All the Time Lost

March 11, 2026

“All the Time Lost.” 6/8/25. acrylics and pigment ink on clock face. 28 inch diameter.

In early 2025, I’d been trying to embrace the notion that just because I can’t yet see that things are as they should be – that doesn’t mean they aren’t (or that they won’t be). It just means I can’t see it yet.

As summer crept up, I was not feeling so optimistic. I was thinking a lot about how I’d essentially lost all of my thirties to relapse. How even if my career was going well, it was not going anywhere near as well as it would be if I’d been at it all along.

I was thinking about how back in Round One,1 I was grateful for all of the tragedy and trauma in my life, grateful for my addiction and the time I’d lost to drugs — because all of that led me to art and a life that I enjoyed.

AND I WAS THINKING ABOUT THAT THING WE DON’T LIKE TO TALK ABOUT. And how it’s super fucking hard to be grateful for that. Because what did I get out of it? Eight years of relapse? Hurt, fear, distrust, resentment, and [insert OTHER BAD THINGS here]?

Looking back at my records, I’m kind of blown away by how well I did in those early months (and how quickly I started to take it for granted). The relapse may have cost me momentum, but wasn’t it still a minor miracle that I was able to pick back up as quickly as I did?

 It didn’t feel that way. I was making money, but – even when I’m doing well – if I’m not hitting new benchmarks of success, I start to feel like I’m spinning my wheels. I crave constant progress.

I’d been commissioned to paint A CLOCK, so time was very much on my mind. I titled my clock “ALL THE TIME LOST” and journaled my pessimism into it.

Not everything needs a positive spin. Some things are JUST BAD. If you wanna believe there’s a lesson in everything – sure. But those lessons are not always worth their cost.

“Everything works out in the end. If it hasn’t worked out, it isn’t the end.”

Oh yeah? Works out for who? Innocent people spend decades in prison. Some people DIE YOUNG. Is death an example of shit “working out?” We’ve all got main character syndrome. Someone else’s death isn’t our life lesson.

“Everything will be okay in the end.”

The end is death. If everything is “okay” when you die, it just means “nothing matters when you’re dead.” And “if it doesn’t matter now, then it never really did.”2

It was totally obnoxious but I wound up in the same place I always do:

Any logical conversation about meaning ends at nihilism. So – UGGGGGHHHH – we’ve gotta make our own meaning and make the most of the time we still have left. As ANNOYING AS THAT IS. (‘Cause “for better or worse, someday this will all be over”).3

That was about as positive a conclusion as I could get to. I journaled some more, thinking about the kinds of art walks and street markets I’d been selling my prints at. I was making job money but not runaway success money.

Everything has an opportunity cost. Am I wasting time on “sustenance money” at the expense of higher risk, lower immediate-return efforts that could pay off bigger later? Am I inadvertently branding myself as a street-level artist when I wanna be in high-end galleries? I’ve only been clean 14 months. Am I impatient? How often should I be hitting major achievements?

And BECAUSE THEY’RE NEVER FAR FROM MY MIND…

Signed, limited-edition “classroom” sized clocks are available for purchase in the webstore.

As for girls, the current dearth of FRESH CANDIDATES actually has me reconsidering investing my time and energy into saving/repairing one that’s still broken. 

I’m comfortable for now. I miss having a partner. If the rest of my life looked just like this but with a partner, I could be happy with that. But I’d like more.

By sometime in the fall, I had an epiphany: I was happier than I’d ever been. It occurred me that this was true even without a girlfriend. It had barely been a year since I’d been seeing someone but it was still the longest I’d ever gone. Was it possible my happiness was at least in part because I didn’t have a girlfriend?

I honestly can’t say but I do know it’s because (contrary to what I’d written) I did not go back to the girl I knew to be broken. And I didn’t go out with any other girls I met that weren’t emotionally where I needed them to be.

In the past, the moment I met a pretty girl that liked me, I was in. It didn’t matter if she was fucked up. I probably even liked it if she was a little fucked up. That was no longer true. I want someone who is both inspiring to and inspired by me. Someone who wants me but doesn’t need me. 

I’m not gonna pretend that the song title “(Holy Shit (I Can’t Believe)) I Still Don’t Have a Girlfriend”4 doesn’t regularly pop into my head. But lately I am hitting new benchmarks of success. AND I’M SO FUCKING BUSY EVERY DAY. Things are going really well and I don’t have the TIME to stress girls all that much.

