Part one

When I started college, I had absolutely no idea who I was or what I wanted to do with my life. It was the mid-90s, and it felt like the only options were “starving artist” or “graphic designer.” I remember watching the graphic design students obsessively draw the same letters over and over again and thinking, yeah… no thanks. (Honestly, I didn’t even really know what being a graphic designer meant back then.)

So, I ended up studying Fine Arts at a local university for a couple of years. All I really wanted to do was paint. I’d spend hours in the studio, completely losing track of time. I’d staple massive canvases right to the wall and just go for it—music blasting, paint flying. It was messy, intense, and totally my happy place.

Back then, all I really wanted was to be a professional artist—maybe a painter, a muralist, something creative that actually paid the bills and made me happy. I’d even skip classes just to paint (no regrets). I still have a few of those old pieces, and honestly? I still love them.

I was always drawn to color and pattern. Even in high school and early college, I’d spend forever painting details—paisley prints, intricate strands of hair, tiny textures that no one else would probably notice. Still life pieces with bold blankets, beaded handbags, funky color combos—they’re all scattered throughout my old portfolio.

It took me years to figure out why I was so into hyper-detailed work. Turns out, it’s meditative. It pulls me out of my chaotic brain, forces me to slow down, and gives me that sweet dopamine hit. Looking back, it makes total sense that I eventually fell in love with textile design.