting through the lens—it’s part art, part ritual.

A: Getting lost saved me.

For years, I was barreled by trauma—wave after wave that left me disoriented, disconnected, and searching for something I couldn’t name. But then I wandered into the wilderness, and instead of finding a way out, I found myself. The desert didn’t ask me to perform or explain—it simply held me. And in that silence, something awakened.

Two years ago, I discovered a gift: the ability to paint and draw with a depth I’d never known. It came suddenly, like a lightning strike to the soul. I began creating pieces that moved people, that earned recognition, that felt like they’d been waiting inside me all along. That artistic awakening was profound—but the deeper experience was the freedom I found in being lost.

I’m still here. The wilderness became my home. It’s where I create, where I heal, where I build altars out of canvas and curriculum ,that holds a safe space for my emotions and spirit. It’s not just a place—it’s a state of being. And it’s the greatest experience of my lifE.

A: People say I carry an undeniable energy—magnetic, confident, and piercing. When I enter a room, or even appear on camera, there’s a presence that demands attention. It’s not something I try to cultivate—it just is.

A: Driven. Stubborn. Savvy. Creative. Intuitive. Visionary
I move through the world with a deep inner knowing—reading the room, sensing the shift, and responding with clarity and care. My intuition is a compass, especially in creative and communal spaces. It helps me build trust, spark connection, and stay aligned with what matters most.

A: Roleplay is my playground. I’m a scene-builder, a character conjurer, a myth-maker. My eyes tell stories before my mouth does—and yes, they’ve been known to melt a few hearts.

A: I’m a 50/50 split. I nest deeply, but when I travel—especially in the summer—I go big. Think mythic pilgrimages, not casual getaways.

A: Currently, I’m in a creative season more than a fitness one. But I believe in movement as ritual, and I’m always open to evolving that part of my life.

A: live the artist’s way. My life is a canvas—painted with myth, music, emotion, and radical empathy.

A: Five years ago, I discovered I could paint—like truly paint—with a skill that felt like it had been waiting inside me all along. It wasn’t something I trained for. It arrived like a gift, a calling, a second language I didn’t know I spoke. That moment changed everything.

But what matters just as much as the art is the community it’s meant to serve. I’m deeply community-minded. My work isn’t just about self-expression—it’s about collective healing, shared story, and radical empathy. That’s why I’m currently creating *The Museum of What Matters*—an immersive empathy experience for my new hometown. It’s a space where art, memory, and meaning converge. A sanctuary for voices often left unheard.

This isn’t just a project. It’s a love letter to the people, the place, and the possibility of what we can build together.

A: I would die without art, ***, music, and words. I would not survive without art, music, storytelling, and deep connection. These aren’t hobbies—they’re lifelines. Art saved my life.

A: I would tell you of the turning of the tides,
and when love once washed ashore—
brief, brilliant, and gone before morning.

I’d speak of the time a great Tsunami swallowed me whole,
not just the wave,
but the silence after.
The ache of being unmade.

I would tell you I got lost—
not metaphorically,
but truly,
ritually,
geographically.

And in that wilderness,
I found a kind of freedom
that felt like remembering something ancient.
I never came back.
I built a home there.
A sanctuary of canvas and dust,
of myth and memory.

I’d tell you I paint now—
not because I trained,
but because something cracked open
and the color poured out.

I’d tell you I write,
because words are how I breathe.
And I build museums—
not of artifacts,
but of what matters.

I’d probably say too much.
But you’d feel it.
The fire.
The invitation.
The space between us.

A: My ability to create. My intelligence. My emotional depth. And the way I turn lived experience into communal healing.

A: 1. Art — My lifeline. My altar. My rebellion.
2. Music — The rhythm that carries me through creation, heartbreak, and healing.
3. Community — I build sanctuaries for the unheard. Empathy is my architecture.
4. Peanut Butter & Ice Cream — Yes, both. One’s grounding, the other’s divine. Together, they’re my ritual of joy.
5. The Wilderness — I got lost and found freedom. The desert is no longer backdrop—it’s home.