Making cloth is such a beautiful and humble practice. I am obsessed, especially because so much time and labor are involved in weaving. Within a rapidly changing world which prioritizes tech, my discipline and motivation to produce meaningful thought provoking work remains the same. I am invested in processes that are not digital, or adapted from technology, but human driven. Slow and simple traditional methods which continue to be reliable, with the use of hands instead of computers. In a capitalist world where commerce overtakes creativity for the sake of profit, my only investment is to hand produce work with commentary on what I deem neglected and important. I don’t really care about selling the clothes from my runway shows, or producing seasonal garments; my runway shows are there to tell stories, and my work is there to whisper my obsessive ideas, opinions (and sometimes secrets) to the mass public. 

A Bloodline And Their Rituals.

Growing up in East Los Angeles, we get our nutrients from the corners. East Los Angeles is where my unnamed neighbors sit next to me on the public buses and crowded mercados. It’s where artisan hand painted eyebrows became a fad and rosaries dangle from our throats. Where frightening gunshots get mistaken for fluorescent firecrackers, and add warmth to our atmosphere. Where we spill our teeth over our subhuman occupations during the heat of the summer.

The concrete is meticulously tattooed with graffiti, so pure, however its expression is often misunderstood. Our blood; it gets misplaced with a type of sticky tar. Our skin sizzles in the summer as we congregate under the sun in fields or in manufacturing factories scattered across this country. Our sweat drips and pools around our ankles, as our labor becomes someone else’s commodity. The community I was raised in, it places me under its tongue, and I’m absorbed into its gums. It’s dangerous. 

I come to realize how my Chicano identity and Latino background has become the originating genes to my body of art work and craft. The working class struggling family and community I was born into aided my drive for innovation, and a lust for “honest art” which to me, is realistic, relatable commentary on underprivileged lives. I come from a culture of people you never see featured in popular magazines or media. Our lifestyle is evident and purely valid, however I continue to find narratives of our existence to be misconstrued. I want to showcase truth and honesty. This is the significance and integrity I wish to provide through destacarse. My apparel work and runway collections have always been really personal and intimate. 

Experience From Losing Teeth

One of my first professional runway showcases featured my Fall Winter 2015 collection titled “The Boy Who Dreamt Of Losing Teeth”. This collection was inspired by my discharge from a psychiatric mental hospital. The collection focused around recovery and phototaxis organisms. The color pallet for the clothing juxtaposed dark colors such as navy blue and black, but with neon orange and faded blues. Some garments also had dead moths sewn into the linings or behind clear plastic. The models graced the stages with bloody noses and bruises (makeup, of course) and I hand constructed metal face masks that also had moths and butterflies clustered onto them. I was twenty two years old. 

Another significant collection was my Spring Summer 2017 collection titled, “Sinnerman”. This collection was really a menswear collection but had very feminine details such as hand pleated tulle ruffles and lace. Some of the male models walked down the runway in knit dresses. This collection was inspired by gender and binary oppositions regarding human sexuality My models also had their arms dyed in Japanese ink to physically represent the “illness” of being queer onto the body. This period of my life allowed the DNA for this collection to unfold willingly. 

The next collection which I feel pushed me to extend beyond personal realities and enter into political commentary was my Spring Summer 2018 collection, “Travieso”. This collection was born in the era where children were being contained at borders in cages and unmentioned presidents were specifically targeting brown immigrants. “Travieso” was a collection that drew inspiration from both the Bracero Program in the 1940’s but also the Zoot Suit Riots. I think American society heavily (and secretly) relies on immigrants for staple industries such as the garment manufacturing industry and agricultural industry. Around this time, I had gotten fired from my job for whistleblowing cruel mistreatment towards the undocumented immigrants in the company. “Travieso ” showcased garments that had hand sketched, tattoo inspired cultural imagery screen printed onto select pieces. 

