Growing up, my mom always had a studio. I was mesmerized by it—the scent of oil paint and charcoal always lingered in the air. Painting beside her on my Big Bird easel, happily mimicking her work, is my earliest creative memory—one that stands alone, as early on, I dedicated all my free time to competitive sports. At some point, engaging in them became my escape—they were a vehicle designed to transcend my origins. I had carefully mapped out my path to attend college on a golf scholarship, but by the time I achieved my goal, my passion for the game had waned. My roommate was taking art classes, and I was intrigued by the idea of an alternative to courses that failed to hold my attention. I took one class, and it dramatically altered my whole trajectory—I had finally found something I was passionate about. I relinquished my scholarship and moved to New York with a romanticized notion of art and an idealized vision of the city as the epicenter of the art world. But the brutal winter quickly made it clear—New York was not for me.
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