It’ll WORK OUT when it’s supposed to.5

  1. “Round One” is what I call 2013-2015 – the three years I was making art before I relapsed and stopped for almost 9 years. ↩︎
  2. That’s a lyric from “The Politics of Starving” by Against Me! ↩︎
  3. Another lyric – from “My Staple Diet Of Rice, Vitamins, Alcohol, and Painkillers” by The Murderburgers. ↩︎
  4. A song by The Steinways. ↩︎
  5. I finished this painting/clock in June 2025 but wrote this statement for it in January 2026. ↩︎

Ever since the fire that burned down my bus/home, I’ve been hemorrhaging money. Luckily, I’ve also been making a lot of money. After getting ProPanels the last week of December, I started applying to “higher tier” events, like juried art festivals. I’ve been getting into most of them and it’s going well so far. This week though, I’ve got decisions coming in for six of them so CROSS YOUR FINGERS FOR ME. This week has the potential to make me feel like THE UNDISPUTED CHAMPION or to majorly bum me the fuck out. That said, I applied with a booth photo I took of my very first set-up (before I knew what I was doing) so… my future applications will be better. (That’s what I’ll tell myself anyway if things don’t go my way this week).

I don’t really use this “blog” for anything but adding art to the website and writing whatever’s on my mind right when I do that. If you want near-daily updates from me, I post all the time on TikTok, Instagram, and Facebook. There’s a bunch of stuff on there from the last month about THE FIRE, the new RV, the painting I’ve been working on for the last month, and lots of videos in which you can see how clever I think I am.

And check out the Events page. I’ve got stuff on there right now for the Carolinas, Atlanta, Kentucky, St Louis, Chicago, and I’ll add more as they’re confirmed.

Here are the three songs I mentioned:

(this is the best one)

POOR FOREVER

November 20, 2025

Poor Forever | 10/12/25 | acrylic on canvas | 36×36″

“Do you wanna be POOR FOREVER?” is what I ask my friends when they spend money frivolously. It’s also the question that rings out in my head whenever I’m considering spending money on ANYTHING.

My attitudes about money come from my dad, his dad, and my mom. There were the ways they talked about money and the ways I saw them use it.

My dad was POOR FOREVER. Or at least he acted like he was. Based on my inheritance [his clothing] I’m gonna assume that he probably was. He certainly never spent money on me or my siblings. And if any of us were to ever ask for something, it was QUITE THE ORDEAL. Because, as he told it, he just didn’t have it! If it was important enough, maybe he could ask my grandpa. 

But he also had some curiously expensive shit. And he traveled a lot. Maybe that was all paid for by his second wife. I don’t know.

My mom had FAMILY MONEY. She was very good at spending it. So far as I know, that’s why she no longer has any family money.

In any case, I don’t have a safety net. Not that I’m aware of anyway. 

My grandpa died recently. He worked his whole life and made a good living but still kinda behaved as if he were afraid of being poor forever. That’s how I’m trying to be.1 That’s how you accrue SAVINGS. And “savings” give you safety.

My grandpa wrote a bunch of different wills over the course of the last twenty years but I don’t know the details of his estate and I kinda feel like it’s none of my business anyway. Even if he didn’t provide for me directly, I’m pretty sure he provided for my dad and (SEEING AS MY DAD’S DEAD) maybe some of that’s supposed to trickle to me? Who the fuck knows. It all feels weird and fucked up and I don’t know anything about that kinda shit so I just focus on trying to take care of myself. 

Don’t get me wrong – I WOULD LIKE SOME MONEY. (PLEASE GIVE ME ALL THE MONEY). Not to spend – just to have. Because I kinda live in a perpetual, low-level state of financial anxiety. It would be super nice to know that I’m not gonna die in poverty.

(Isn’t this all SUPER UNIQUE AND INTERESTING? I’m definitely the only person who has these thoughts or fears, right? I journaled some shit along these lines into the painting only to realize  — and say as much, with arrows pointing out at my mundane concerns: “I’m PRETTY BORING”).

None of this is to say though that I’m even in poverty now. As I wrote into the top left of this painting: “I realized today that I have more money than I’ve ever had.” And since then, that number tends to tick down for a few days, before it shoots up to a new most-money-I’ve-ever-had number. We’re not talking numbers that are gonna blow anyone’s mind, but I could make a down payment on a house. Y’know – if any bank would ever give me a mortgage. (Which they wouldn’t).

My concern is that my overhead is very low. If I were living A NORMAL LIFE, I would not be able to tuck this much away. 

And if I can be a FUCKING FAGGOT for a second, I think I still wanna have a FOREVER PARTNER and a kid. And those things require money and stability.