The layout of this show forced the audience members to be separated by a chain link fence that ran along the runway. Audience members were seated on both sides of the fence, looking at the clothes on the models and the audience on the opposing side of the fence, as a border. This emphasis of separation was crucial to my strategy presenting a blatant division of people that I wanted to provide commentary on. It was obvious and it was cold. Lastly, the model who opened the show was wearing a hand draped chunk of metal chain link fence. This wearable piece was inspired by the reality that immigrants in America always carry the weight of the border on their shoulders.  Intersectionality is a very fascinating format, and with my work, I want to introduce narratives that allow my audience to resonate and understand immigrants, and the underprivileged. I hand construct every garment in my collections, and am hoping to showcase a new collection after I graduate from RISD. This collection will be  titled, “Dolores”, which means Pains in Spanish. My fingers are crossed. 

Left Image: From “Travieso.” Right Image from New Collection, “Dolores.”

Weaving Possibilities

I am currently developing woven textile work and learning how to weave while earning an MFA in Textiles at the Rhode Island School of Design (RISD). I got accepted into RISD with no prior weaving knowledge, and so here is where I am completing my full circle of garment development. I feel like I have enough knowledge and experience on how to produce a garment; the final link that was missing from my skill set was the ability to produce the textile for the garments. Now I am learning how to weave both by hand and machine to produce the woven structures for my garment. I learned how to use an eight shaft floor loom, and soon I will learn how to weave using a Dobby loom and industrial Jacquard loom. Making cloth is such a beautiful and humble practice. I am obsessed, especially because so much time and labor are involved in weaving. 

  My label, destacarse., was formed originally to showcase abstract garments. Since then I have been transitioning my brand to highlight Chicano culture and what I deem as “East Los Angeles realism”. Now, I am in the early stages of investigating how my brand can really produce nearly 100% hand made and housemade goods and artwork without outsourcing. I know after I graduate, I will expand my work and products on a somewhat larger scale. Slow fashion is the way to go, and I am even considering how to find a way to produce all the textiles for my garments as well. 

  I value handmade work. Where there is technology, there is ease and a lack of trial. The trial for error is supremely human. Technology and its abilities are a major crutch on civilization. We no longer solve math problems in our head or on paper, we use the calculator app on our iphones. We have no need to write grant proposals for non profit organizations, we now use AI. Chronic convenience suffocates human motivation. All these shortcuts diminish our ability to think creatively and independently. However, as we, a society continue to use technology to solve all our problems for us, at the same time this is happening, we are beginning to undervalue the ability of craft and handmade. There is a tremendous amount of trade and skill that goes into constructing a garment, so why are seamstresses getting paid subhuman wages? Why are there declining artisans worldwide who specialize in shoes, apparel, handbags etc. Why are there no longer special members in each family who sew clothes for the family and mend on a domestic level? I think one answer lies in the creation of the assembly line, pushed by the industrial revolution. The disassemblage of craftsmanship was caused by the expansive mass producing assembly line; where employees are forced to remove themselves from a “start to finish” process, and only perform a one step task repeated in a production line. Hand making, the skill to be able to build and make something on your own, is a weapon against capitalism and in some ways can be the most political step away from government, because you no longer require monopolizing companies to sell you goods and services. In my opinion, we have to relearn these archaic ways of life. 

 I still find myself unsatisfied by all these absurd systems. At the moment, I find myself caught in the jaw of an art school. My past and future are flashing before my eyes like a fire alarm signaled during a therapy session. I come from a community where art is labeled as “Folk Art”, instead of “Fine Art”. Beyond all this I have realized that my integrity and dedication to my craft has gotten me to where I am today. Since high school, I am doing exactly what I set out to do to my surprise. I still have so much more to learn and experience. I still want to study textiles and denim manufacturing in Okayama Japan, too. Dedicating my life and labor to design and craft has been challenging, but I have a feeling that things will eventually work out. I feel like I am in my own little golden age. 

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Community Programming (For Our Neighbors)

If I had to have a Mission Statement as an artist, it would be to bring joy and thoughtfulness to society as a whole. To do this, I believe it’s important to make sure the art projects I create can also reach those who may not frequent the theater space. In March of 2023, the Asian American Arts Alliance selected my Polaroid Photo Booth project as the recipient of their microgrant. The What Can We Do initiative was born in response to the rise of anti-Asian hate crimes during the height of the Covid-19 pandemic and is ongoing still. The call to action was simple: to give community care for the Chinatown or Flushing community. 

