Q: Your work merges realism with surreal psychological themes. How did your journey into hyperrealism and graphite/charcoal drawing evolve, and what drew you to use these traditional tools in such emotionally charged ways?

A: Art has been in my life from the very beginning. As a child, I carried paper and pencils everywhere I went, constantly sketching whatever caught my attention. That early dedication grew into a lifelong pursuit of refinement and discovery. Over time I became deeply inspired by the meticulous detail of Chuck Close and the dreamlike vision of Salvador Dali. Their influence encouraged me to not only explore hyperrealism but also to step into surreal landscapes of the mind where imagination and truth intersect. Graphite and charcoal have always been faithful companions because they are both accessible and versatile. Even during times when I had very little, I could always find paper and something to draw with.

The stark contrasts, subtle textures, and deep tonal range of these mediums allow me to express emotion with immediacy and precision. They became the perfect language for the kind of inner exploration I needed. The emotional weight of my work is inseparable from my personal journey. I have faced mental health struggles, grief, and loss, and drawing became both an escape and a form of processing. For me, the phrase “expression is the opposite of depression” has been more than a saying, it has been a survival tool. Art allowed me to give form to what I could not yet (and even still sometimes cannot) articulate in words. It remains the most honest way I know to release what would otherwise stay locked within me.

Q: Both “Underface” and “Holy Darkness” explore the hidden inner world. Can you share how personal experiences of grief and internal struggle shaped these specific pieces?

A: "Holy Darkness" explores the intimate and often unspoken struggle of depression. In this drawing, the hands are not intruders from the outside world but extensions of the self, emerging from the shadows within. They represent the parts of us we try to silence—grief, fear, sorrow, or longing. These fragments of the self do not vanish when ignored; they resurface, sometimes with even greater intensity, demanding to be seen. I wanted to confront the idea that inner darkness is not always an enemy to defeat, but a part of our humanity that craves acknowledgment. The figure’s expression and body language carry both weariness and vulnerability, capturing the weight of living with something invisible yet constant. For me, this piece was a way to visualize what it means to carry hidden pain, but also to suggest that healing begins when we listen rather than resist.

"Underface" was inspired by Shel Silverstein’s poem of the same name, which describes the hidden face beneath the one we present to the world. The drawing unfolds as a fractured mask of three overlapping faces: one screaming in anguish, one smiling, and one quietly breaking apart. Together they reveal the contradiction of what we show versus what we conceal. It is about psychological duality, emotional fracture, and the human tendency to mask our suffering with forced composure. The cracks in the smiling face expose the truth that identity is rarely seamless; it is layered, fragile, and sometimes breaking beneath the surface. Through hyperrealistic detail and surreal distortion, I wanted to express the unsettling truth that the “underface” always exists, even if it is hidden behind a practiced smile.

Both works arise from a need to externalize experiences of grief and inner conflict in a way that words alone cannot capture. They ask viewers to look more closely, not only at the imagery but at themselves. What do we suppress, what masks do we wear, and what shadows have we not yet faced? My intention is not only to unsettle but also to create a space for recognition and compassion. Art has always been the language I turn to when grappling with questions of identity, loss, and resilience. With "Holy Darkness" and "Underface," I sought to give form to those questions and invite others into the conversation.

Q: There’s a strong emotional undercurrent in your art. How do you hope viewers experience these pieces - as mirrors of their own inner lives, or as windows into yours?

A: I hope my art functions as both. On one level it is a window into my own inner world, an honest depiction of emotions and experiences I have lived through. Yet the deeper purpose is to offer viewers a mirror. I want them to see pieces of themselves reflected back, to feel less isolated in their own struggles. Grief, fear, and vulnerability often come with an overwhelming sense of loneliness. People believe that no one else could possibly feel as they do.