[Please excuse my use of the word “faggot” but — as we all know — there’s nothing gayer than falling in love with a girl. And as someone who’s been called a faggot more times than I can count,  I think I should get to use the word just once (in GOOD HUMOR) seein’ as I made it to my 257th piece of art without ever having used it before]. 

[That said, if you’re gay and my joke bums you out, let me know. ‘Cause I don’t actually think amusing myself is more important than your feelings. And your telling me about it would be HOW I LEARN].

[It’s embarrassing how embarrassed I am to say I want to fall in love and HAVE A LITTLE FAMILY. That I have to resort to using that word for “balance.” Please, somebody shoot me].

Now, if it’s not too late to get back on track…

Just kidding. We just did a triple tangent on the word “faggot.” THERE’S NO GETTING BACK ON TRACK.

There are other journals scattered about the painting. I allude to officiating my grandpa’s funeral in place of a rabbi (despite my not having grown up Jewish (or anything)). I refer to the statement I wrote  on my blog (AND ON INSTAGRAM) right when he died. (It’s good – you should read it). I joke about making excuses for not becoming the MOST SUCCESSFUL ARTIST TO EVER LIVE.

But you get the gist. Money isn’t important but a sense of security is. We all wanna feel safe. We all wanna be able to take care of the people we love (EVEN IF THEY DON’T EXIST YET (and possibly never will)).

Some people think my art is HILARIOUS (and THEY’RE RIGHT) but a lot of them don’t look closely enough to see that’s not all that it is. I’m trying to be taken more seriously as an artist (for the $ame reason$ that thi$ piece i$ all about) but, at the risk of undercutting that, I’ll just say that this painting (like much of my art) is an attempt to find humor in the shit that freaks me the fuck out.

If that’s not the language of a SERIOUS ARTIST, then I’m a hopeless idiot. (And that can’t POSSIBLY be true — right??)

  1. I’m already pretty good at the second part. During my last (very extended relapse) I got an ALLOWANCE from my little sister of $115 a week. That wasn’t enough to cover my drug habit but – by the time I got clean – I’d still somehow managed to save up $6k in my Venmo account. Don’t ask me how. I am the GOLD MEDALIST in the DRUG ADDICT OLYMPICS. ↩︎

The Whole Wide World Can Suck My Dick (but, like, in a Fun Way)

July 3, 2025

“The Whole Wide World Can Suck My Dick (but, like, in a Fun Way)” 4/27/25. acrylic on canvas. 30×24″.

This is the thought that pops into my head when EVERYTHING’S GOING MY WAY. “The whole wide world can SUCK MY DICK!” It’s joyful. It’s a celebration. It’s definitely not an angry thing. Hence my qualifier “but, like, in a fun way.” I’d fucking hate it if someone looked at this painting and thought it was some kind of angry, pouty harumph… “suck my dick!”-kinda thing. That shit’s NOT ME. It’s some dumb expression of dumb masculinity and I hate it. But this – the JOYFUL version. That makes me smile.

I wrote a bit about that on the canvas, along with:

“My stupid punk songs, singing along and moving around like no one can see or hear me, painting ILL SHIT like this, making lots of money OR NONE – I like my life. Losing money stings but when I’ve got everything I need, it’s just a number and I’ll get it back.”

The backstory on all of this is that when I started this painting, SHIT WAS GOING MY WAY. I made a LOT OF MONEY selling art in March. When I finished the painting before this one, it was already sold and I was in the middle of a particularly profitable day of selling prints. I felt energized and validated and LIFE WAS COOL. By the time I was wrapping this painting up, the TIDE HAD TURNED A BIT. I was at some three-day festival I’d signed up to be a vendor at, and it was NOT GOING WELL. It had nothing to do with me, it was just a shit event. No one made any money. It was just so badly organized and promoted. But sitting there in my tent that first day FOR THIRTEEN HOURS, I was working on this painting and kinda depressed. There was NO ONE AROUND. It was the first time I’d done an event and sold NOTHING. Not only that, I didn’t even get a single person stop to look at my art. And I couldn’t even listen to music because there was some DJ just BLARING the worst music in the world. Without punk rock, I struggle. But when I have it, it doesn’t really matter what else is going on; it has SUCH A HUGE impact on my mood.