In May, I carried out the project with the help of The Table Church, located in Chinatown, and we set up a station outside Hamilton-Madison House, a non-profit settlement that focuses on the well-being of vulnerable populations. That afternoon, we handed out 80 polaroids to passerbys of all different ages and cultural backgrounds. I also put out a Sign-In book for anyone to write a message to the community, replete with stickers, markers, and stamps. We got many messages of support in different languages, and even received a doodle of a cat!

It was inspiring to see the community come and partake in such a serendipitous activity– to snap a photo on the corner of the street, and take home a memento of the here and now. It gives good reason to smile on any day. The instantaneous nature of the project and the permanence of its value is something I treasure a lot. Whether that polaroid gets stuck behind a magnet on the fridge or lives in between stamp cards in a loved one’s wallet, it’s a simple tactile reminder of spreading joy.

A month later in June, I got the chance to share my project with the other WCWD grant recipients, and decided to continue planning pop-up polaroid booths around Manhattan. In August, we did a reprisal at Playground One, with lots of kids visiting to take photos! While it was rewarding to chat with the kids and strike poses with bright yellow boas and sequined top hats, I kept shifting focus to their parents and grandparents standing off to one side, looking fondly at the scene. When did the older adults in our lives step off the stage, and why did they feel necessary to make room for their kids?

Recent Performance

As a performer, I love working on both classical Shakespeare shows as well as developing experimental performance pieces– always looking for ways the two can converge and intersect. Most recently, I played Tamora in Shakespeare’s most bloody and gruesome tragedy, “Titus Andronicus”, directed by Harris Singer (founder of The Fool Volk theater collective). This playful rendition was pickled with puppets, masks, a 2-minute dance break, nudity, and a live tattoo operation– culminating in a fantastically creative marinade. Taking place in the East Village, the La MaMa Experimental Theater studios welcomed our Hallow’s Eve show, replete with a whipped cream pie to the face, signifying the characters’ final death (spoiler: almost everyone dies).

The form really is the content when playing with traditional theater structure, and through the devised nature of this piece, we were able to excavate the essence of Titus (revenge, desperation, cunning, and absurdity) into an experiential spectacle. Like much of the theater I’m passionate about, this project and the risks it takes– of both deviating from classical theater and on a corporeal level– opens up the performing arts to new and inclusive possibilities.

I’m always looking for the palpable feeling of urgency in theater. In the Titus experiment, the tickle attacks, pie in the face, and of course, the tattoo of the titular character’s name were all instances of performative reality etching itself into permanence. All at once, curtain slack is cut, and the audience is looking at a scene without the suspension of disbelief. A great inspiration in my work revolves around the circus arts (though I’m not physically built for it). The contemporary circus is the height of storytelling for me– not only how performers mobilize their bodies for entertainment, but to see the human body in all its limitless possibilities. The gravity-defying acts instill a sense of awe for humanity, but the danger reminds us of our fleeting morality. Good theater always makes me feel closer to humanity.

Devised Work

I firmly believe in the transformative power of participation when it comes to the performer-spectator relationship. Last spring, I devised a piece with my collaborators derived from Brecht’s “Baden-Baden Letter on Consent”. The story looked into shedding and transforming oneself so completely that an ordinary man would be “de-arranged” into a clownish body. Based on this description, my idea was to transform the script into an aerobics class, where the audience could participate in the workout exercise and repeat after the instructor’s empowerment spiel. When the audience arrived at the theater space, they were asked to give up a personal belonging for the admission price (to be later retrieved after the show). This could’ve been a hair tie, hat, or if they really trusted us, their keys and wallet. This was the introduction in shedding your old self– and all your burdens– to step into the new. How to Achieve Your Ideal Being 101.

