Does anyone actually read these? Do you really, really, really want to know about me? I bet you don't, but years of Pavlovian self-conditioning and your pointer finger knew instinctively how to screw you out of the next five minutes of your life. I say just go with it, as I often do when trapped in these situations. Shrug your shoulders with a “Well, it happened; I’m here, what could go wrong?” kind of attitude. Either way, you’re safe; I will have no idea whether you read this or not, only possibly when we meet face-to-face, and then all bets are off.

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I’m writing this tucked away in my studio, being assaulted by the noise of dueling leaf blowers in my neighbors’ yards. There are two things you can deduce from my sharing this with you: I live on Long Island, and I hate noise pollution. I do, however, enjoy some good old-fashioned visual pollution. We’ll get to an explanation of that in just a minute.

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I didn’t truly begin my visual arts career in earnest until my late twenties. Girlish fantasies, starry eyes, and wishful thinking led me into a maze of dead ends. I spent eleven years as a Russian-trained classical ballet dancer. That ended abruptly when I realized there was no way a too-short, half-Indian, giant-boobed girl was ever really going to make it in the dance world without starving to death.

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My cheerleader and eternally optimistic mom saw things differently and thought my dance abilities would parlay nicely into a career in musical theater. So I sang, acted, and danced my way into discovering that musicals weren’t my jam. It didn’t help that during my time spent in the THEE-ATE-HER, I had a truly traumatic encounter with a blond wig.

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Still, out of my musical misery came a one-year stint as a costume designer before the age of seventeen, which foolishly led me to believe I could somehow become involved in fashion. That lasted exactly one Molly Ringwald–in–Pretty in Pink look-alike dress and one semester at FIT. I was comfortable messing with my own look, but I certainly wasn’t interested in curating anyone else’s.

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I also wasn’t itching to go home after my fashion failure and figure out the rest of my life. So I did the next best thing and took a winter photography class with the infamous Joel Aronson. That class was a turning point for me, dance pun intended.

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You could produce images rather quickly, and I understood photography without having to overcome insurmountable mental obstacles. It satisfied the instant-gratification center of my brain and seemed to circumvent the learning disabilities I didn’t even know I had until much later in life.

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As I continued on my photographic journey, I realized I particularly loved experimenting with alternative and imperfect processes: Polaroid transfers, acetone prints, cross-processing, collage, and painting directly on top of prints. Also, anything considered toxic by today’s standards was always an invitation to participate in artful debauchery. Dangerous perhaps, but man, those chemicals made cool stuff.

The grungier, grainier, and messier the images came out, the happier I was. This didn’t exactly jive with my professors or peers at FIT, who strived for glossy, in-focus, advertisement-fashion perfection.

I escaped this perceived tyranny through the streets of New York City.

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I fell in love with the street art and graffiti hidden in places mothers warn you about. Around corners and across dilapidated buildings were different breeds of artists putting it all out there, allowing time and passersby to defile and manipulate the work, transforming it into something more beautiful and interesting with each passing day. At least in my eyes.

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Today, street art is big commerce and highly sought after, but back then, you were practically a sinner for appreciating that sort of thing, let alone calling it art,  despite the likes of Jean-Michel Basquiat and Keith Haring. It was as if you had to visit an official art museum to cleanse your eyeballs and relearn the establishment’s idea of proper art.

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Don’t get me wrong, visiting an art museum is my version of church, but I always return to the street for a great deal of my inspiration. It was a blast back then, running with a small crew who left their temporary mark proudly, with elation and no regrets.

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Between then and now, life happened.

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I earned three degrees, had a twelve-year career as a studio photographer and master darkroom printer, became completely absorbed in the digital art realm, segued into graphic design and illustration, suffered massive, intense, and complicated personal losses, spent years in limbo, and eventually gave birth to my inevitable rebirth, 3 times over.

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I’m still fidgety, unsatisfied, and disgusted with our world at large. I still get overly excited over silly things, both good and bad. I’m still able to recognize underappreciated good deeds and acknowledge the magical, delightful oddities that abound around us. I’ve mellowed a bit, but I hope not too much.

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I owe a great debt of gratitude to my close friends, artsy friends, the Heckscher Museum of Art, Huntington Arts Council, SchoolArts Magazine, Davis Publishing, art teacher besties, family, and my fur babies for staying by my side throughout my artistic journey. Ultimately, without them, I'm not sure if I would have gotten as far as I have.

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So there I am in a nutshell.

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Now walk away from your electronic device slowly and fill your head with glitter, unicorns, rainbows, dancing hula girls, cookies, and lollipops.