So that was Day 1 of this particular shitshow. On Day 2, it was still a disaster of an event, but I set-up much, much further from the DJ and his speakers so that I was able to hear my own speaker and listen to the songs I LIKE TO LISTEN TO. And, consequently, I was having fun, painting, and not worrying anymore about the fact that these fucks got $200 out of me and I’d driven from outta town to attend this waste-of-my-time. After all, it didn’t matter how bad the weekend was; it’s just one weekend. I know my art’s got value, I know people wanna (and do) buy it. I know things are gonna work out for me if I keep making good choices.

And that’s pretty much what happened (pretty much immediately). I realized I didn’t owe these flakes anything, so I lined up a couple other opportunities for that night and the next day, and then I bailed when necessary to make it to that night’s Plan B. And it went great. I had fun, I made money, I met people I liked. ALL WAS RIGHT IN THE WORLD (a world that I was once again happy to invite to suck my dick).

I finished the painting the next day – at another event where I had fun all day, painting, listening to punk rock, and getting paid for it.

I’m not gonna pretend like my “job” is all fun and no work, but it’s pretty fucking great overall. I  mostly do whatever the fuck I want. Sometimes it almost does feel like the world is sucking my dick. It’s NOT ENTIRELY UNCOOL.

Statement is done. Tap here to read the personal updates that will soon embarrass me.

Oh wow – how funny is this? 👇 My website’s automatic recommendations for this blog post are all DICK-RELATED. Isn’t technology great?

Motivation (Will Work for Food (maybe) / Will Beat Off on Live Webfeed for Perfect Love and Acceptance)

March 25, 2025

“Motivation (Will Work for Food (maybe) / Will Beat Off on Live Webfeed for Perfect Love and Acceptance)” 12/26/24. Acrylic paint and pigment ink. 48×30″.

Allow me to SET THE SCENE for you: it’s 2013, I’ve been institutionalized for two years, but I’m finally gearing up to re-enter the real world. Part of that process is figuring out what my life’s gonna look like in the outside world. Where am I gonna live, what am I gonna DO FOR MONEY, etc, etc.

Strung out on heroin, I’d graduated by the skin of my teeth from Georgetown Law in 2011. But I discovered art in treatment and that’s pretty much all I wanna do now. I don’t know if it’s possible to make money from art, but I don’t really care. What do I need money for? I start researching communes where I could live for free and get fed in exchange for pitching in. But there’s a hitch in this plan. I NEED A GIRLFRIEND. I need GIRLS TO LIKE ME. And – at the time – my logic is such that I decide that this would at the very least, probably require a home with air conditioning, so that I’m not perpetually sweaty and smelly. And it turns out that a lot of these communes or “intentional communities” (as I learn they’re often called) do not have air conditioning. So that’s out. I’m gonna need money for the most basic of amenities afterall. WHAT TO DO…

(Before I tell you this next part, remember that OnlyFans didn’t exist in 2013 and similar sites were totally outside of mainstream consciousness; most people had never even heard of such a thing).

Two of my fellow inpatients approach me one day. “Hey, Sam – we just found out you can get paid just to masturbate on camera! There’s this site you can sign up for and they’ll pay you to beat off and record it!”

I laughed. “Uh… okay. So… what are you telling me? That you guys are gonna try it?”

“Fuck no! We’d never do something like that. But we figured you probably would!”

I laughed again. THEY WEREN’T WRONG. I despised the idea of getting pretty much any kind of a job. It felt like prostitution to sell my time, doing something I didn’t enjoy, just for a paycheck. But masturbating for a paycheck… while, arguably, a little closer to literal prostitution, it didn’t feel that way to me. Doing something on camera that I’d be doing sometimes anyway – if I could get paid for that, that seemed like a pretty good deal.

So that’s the background of this joke. “Will work for food (maybe)” = I’m not willing to get a job just to survive. (The “maybe” in that statement – it’s a lie; I will not work for food). “Will beat off on live webfeed for perfect love and acceptance” = But I will masturbate on camera if that pays enough money to facilitate the circumstances that would need to exist in order for me to find a loving partner.

I chose the phrase “perfect love and acceptance” because that’s what I was really after. I’m a broken fucking child. I just want someone to tell me I’m good. To love me as I am.

By the time the painting was almost finished, I was still in treatment but had already found a girlfriend. I was still living at the facility but – at this stage – was allowed to have a phone. I met a girl on Facebook that would visit me on weekends. I was even able to file requests that would allow me to leave the property with her for up to two hours at a time. Normally, this sort of thing would never be allowed. Patients weren’t supposed to date for at least a year after getting out of treatment (let alone while they were still living there). In my case however, the treatment team had decided that I was so ROMANTICALLY INCORRIGIBLE that there was no way I wasn’t gonna get into a relationship once I was back in the outside world and – the way they saw it – better to let it start before I left so that they could keep an eye on it and help guide me through any issues that might arise.