Entering into the open space, the audience saw 8 instructors dressed in workout wear and took their seats on the floor in traditional spectatorship arrangement. What they would soon realize was that there were also performers spread out in the audience seating area as well, who were to be examples of “good audience members” by participating in the chants and routines. Much like Simon Says, I wanted to explore the participation dynamic of challenge, obedience, and play. When would they stop? Would they question what they were being asked to do? How might they see labor and work dynamics through the lens of recreational workout classes?

In a skull-grating and teeth-clenching jubilee, upbeat hyperpop 80s music started blasting as the instructors skipped onstage. The instructors took on the severity of drill sergeants, asking the unsuspecting audience members, “What are you paying with today? What are you worth, you good-for-nothing?!!!!” This was followed by “LETS GO HIGH KNEES EVERYONE”. The removal of personal burdens and the shedding of weight from extreme workout classes take on the same urgency in this participation parody. The frantic instructor script goes on for 10 more minutes, all the while the planted performers in the audience start dropping to the floor in exhaustion. Despite probably knowing they were planted, I relied on the audience’s suspension of disbelief beyond the 4th wall. How would the audience members react to their neighbors getting “overworked”? By the end of the workout, the instructors on stage also lay prostrate on the ground, with a morse code translator beeping out like a heartbeat monitor: “You’re in my control now”. This morse code section lasted almost 1 minute, which felt like eternity with stillness filling out the room. 

The script acts as an informal skeleton for the physical experimentation of the piece, where collaborators added on to the existing text I wrote. Without much reliance on the dialogue, the performers are able to respond freely to the audience and the interactions in the show.

I wanted to draw attention to the cult of self-idealization– that there’s an ideal self to work towards, which promises sunshine and lollipops and an exclusive invite to join hands and sing Kumbaya with the rest of those who’ve achieved their perfect potential. Self-idealizing isn’t making New Year goals. It convinces us that we can only live a good life by being someone better than who we are, thus robbing us of the present. Chasing after this personal mythology takes away from the here and now, which I believe theater is able to bridge and hold still.

When we’re young, we’re often told that in our hearts are gifts worth gold, and no matter where life takes us, at whatever age or stage in life,  I firmly believe that twinkle is still there: precious as the day that hope was instilled in us as a child. Through notes of whimsy, hope, and the absurdity in life, I want to reignite that magic in both theater-turn spaces and in the streets we live in, as a light trickle or a torrential storm.

Community Programming (For Fellow Artists)

When I’m not demonstrating burpee jumps and shouting insults at the audience, I’m the co-founder and co-producer of an international, women-founded artistic collective called Lighthouse Ladies. As a theater maker, I love creating accessible opportunities for emerging theatermakers to stage their work. Our most recent performance showcase took place in August of 2023 called “A Night of Unstageable Works”. Like the name suggested, we called on artists to create a text or piece of art that wasn’t intended to be staged, and to experiment to do just that. From slapstick scenes based on real court transcripts, to an interactive makeup tutorial derived from a dream journal entry, it was so nourishing to see the breadth of creativity from these new artists. We welcomed over 70 audience members with free of charge tickets, and provided stipends for artists to actualize their creative vision.

Starting out as a young artist can feel like a Sisyphean obstacle course, and our art collective hopes to take away some of the difficulty when it comes to finding performance spaces, connecting with like-minded collaborators, and of course, opportunities to get paid for your art. If that twinkles your toes even just a little, we’re looking to put up our second rendition of the showcase in March/April of 2024. The theme in mind is Found Objects/Family Heirlooms, and we’re welcoming any performance ideas drawn from that. Feel free to join our database to stay updated on all future casting calls and collaboration opportunities!

Incubatory Projects 

Growing up with my immigrant mom and bearing witness to stories of parental sacrifice, it seemed apparent they gave up much of their youth so that I would have the liberty to write my own. However, it didn’t make sense that their “prime” was done and over– the bows and standing ovations collected and framed to hang. It didn’t make sense to see my mom shy away from candid photographs in public when she belts out private living room concerts of nostalgic classics from Teresa Teng and Faye Wong. There will always be an effervescent twinkle in her eye as she sings and performs for me, and yet, society seems to turn the spotlight off of women past the age of 35, and catch the next doe-eyed teenager about to enter her “prime”. I hated this idea that was so embedded in our cultural fabric. If I wanted to bring community care, that would also mean uplifting the seniors in our society and empowering them to take their encore with pride.

