Commissions don’t come my way as often as I’d like, but when they do, it gives me an interesting opportunity to travel outside of the parameters of my own personal style…and it puts a little extra grocery money in my pocket.

She’s back.  And she’s snarkier than ever.  Oh, and by the way…she’s me.  Check out our adventures at BLACK PICKET FENCE, with a new strip posted every week.

I’ve been keeping this blog since the beginning of 2006…for nearly 6 years now.  It started as a lark, a mere catharsis of commentary on my sheepish and (yes) pretentious musings on pop culture, as well as the all-too-common laments of a mid-20s brooder hell-bent on ignoring the rampant beauty of youth.  It developed into deeper and, at times regrettably explosive self-referential treatments on my personal life.  And over time, through the triumphant and tragic blows dealt me (and that I created for myself in many cases), it became a true art log, a means of using art and my evolving knowledge and exploration of it to work through the many issues gnawing at me just under the surface.

But art is a living, breathing thing.  It is always changing, ever-evolving and, most importantly, it needs room to grow.  It is not something solely learned between the pages at a desk, or by mimicking the tutorial of someone greater.  Oftentimes, one must put down the pencil and paintbrush; go outside and kick around the dirt, let yourself fall and learn how to get back up, allow the weather to toss you around a bit…because only then, can you return to the canvas with a true reference, a story to tell, something to paint *about*.

Sometimes I forget that.  It’s so easy to become laser focused, with the eyes faced solely on one primary abstract goal because the alternative is scary:  being human, imperfect, getting hurt…sometimes irrevocably.  Yes, it is far easier to wax theoretically of joy and pain than to let oneself take it in.  But it is a lie; it isn’t real, nor is it authentic.  It’s cowardly.

So, I’ve been gone for a time, getting myself a life so to speak; thrashing about town in my loudest, muck-raking boots and causing a stir.  I wanted to *live*, instead of painting or writing about living.  There is a difference…it is both subtle and monumental.

And now I’ve come back with all kinds of stories to tell.  And hopefully many, many more adventures to come…