Quick aside: that was probably the best thing about Tranquil Shores and why it was the first program that worked for me. Not because they let me do whatever I wanted (they definitely didn’t; they even KICKED ME OUT at one point but – when I learned my lesson, they let me back in). What made Tranquil Shores so great… – every treatment center promises “individualized care,” but Tranquil Shores was the first facility that actually seemed to understand what that meant and deliver on it. It was not a “one size fits all” approach to recovery. They recognized the nuances of each patient and tailored their treatment plans accordingly. Another facility would have prohibited me from dating – knowing full well it would happen anyway – and then it wouldn’t start until I was out on my own without the support system of a full treatment team. Tranquil Shores worked with reality, not some idealized vision of what they wished reality to be.

[EDITORIAL INTERRUPTION: These last two paragraphs were all leading to the revelation of a particular detail that I’ve decided I’m not going to include after all. BUT I’M STILL GOING TO LEAVE THOSE TWO PARAGRAPHS IN THE STATEMENT ANYWAY. I do what I want. (If you wanna know THE SECRET I WAS GONNA TELL though, just ask me and I’ll tell you)].

Flash forward to the future/present day. After all, everything I’ve just told you only takes us up to early 2013 and yet this painting is from 2024…? That’s ‘cause it’s version TWO POINT OH. When I painted the self-portrait holding the two signs, I’d just discovered my passion for art but WASN’T GOOD AT IT YET. Not visually. The version of this from 2013 looks terrible. BUT I STILL LOVE THE CONCEPT and I wanted to have prints of it in my inventory. That meant I had to recreate it. Or – more accurately – make a new painting that just featured that main component (the kid holding the two signs).

And – more importantly – these days, I’m in a very similar place to where I was when I got out of Tranquil Shores. When I came up with this concept, I was maybe 7 months clean for the first time since I’d become addicted to heroin. And when I started this new painting, I was six months clean after coming out of a nine-year relapse. In both instances, I was single for the first time in YEARS and very much in the process of rebuilding my life, essentially from scratch. The feelings that swirl around those two cardboard signs (“will work for…” / “will beat off on…”) are VERY MUCH RELEVANT AGAIN. The idea of using this concept to make a painting I could be proud of was exciting to me. So that’s what I did.

There’s a little journal scribbled on the canvas, about how much had changed in the two months since I’d started the painting. I’d bought an RV, was preparing to move out of the apartment I’d gotten with my friends (after getting clean in April); (for the first time in 9 years) I’d started actually going out in public to sell my art (I’d only been selling online since April). I write that I feel good about the money I’m now making but also my anxiety about whether it’ll continue and some other (logistical) things that were stressing me out.

Elsewhere, I wrote: “Anything I have is just something I can lose.” There’s a comfort in having nothing. But once you start to get things back… you’re at risk of losing them – and that can be painful.

On a seemingly (but not at all) related note, I also wrote the word “possession” even though I was thinking about “cupidity.” “Cupidity” is greed for wealth, material goods, and/or power but – in my mind – I’ve REDEFINED it to be more like greed for a PERSON. (I mean, come on: most of the word is CUPID; it should mean something related to ROMANCE). So I think of it as that feeling when you like (or love) someone and want them to be your partner – for good, nice reasons: sure – but also because you DON’T WANT ANYONE ELSE TO HAVE THEM. I think of it as a jealous, controlling kinda thing. It was on my mind in relation to everything I wrote about in my previous painting, “She’s Cut With Xylazine.”

On the sides of the canvas I wrote a couple other things that I didn’t necessarily want to be visible to anyone but the painting’s eventual owner – or anyone who sees it in person that cares enough to really look closely from all angles. 

I also wrote: “I just wanna fall in love again. I want it so badly.”

And I wrote the words girls, love, and sex over and over again in a loop (“GIRLS LOVE SEX GIRLS LOVE SEX GIRLS LOVE SEX…”) because of (and IN THAT ORDER for) OBVIOUS REASONS. (Because those things occupy a lot of real estate in my mind; in that order because I THINK I’M FUNNY).

The moment I finished this painting, I started work on “Peeing in the Pool (of Tears (You’re Drowning In)),” which goes in another direction. But the story of my recovery (and my life right now) very much continues in the painting that I’d make next. The primary text on it says: “Everything Works Out Exactly as It Should (is Something I’ve Been Trying to Get Myself to Believe Again).” I’m planning to add it to the site tomorrow so check back soon. [Update: It’s up. You can see/read about it now].