During the past two polaroid booths, I noticed a certain shyness and hesitation when it came to older folks coming up to us for photos. In my third installment of the project, I want to add in a storytelling element to the polaroid portraits, and invite the participants to collaborate in an 80’s/90’s glamor-style shoot. Much like the community Sign-In book in the previous two runs, the narrative element here would be an invitation to say anything to the younger generations, but also what they would like to share with peers the same age. It can be words of advice or a moment to reminisce. Hopefully, whatever it may be, the stories will draw us closer to one another and provide healing for all involved.

I chose Glamor Shots because these opulent and hazy photos were the ones my mom liked to boast the most. I would too if it were my photos– naturally wavy hair fluffed up and reflecting the studio lights, and a confidently held gaze filled with the carte blanche of time. She always said how being young was a beautiful time, and I saw the earnesty in the far-off glimmer in her eyes. Except I didn’t feel that spark had faded. Through re-centering the lens on our community elders, I hope to rekindle the carefree joy of posing for the camera and feeling beautiful about oneself. What I’d like most is to give the opportunity for those who’ve never had their professional picture taken to feel what it’s like to be celebrated in and of itself. This is important to me because within our community, there are parents and grandparents who’ve had to give up their dreams due to socio-economic circumstances and hardships. I’d like for participants to talk about those dreams, to believe in those dreams, and perhaps even empower them to achieve it.

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I kept to myself for so much of my life, I had to — for safety. When I introduced myself to others, I was a citizen, a citizen of Los Angeles, California, where I grew up. But at home and my close friends, they knew I was undocumented. Even though I explicitly talked about being undocumented throughout high school but that would change coming to college, I knew I had to keep it a secret. I didn’t know anyone on the East Coast, but soon I would find a community that understood where I came from and welcomed me with open arms. 

In my paintings, I explore the in-betweens of my past and present and how these temporalities affect the future I want to create. I build this future in my art using symbols that I find in my memories.

Process

My application of paint has changed throughout the years. I started with more expressive techniques, where I would swirl acrylic paint with different brushes. The clash of colors produced a sense of motion.

In I Gave my Rose to Gemini, the textural quality of the paint in the rapid brushstrokes allows the moon, sun, vines, roses, tunnels, and hourglass to intertwine with one another. To the right of the canvas, the birds are frozen in a moment just before contact with a swing and blooming roses. The application of the paint and the use of the brush becomes smoother, and the imagery more linear as the viewer looks towards this direction.

The symbols used, like the moon, vines, and flowers, center my story. They gave me a temporary place because they were around me. I focus on the memory, I write down what happened, what things I saw, how it made me feel, and what tangible objects I could paint. And from that, I started imagining a setting, a place where these symbols could live.

I wanted to create a world in my paintings where realism could co-exist with the emotions I put into my symbolic objects. This incentivized me to include realism alongside expressive brush strokes in my technique and is what I started exploring in my following work.

In 18 Cents, viewers see a telephone stand surrounded by heavy brush strokes. The painting uses color to emphasize a sense of reflection and abstracted form existing together with a real object.

Every object I depict in my paintings holds my memories and lived experiences. Growing up as an undocumented migrant, these objects contained my future as well. I use these symbols to tell my stories, stories that I didn’t see growing up. 

In Deconstruction of My Salvadoran Identity, I build on the rearrangement of the Salvadoran flag through various symbols and techniques related to my own experiences. Growing up, I could never represent my flag pridefully, hiding my identity to protect myself from people knowing I was undocumented. As a result, I had to navigate my identities in private, only disclosing when it was safe for me to do so. Although coming to college, I couldn’t explicitly speak publicly due to a fear that I had lived. 

The deconstruction and repetitive usage of colors from the coat of arms in the Salvadoran flag allowed me to rearrange the symbols and envision a future where documentation is not needed for my existence to be valid—bridging where I was born and where I grew up, always living in between.

