Let’s get one thing straight: Art isn’t born from Pinterest-perfect moments. It’s forged in chaos. Think dishonesty, bad decisions, and the kind of heartbreak that makes you blast sad songs until your neighbors bang on the wall. Let me take you back to the messy, cringe-worthy, weirdly beautiful storm that birthed two of my most iconic paintings—and the personal revolution they forced me into.
Picture this: a cramped Brooklyn apartment. Fall leaves outside, frosty silence inside. My (now-ex) girlfriend sits on my bed, arms crossed, as 6lack’s East Atlanta Love Letter oozes from my speakers like a moody soundtrack. We’d just had the fight—the kind where “I’m sorry” feels useless and every word digs the hole deeper. Our issues? My immaturity. My sketchy choices. My art—which she called “avoidance,” and I called “therapy.”
Normally, painting while she read or scrolled was our thing—”parallel play”, cozy as sweatpants. But that day? The vibes were radioactive. So, what did I do? I started painting a man drowning. Subtle, right?
Every brushstroke screamed what I couldn’t say aloud: ”I’m sinking.” Between us? A minefield of white lies, half-truths, and my desperate attempts to “keep the peace” (avoid accountability). The more I layered blues and grays, the more she unraveled. By the time the canvas dried, she was gone. And honestly? Good for her.
But here’s the plot twist: That angsty painting blew up. Like, ”Can I Venmo you for a custom drowning guy??” blew up. It sold prints, got featured, even stolen at a show once (shoutout to the chaotic art thief who lowkey validated me).
Funny thing, though—I hated it. To me, it wasn’t art. It was a receipt for every time I’d failed—as a partner, a man, an artist. A reminder I wasn’t “talented enough,” just trauma-dumping in watercolor.
Life’s weird. That ex? We’re cool now—actual friends, no toxicity. The drowning man painting? Still hangs in strangers’ homes, still haunting me. But six years later, I finally faced the canvas again. This time? No lies. No sinking. Just growth.
I remade the piece with sharper lines, bolder colors, and a figure not drowning but rising—still flawed, but fighting. This version? I hung it in my room. No shame, no cringe. Just pride.
That first painting wasn’t “bad.” It was raw. Unfiltered. A time capsule of who I was—so I could meet who I am. Turns out, people don’t connect with “perfection.” They connect with the ugly, awkward, “human” stuff we’re all hiding.
So, to every artist cringing at their old work: keep it. Let it remind you that growth isn’t pretty. It’s messy, uncomfortable, and loud—like a 6lack album on repeat at 2 a.m.
And hey—if your chaos inspires someone to Venmo you? Bonus.
*P.S. If you see a suspiciously familiar drowning man painting in a Brooklyn thrift store…let me know, I got hands ready for someone*