Wanna know what I’ve been up to lately? I’ll tell you in in tomorrow’s blog entry.

Prints of “Motivation” are now on sale in the webstore. Send a message to find out if the original painting is still available for purchase or to order a larger, custom giclée.

The Boy Nobody Wanted Wins the Super Bowl

July 31, 2024

“The Boy Nobody Wanted Wins the Super Bowl” 7/26/24. acrylic paint. 36×36″.

“Stick with me and I’ll pay off someday.”

That’s a lyric from The Copyrights’ “Keep Me in the Dark.” It’s one that’s resonated with me since it was released fifteen years ago. 

I have a lot of core beliefs about myself and all but one of them are negative. The one, good one is that I’m smart. I’ve been told and I’ve seen objective proof of it all throughout my life, going back as far as I can remember. Because of that, I always believed growing up that I’d be successful no matter what. Even when I was in high school and totally fucking off and getting terrible grades. Even when I got fucked up the night before SATs and blew them off by not showing and never rescheduling. I still believed on some level that I’d wind up at a prestigious college. And sure enough – despite a total lack of financial support or connections of any kind – I finished my education with a Juris Doctor at Georgetown Law. Granted, I did eventually start working hard to earn that when I was at a community college, but still.

That kind of positive reinforcement – that I’m always going to succeed (eventually) – might not have been the best thing for me. It hurts to admit it but I’ve been through quite a few relationships since “stick with me and I’ll pay off someday” and – quite arguably – I have not. Not in a financial sense anyway. Not for good. Maybe here and there. Certainly not now.

I am “the boy nobody wanted” (as far as I’m concerned). Whether or not I’m going to “win the super bowl” (in the sense alluded to by the preceding paragraphs) remains to be seen. And it’s the subject of some controversy in my life at the moment. (That is to say, the question of whether or not I can support a family or even myself). But in another, more immediate sense, I have won the super bowl.

I don’t generally like to borrow from other people’s art, but I made an exception in the case of this painting.

Bart Simpson is trying to be a part of his family’s Thanksgiving. He’s also arguably trying to be the center of attention but the key fact is that he wants to participate. And in doing so, he accidentally destroys an elaborate centerpiece that Lisa had made for the family’s Thanksgiving table. His parents scold him. His mom says he’s “ruined Thanksgiving.” He’s sent to his room. Feeling that he’s the victim of a great injustice, he declares that he doesn’t care about or need his family and he sneaks out his bedroom window.

After a day out in the city on his own, he returns home and imagines the reception he’ll get. Even though his family has been worried sick about him and just want him safely back home, Bart imagines walking in the front door only to be chastised and shamed further. Again, he responds to (what he perceives as) his family’s rejection of him by declaring that he doesn’t need his family but – having nowhere else to go – he climbs up onto the house’s roof. Once up there, he finds a trove of forgotten toys. Balls, frisbees, water rockets, and more that were lost when they went too high and got stuck on the roof. He’s thrilled and begins playing by himself. Tossing a football into the air and running to the other side of the roof to catch it, he shouts (as the balls lands in his hands), “The boy nobody wanted JUST, WON, THE SUPER BOWL!!!” Bart is achingly self-conscious, feels unloved – tolerated at best – and alone. But in this moment, despite all that, he’s found a little bit of joy.

That’s how I felt as I painted this. I can’t even express in words how I felt many times in the last few weeks as I worked on this piece. Taking a step back and examining my work, I was filled with such joy. Pride. Really, a kind of awe. I love the way this painting looks and that was the case for much of the process. Often enough, it’s quite some time before I start to really like the way one of my pieces looks. But so many little, inconsequential details that (I’m sure) very few people will ever even notice in this painting, made me so happy. The contrast between two neighboring swaths of color. The expression on one of my little “creatures’” faces. The pattern in some area. The texture of a background. These things delighted me.

It’s always great when someone else appreciates my art but I’m so grateful that I’m my own biggest fan. That I’ve found something that can make me so happy. And that it’s something that I make myself. It doesn’t exist without me. That’s a pretty great feeling.

Rejection – even just perceived rejection – hurts, for sure. And on some level, I always have and always will feel like “the boy nobody wanted.” And so far as the rest of the world’s concerned – yeah – I’ve not won anything close to a super bowl. But I also know that all the financial or material success in the world won’t fix that feeling in me that I’m “the boy nobody wanted.” Money’s not gonna make that go away. But so long as I can get a few wins – even alone, up on my roof – hey, things could be worse.

