The hell with not being real. Art has this heart to it and if you can’t hear the heartbeat then I will see you on the other side. Paint requires me and inks but not those who can’t feel the strokes. Too long ago I stopped hearing the sound. I was deaf to my hands and canvas. It calls for all these colors and forms and now I hear the ringing and I’m going into the studio to bathe in it. Freedom is blinding and scary but if the shark gets me then I died doing what I love. To the anger … I can swim forever, can you?
I grew up not in a place but at an age. There wasn’t a crazy amount of time to be just a kid. A none stop fight living in The South. Little curly haired Afro-Latino kids are meat for the grinder. Good people held my hands with tear filled eyes. I’m telling you this not as a sad story but as a warning that this shit stops this generation. Voćes, fala sério? We are here and never going away and so we are you and you us. No one but maybe a few of us chooses to be a place as children. We are luggage for our galera. We live in their shadows. Where the sun hits them we are behind them or to the side. It’s important to know we are all shadows at one time or another. Tigre this is the same life repeated. Un clavo saco otro clavo! Being divided is not the future. Teach art and you teach love. Art has this great part to it because you meet the art before the artists. All the ignorance in the world can’t make you hate the colors of the skies.