Twenty Years Later

When I was 18 years old I sat on the floor in my Mom’s bedroom in front of her full-size mirror and drew the self-portrait above for a drawing class I was in.

Twenty years later, I find myself in her room again, but this time with my sketchbook and no class assignment to fulfill.

This is the real reason why I make art.

This is the real reason I don’t give a shit if  I sell my work or not.

Because it’s not about the work.  It never has been.

It’s about how I see the world
and how those parts of myself that I haven’t acknowledged yet
are perceiving me.