“Keep Me in the Dark” by The Copyrights – referenced at the beginning of this blog entry.


Check it out! 👆 The webstore is up and running, which means it’s now easier than ever to support YOUR FAVORITE ARTIST and get your very own, limited-edition print. Check the product page for more info or just browse through the whole shop.

In a RARE TWIST(!) though, the original painting hasn’t yet sold. (At least not as of the time of this writing). Contact me if you’re interested.

Update (April 2025): This painting is currently hanging in THE RINGLING MUSEUM OF ART. If you’re reading this anytime prior to July 30th, you can go SEE IT IN PERSON.

What Makes Life Feel Worth Living

July 1, 2024

“What Makes Life Feel Worth Living.” 6/16/24. Acrylic paint. 24×24″.

This painting was essentially the product of my second month clean and single. To be fully honest, I was still pretty hung up on codependency issues and  the fact that, for once, I didn’t have a girlfriend. I found myself experiencing kind a low-grade depression a lot of days, not really wanting to get out of bed. In my head, I kept thinking that finding a new girlfriend was the answer to all my problems but I knew that, really, that would just be a way to distract myself from my problems. In any case, I was too embarrassed to make a painting about that immediately following one about my ex. I pushed myself to really try to get at something deeper in my journal writing. It took a couple weeks and quite a few attempts before I felt like I got at anything remotely meaningful. That’s what’s written across this canvas (in the upper left and just to the left of the very bottom center).

I struggle a lot with meaning and purpose. “Does anything matter?” “What’s the point of doing anything?” “The world’s a mess,” “I’m a mess,” “is anybody really happy?” I don’t know the answers to those questions but – as long as I’m gonna not-kill-myself and keep living – I’ve gotta try. It’s really hard sometimes. I’m not alone but I feel like I am a lot of the time. One person can really make a difference in that. Whether it’s A GIRL PAYING ATTENTION TO ME or someone deciding to GIVE ME MONEY (for my artwork).

When I tell people about my first month clean and making art again, it’s a success story, mostly on account of the commissions I got from Rick, a stranger walking down the sidewalk. But because I was painting outside and because he stopped to talk to me and took an interest, it’s given me concrete reasons to keep painting and writing. Pretty random, very easily could have NOT happened.

It’s genuinely INCREDIBLE when someone tells me how much my art means to them (and I don’t wanna discount that) but when they PUT THEIR MONEY WHERE THEIR MOUTH IS, it’s crazy validating in a way that’s rivaled only by A HOT GIRL WANTING TO FUCK (or date) ME. (Which is totally unrelated and indicates just how broken I am but that’s an issue for other days). It says that what I’m doing has actual value worthy of supporting human life – MY life. That hard validation can bolster my spirit against any/all of the negative feelings I have that could otherwise overtake me.

Even when everything else is wrong, one well-timed “yes” can make all the difference. A thousand rejections are nothing against a few key “yeses.”

These things are small and inconsequential in a world that’s so random and meaningless but when nothing matters, we choose what matters and I choose what makes my life feel worth living.

Taking a chance is worthwhile. Saying “yes” to someone is meaningful. Helping another person, offering encouragement, supporting an artist (ESPECIALLY WHEN IT’S ME). These are things that count. We never know what small act might be HUGELY CONSEQUENTIAL for someone else.

I still don’t know if I’m going to be able to revive my art career and make a living like I was, but it’s working out so far thanks to just a few people and a few key moments and decisions. It reminds me of the last lyric from one of my favorite songs: “just one good thing, that’s all – sometimes that’s all it takes.”

I lined up a handful of commissions right out of the gate upon getting clean: paintings that I had no idea what they’d be but that were pre-paid-for before I even started them. Knowing that a painting is already sold while I’m working on it is really motivating. It gives me a push to get to work. That’s over (at least as of this moment; no one has pre-purchased my next painting). That makes me a little nervous but it’s also how most artists operate – not to mention the only way I’ll ever be able to amass enough paintings to ever have another exhibit. I’m on my own for the first time in a while and need to start hustling again – whether that’s going out on the street to paint in public while slinging prints or putting more effort and thought into my social media. Probably both. It used to come so easily to me but now it seems almost impossible – though much less so than it did even a month ago. One of the main reasons I stayed on drugs so long was because it was an excuse not to do anything else. I’m so afraid of trying and failing. But I’ve got to try. I’ve gotta put myself out there. And hopefully I’ll get the “yeses” I need to keep going.

