Ah, group shows. Those glittery, nerve-wracking playgrounds where artists either soar or get politely ignored while sipping boxed wine. I’d survived a few—some magical, others… educational. But in 2016, I decided to flip the script. Why wait for a solo show when I could host my own glorified meltdown?
This wasn’t just any show. This was a full-blown exorcism of my demons, curated by me, starring me, and fueled by a year of bad decisions, worse relationships, and a growing hatred for my tablet. (RIP, Wacom Bamboo. You were a plastic prison.)
Let’s set the scene. From 2009–2016, I was a digital art machine. Commissions? Done. Endless screen time? A given. But over time, my tablet started feeling less like a tool and more like a soul-sucking office job. The magic faded. Every click felt like filing taxes. My solution? Swapping pixels for a camera. Photography became my creative defibrillator—suddenly, I wasn’t chained to a desk, and actual sunlight existed. Wild.
But my personal life? A dumpster fire. My love life was a revolving door of “situationships,” my mental health was a Jenga tower, and my art felt…meh. Enter my chaotic fairy god friend, who peered at my sad apartment “shows” and kept pushing me to take the leap and do something bigger. I resisted. The idea of putting myself out there on a grander scale felt overwhelming. Sure, I had some internet clout from blog sites, but could that translate into an actual audience?
Pre-influencer era. Zero plan. Maximum panic. I found a loft space in Williamsburg (the kind of deal that feels impossible in today’s market) and decided to rent it out.
Initially, I thought I’d show my photography and invite some admired artists, like LaVonnia Christiana and Natalie Pujols. But when Natalie asked me what the theme was, I froze. I had no answer. I needed to dig deeper.
This was my show—my chance to do anything. After some soul-searching, it hit me: I’d make this show about my inner world. Why not turn my mind into a walkable exhibit? Lucid Nightmare was born: a trippy, no-holds-barred tour of my id, ego, and questionable life choices. I wanted to invite people into the chaos of my mind, the unspoken struggles, and the pain I carried silently. It would be raw, dark, and unapologetic.
The loft had an extra room, so I decided to use it to create different “zones” of my mind. I crafted photoshoots and returned to my Wacom tablet for one last hurrah, illustrating my pain, my love for my friends, my vices, and my lust. The show would be my nightmares come to life—but under my control.
The entrance was a glimpse at my surface-level thoughts: art from friends, a video I shot and edited on loop, and a general sense of emotional weight. The main room was where things got deeper. I displayed art and photography that represented fears, failed relationships, and past influences. There was even a bar stocked with drinks and, let’s just say, other indulgences—because those were my vices at the time.
The extra room? That was my temple of lust. Fog machines filled the air, sexual imagery adorned the walls, and yes, there was even a bed. It was an intimate, slightly unsettling space that mirrored my inner turmoil and recklessness.
The loft was supposed to hold 75 people, maybe 100 if we stretched it. Over 200 showed up. The space was packed with friends, acquaintances, and complete strangers. The energy was electric, overwhelming, and at times, chaotic.
The police came to shut us down twice. Luckily, no one got arrested—though a few people did catch tickets for drinking outside. I spent the night running around trying to manage the madness, but in the end, it was everything I didn’t know I needed.
That night was more than an art show. It was a rebirth. Shortly after, I moved on to watercolor, met my muse, and dove into a new phase of my artistic journey. “Lucid” became a recurring theme in my work. Today, my projects fall into three categories:
Lucid Nightmare: Artwork exploring pain and darkness.
Lucid Wet Dreams: Art fueled by lust and desire.
Lucid Daydreams: Whimsical, imaginative, and lighthearted creations.
Moral of the story? Sometimes you gotta host a public meltdown to find your spark. And if the cops show up, you’re definitely doing something right.