When others look at my work, they often meet my eyes with a quiet recognition that says, “you too?” That exchange is powerful. It bridges the distance between individual experiences and reveals our shared humanity. My hope is that viewers do not simply observe my pain but recognize their own resilience within it. If they can see themselves more fully and with more compassion through my art, then I feel I have given them not just a window into me, but also a mirror that validates their own journey.

Q: Your current body of work asks profound questions about integrating darkness rather than resisting it. Has working on this body of art changed the way you personally approach concepts of struggle, compassion, and healing in your own life?

A: Absolutely. Much of this realization came through years of therapy and simply the passage of time. I have learned that darkness is not something to banish or defeat. It is part of the self, and denying it only gives it greater power. When we suppress aspects of ourselves, they eventually return more forcefully, often causing deeper harm. “Holy Darkness” in particular gave me a visual language for this truth. I began to understand the self as a community of parts, each deserving acknowledgment.

To exile one part is to exile a piece of who we are. Healing, then, is not about erasing pain but about integrating it into the larger whole. Through this process I have discovered greater compassion, not only for myself but for others. Everyone carries shadows. When we accept our own, it becomes easier to meet others with empathy rather than judgment. This body of work has reinforced my belief that true strength lies not in resistance but in recognition, and that wholeness is possible only when we allow all parts of ourselves to coexist.

Q: The Artistic Edge emphasizes accessibility and community in art. How do you balance your personal, deeply vulnerable practice with the more public role of teaching and leading workshops?

Q: Balancing my personal practice with my public role as a teacher has been an ongoing journey, but I have come to view the two as inseparable. My own art is rooted in vulnerability, and I cannot set that aside when I step into the classroom. Authenticity is the foundation of both my creative work and my teaching. If I encourage students to bring their whole selves into the process, then I must also model that same openness. Creativity cannot thrive when someone feels guarded, unseen, or unsafe. To create freely, you need to first feel that the space around you will hold whatever you bring to it.

At The Artistic Edge, I try to embody both sides of this practice. Participants encounter lighthearted, vibrant classes designed to celebrate the joy of making. At the same time, they are aware that I am also an artist who creates intense and emotionally charged pieces. That transparency matters. It communicates that art does not need to live in a single mood or style. It can be playful, it can be raw, and it can be everything in between. By showing both my spirited and vulnerable selves, I hope to give others permission to step forward honestly. Community is built on that kind of honesty. When people sense openness, they feel safe enough to reveal their own truths. That is how real trust is formed, and it is how art transforms from a solitary act into a shared expression of freedom.

Q: For emerging artists navigating both personal challenges and creative ambition, what advice would you offer on sustaining an art practice that feels authentic, healing, and connected to community?

A: Right now my focus is on hyperrealism with emotionally charged narratives, but that is only the chapter I am in at the moment. Art is never static. It grows and shifts as we grow and shift. When I tell students or emerging artists to experiment, to make whatever calls to them, and to embrace mistakes, I know some may look at my work and think, “easy for you to say, your art looks precise and deliberate.” But that is the point of my current study. Art in itself does not need to be meticulous, perfect, or drenched in heavy emotion to have value. What matters is that it evokes something in the viewer. That response could be awe at the patience behind realism, joy from bold bursts of color in an abstract piece, the peace from a watercolor landscape, or curiosity stirred by whimsical surrealism. It might even be discomfort or dislike.

The truth is that whether someone loves your art or hates it is irrelevant. The goal is simply to move them in some way, to remind them they are alive and feeling. So my first advice is to begin. Do not wait for the perfect idea, the polished skill set, or the profound meaning. Great artists discovered their voices not through perfection but through mistakes, experiments, and the willingness to create work that felt incomplete. Vulnerability in sharing those imperfect attempts is not weakness but courage, and it is often what connects us most deeply to others.

Stay grounded in community, because art thrives when shared. Surround yourself with those who challenge and support you, and offer that same encouragement in return. Above all, let authenticity guide you. Make what you are compelled to make now. The rest—the refinement, the recognition, even the meaning—will come to you. For now, make what calls to you and see what happens.