I’m in danger of rambling now. I wanna say something about how those “yeses” are less-than-ideal external validation in the same way that female attention is, but that’s a subject for another time. The spirit of this painting was about the positive feelings that come making something meaningful that resonates with another person and the positive consequences of that other person’s response. Not everything needs to be overanalyzed. Nothing is perfect but sometimes little things spark joy and pride and feel an awful lot like fulfillment – even if only for a moment. And sometimes that’s enough.

The song quoted in my painting (on the little blue guy’s black t-shirt): “Precious on the Edge” by Drunken Boat

This painting has already been sold but limited edition 12×12″ signed, hand-numbered prints are available for purchase WHILE SUPPLIES LAST.

I’m Getting Really Sick of Not Being Famous

October 8, 2016

"I'm Getting Really Sick of Not Being Famous." 3/31/15. Acrylic paint. 48x24".
“I’m Getting Really Sick of Not Being Famous.” 3/31/15. Acrylic paint. 48×24″.

I can’t remember the last time I wrote a statement for one of my pieces but this painting never got one. A year later, here I go…

Things were going well. I was making thousands of dollars every month, I was getting booked at galleries, I was traveling the country with a girl with whom I was deeply in love, and I still wasn’t happy. (Or happy enough).

In March, I had an exhibition at Instinct in Minneapolis. Everyday – to help promote the exhibit and to make extra money selling prints – I’d set up on the sidewalk in front of the gallery with an easel, working on this, my next painting.

Some days, I didn’t wanna go set up though and spend twelve hours on the street, painting. Other days, I was frustrated having to park and carry my supplies too far away (or parking closer – illegally – and having to keep an eye over my shoulder for tow trucks all day). I was making money just for making art but I was actually having to work for it.

Fuck that.

I wanted to paint in some studio or at home. I wanted to finish a painting and know that there were already galleries lined up to take them or collectors ready to buy them the moment each was finished. “I’m fucking brilliant!” (Right?) “My genius should be enough to generate an income all on its own! This should be easier.”

Alright, so maybe my thinking wasn’t quite that arrogant but … you know … pretty much.

Look – I don’t like myself a whole lotta the time and I could expand on that for days but – when it comes to my art – I know that it’s great. As a human being, I’m seriously flawed, but those same flaws (and my willingness to bare them so candidly and honestly) is what overwhelmingly/primarily accounts for the power and singularity of my art and is the reason I’ve sold as much of it as I have. I’ve hated so many things about me for long enough that I’m okay with being unapologetically proud of the art I’ve created.

I figured that once I got wide enough exposure and enough people knew about my art (once I was famous) my life would be a whole lot easier. No more worrying about bills. Lots of attention (to fill the empty void where my soul should live). You know: FAME. Money. Whatever.

Admittedly, that might be a little naive but – fuck it – I was getting really sick of having to work and I was getting really sick of not being famous.

Beyond all that, there’s a passage of smaller text hidden in the canvas that sort of jumps all over the place. I wrote about feeling fat and self-conscious and tugging at my clothes, pulling them straight a million times a day (even though I was well underweight at that point (and probably still am)). I wrote about other frustrations and how they made me want to use heroin, even though I’d been clean forever at that point and had gained so much to lose. And I wrote about how I didn’t know what I was doing wrong but that I was going to keep trying anyway, finding new approaches if necessary.

Some of the "suicide stitches" on this painting.
Some of the “suicide stitches” in this painting.

Like most of my work, this painting is meant to be funny and it’s supposed to seem dense and trivial but its humor is born of sincere frustration, genuine sadness, hopelessness, and a sense of uncertainty. And like a lot of the optimism I inject into my work, what little is here is mostly for my own benefit and not the painting’s. It’s forced with the hope that it will take hold.

And I think it did take hold for a while but ultimately, about a year after finishing this piece, I did cave and give in to heroin, letting it replace art as my full-time occupation. And seven months into that, in a state of drug-induced psychosis, I slashed away at this painting (and several others) shortly before eating an absurd quantity of Xanax and Klonopin and injecting an intentionally strong shot of heroin with the intention of killing myself. I’m not sure why I didn’t want the art to outlive me but the damage didn’t turn out to be all that bad anyway and I, myself, woke up in the hospital a few days later.

More "suicide stitches" (which are actually mint waxed dental floss).
More “suicide stitches” (which are actually mint waxed dental floss).

That was six weeks ago and I’m now in the process of stitching up all of the slashes I put into my paintings. This is the first I’ve finished sewing up which makes it the first in what I’m calling my “Suicide Stitches” series of paintings. More on that in another blog entry/post soon to follow.

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