I explore these uncertainties in the smaller series of flags that break from the rectangular format into smaller rectangular pieces connecting with one another. They coexist with the larger inkjet print—mediums in collage, seeing how my past intertwines with my present. Though my status changed in 2021, my future is uncertain — but I will forever be a dreamer, creating and living

Any stories that I did see in the media focused on the trauma of crossing the border, but not our dreams. With art, I could focus on certain aspects of my migration, the overlooked stories that only those who have undergone my experiences can see themselves in. That is how I could control the narrative and how I would tell these stories. 

Symbols

Sunflowers

Growing up Salvadoran and gay, there weren’t many people to whom I could reach out. It wasn’t until someone described me as his sunflower that I could see myself outside of my political body; many folks would think that I shouldn’t even be here in the US. It was a soft and gentle gesture of care, and I took this gesture and this sunflower and made it my symbol of hope, joy, love, and community. Sunflowers hold a special place in my art.  

My painting “Gansito, you made me realize that I’m not an alien, and for that, I became your sunflower. Thank you, for I have found my sun”  shows many of my life stories through symbols. I speak about migrating at the age of five with the phrase “No Soy Un Alien.” Below that, I wrote “5 y/o,” which speaks to how I continue incorporating little symbols and phrases into my paintings.

Nature

I’m invested in the connection of the body and nature and what this relationship means to create futures of belonging in my work. For me, Nature holds spaces for warmth and nurture. In Mangos Verdes con alguashte y marañones (Translation: Green mangos with ground pumpkin seeds and cashew apples), I captured a moment of longing, reflecting on a state of dreaming and how my memories of El Salvador have influenced those dreams. 

Eating little green mangos with grounded pumpkin seeds and some marañones (cashew fruit), I look up at them as if they were just within reach, growing from the fruit trees I would eat them off from. They stay just out of my reach and serve as a reminder of how El Salvador is. 

How far and how long since I’ve tasted marañones, and what that feeling would be if today I had those fruits in my hand!

I continue this theme of the intertwining of body and nature in my painting El Salvador, te digo adios, por ahora, y Los Angeles, hola, por favor tratame bien (Translation: El Salvador, I say to you goodbye, for now, and Los Angeles, hi, please treat me well).

This painting lives in my past, at the moment I left El Salvador at the age of 5. I walked and ran through unknown lands, and now that journey seems so far from reach. 

In my art, I relive those memories. I feel my body travel through those same lands of Guatemala, Mexico, and California that once were unknown to me.

How I wish I could, for one last time, say goodbye to El Salvador, goodbye to my childhood friends and family. Those goodbyes are attached to me; I pull and pull, becoming one with the ground. The roots are deep. 

My mom tells me her stories, and I narrate the memories in these portraits and landscapes. These stories, and her, are what I have. I didn’t need to say goodbye to her. 

Los Angeles became a new home. At first, it wasn’t kind to me, but I learned to keep to myself and dream between my past and future. I knew I belonged somewhere in the in-betweens, never only in one place or the other. This diptych painting tells my story of El Salvador, where I was born. 

Having the possibility to say goodbye to my friends and family, but those goodbyes would have to wait for now. Reconnecting those ties and adapting to a California that didn’t want me and didn’t value my humanity, but I kept going. 

My paintings don’t always refer to my future. I create surreal states using lush and dense environments in my paintings. The space is activated by the in-between of past and present and the stories that go with them.

In “Scars on my Memories,” the body in the lower portion of the painting represents my queer and migrant body, intertwining with nature. Banana leaves and various plants reflect an environment of wonder, mystery, and self-reflection. These small moments are seamlessly integrated into the visual representation of those events by the different plants I saw in my neighborhood. The hand coming out of the plants captures a moment of intimacy with the banana plant and how nature can represent those feelings. 

As I keep developing my visual language, I purposely bring in elements of my previous paintings and techniques. Some of my current works in progress resonate with my earlier paintings. Texture can evoke a sense of memory, creating surfaces of emotions. By layering paint and creating thickness, I can change how clear and realistic I want a symbol to be. I think that is the beauty of art; you are able to control your narrative. I can continue on this journey, expanding on the world I create in my paintings, a future of wonder. 

