You know that classic “I hate art!” story? The one where a kid straight-up hates art. Mine starts in childhood, with a young me dodging crayons like they were live grenades. Drawing? Boring. Painting? Absolutely not. I was busy loving to cook—rolling out dough like it owed me money, perfecting recipes and fattening anyone who would eat what I baked. My teenage years? Absolutely not an artist, hah. My working years at a nearby school kept the checkbook full and I thought I’d settled in. Then one day—yeah, a total whim—the metal shop scene lit up. I learned to rally around the welding table and grinding bench, turning metal sheets into sculptures. I think my title was officially collaborator. I jumped in, helped design and build what we called art. Customers loved ’em, the lifestyle was wild (outdoor craft markets, road trips, and finally we graduated to art festivals). That electric buzz when someone walked away with a conversation piece. But here’s the new version: I didn’t love the shop work. It was great supporting—turning raw metal into art—and I loved the customers, the “show setup”, and the sales. Then, a quiet realization that my real love was hiding somewhere else… maybe in a studio instead of a shop. So I did the only logical thing: on a whim, I grabbed a couple brushes, a stack of canvases, and a mountain of acrylic paint. Painted like a kid who’d just discovered fire. And suddenly? It was fun. My old art teacher had drilled into me as a kid—“Focus your energy elsewhere, young artist!”—and when I finally ignored that “you’re no artist” vibe and picked up those brushes, boom. It was like someone finally turned the number up on something I actually loved. "The outlet was right there, and it felt kind of fun." Now? I’m out here turning that “maybe I could be an artist” giggle into actual paintings that somehow mix the chaotic energy of a metal shop with the cozy chaos of the easel, or the kitchen table. It’s like the best of both worlds decided to go on a road trip and drag me along for the ride.
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