My Art Is Pretty Damn Ordinary


Most of the art I create is pretty damn ordinary.  Kind of like toilet paper, breakfast, or the laundry basket that’s been in the hallway for over a week waiting to be acknowledged.

Art is simply part of my daily life.  I create it while sitting in the passenger seat on a roadtrip, at the kitchen table after a long excruciating day, in my studio when the sun is rising in all it’s glory, and sometimes in bed when I’m feeling extra lazy or melancholy.

I have no aspirations to show it in a gallery — I’ve done that gig years and years ago. I’m not even one bit concerned with selling it, honey — all that extra baggage of pricing, marketing, packing and shipping feels like a great big bore.

Though my art is certainly the furthest thing away from being a hobby or a past time or a fun-little-thing-to-do. I guess you could say I’ve been doing it long enough that it’s become a part of me. (But I don’t think that’s necessarily true.)


Ever since I was a little child I’ve had to nurse this constant impulse to create. It’s not that I actually need to make something — but instead it’s this deep longing to connect viscerally with life that I’m really trying to quench.

For example, last night I took Phoenix to the local splash pad.  As parents sat on the side staring at their phones, I kept scribbling and scribbling in my sketchbook — desperately trying to capture the slope of Phoenix’s back as his arms stretched upward and the water cascaded over him.

There is this tiny little dip that his spine naturally makes, that I think we lose as we get older.

And yeah, I didn’t draw the line that mimicked it exactly.

But believe me —
if it wasn’t for my art —
I would have missed it completely.

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