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Over the seasons, like a lot of people, agitation over the virus and the lockdowns made me want to embark on some ambitious project. Everyone’s quarantine pet project is different. For some people it’s baking, watching old movies, making a career change, or just trying to survive. Just be glad mine wasn’t a mixtape. It was Paintings for the Planet, a non-for-profit website where I sell prints, mugs, and greeting cards featuring my paintings of natural scenery to raise funds for environmental organizations. 

The idea came to me because I realized the intentions of a painter and an environmentalist are pretty similar. Both aim to preserve the landscapes they love. Their branches are different but their roots burrow through common ground: a vision for a peaceful relationship between humans and the forests, mountains, and rivers that sustain them. (They’re also both prone to self-righteous moralizing, but let’s overlook that one.)

A Big Challenge

As an amateur artist and college student with very little grasp of technical composition, sales, or social media marketing, starting this endeavor was an uphill battle. But I had a neurotic determination and would force it to work if I had to. First, I had to find the right materials, printing company, e-commerce platform, charities, postal service, and attitude. I’ll spare the bureaucratic details but it was a tiring, months-long preparation process.

And when I thought I was dotting every i and crossing every t, it turned out I was accidentally dotting my t’s and crossing my i’s and my other 24 letters were imploding. Every step forward came with two steps back and I was always discovering some new flaw in my plan, whether it was a typo in a bank routing number or a glitch that made all the text on my website invisible or an achingly awkward phone call with a customer support agent from a ceramics customization company. I dreaded accusations of eco-hypocrisy so I started making all my boxes out of upcycled consumer packaging. This development sounds chic until you picture me, eyes bloodshot, feverishly dissecting an empty Cheez-It box with an X-Acto Knife at three in the morning.

After a breaking point I realized I had to just launch the website before it was perfect, because it would never be perfect. I could either work out the hiccups as the business grew, or I could let the hiccups consume me and never advance. I just wanted to share my art with other people in a way that could help other people. It was a broad goal, but it was the narrow things that were blocking me from reaching it.

So I launched it, starting out with four prints then adding about two dozen more products over the course of three months. 

How It Changed Me

I practiced and got better at painting. Yes, I watched Bob Ross videos, but also about a million other YouTube tutorials about blending, lighting, and the uses for different brushes. In school I admired (and envied) my friend Anshul for being able to craft beautiful things in her art classes. I never thought I had the discipline to do it myself. I still find it challenging, but now I enjoy the calculation a landscape painting demands. It feels like a reconnection with the arts and crafts we love to do as kids, but with the patience that comes with being a few years older.

And I started seeing things. I’ve lived in my hometown for 20 years but I never understood it until now. I was a recluse growing up and mostly saw these streets through school bus windows and closed screen doors. But now I go for walks in the nature trails here for painting inspiration, and I make a trip to the post office twice or thrice a week. I walk past the gray and white houses, the Dunkin’ Donuts, the masked and unmasked pedestrians. I see the shadows of branches on the forest floor. The reflections of clouds on lakes. The way we never really see landscapes for what they are — we only make impressions of what we think they look like and fill in the distant details subconsciously. 

And when I was sending out some packages one day, I saw an old lady thanking a post office worker for his service. I saw more children riding bikes than ever before. I saw pools of rain, blades of grass, and leaves starting to creep up the wooden frame of the gazebo across from the town hall. I saw an evening fog that made the whole world look like watercolors.

People I hadn’t talked to in years placed orders and sent messages and spread the word about what I was doing. My favorite teachers from high school, my relatives, close friends and faraway ones, and complete strangers all contributed to support the conservation of New York’s natural resources. Their generosity was like a glistening woodland waterfall that never stopped cascading.  A rude voice in my mind says that they all contributed out of pity, that I was only even doing this project for clout, and that my impact was too small to ever matter. But I don’t let those thoughts linger. I’m proud of what I’m doing and I encourage you to think about what calling you have, or could hone, to find your own spark! 

Maybe you can even turn it into a cloying, self-congratulatory thinkpiece.

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