I used to be an art student...

Welcome to the world of my brain from the years 06' - 08'...

I found these old sketchbooks of mine on my sister's shelf.

Once upon a time, I went to art school in the city...

The professors told us to keep sketchbooks of our ideas, dreams, thoughts, ramblings, doodles...basic art student stuff. These were two of my sketchbooks from back when I used to believe that pursuing ones dream of being an artist in New York City could still become a reality.

My grandmother's brother, Vincent. My mother and him have the same eyes.

The picture I drew this from was of a family portrait. He's reclined in his mother's (my great-grandmother's) lap. He was sick that day.

Ophelia drowning.

I had an obsession with long flowing hair for a while in school. We were told to do a series of abstract paintings at one point in my second year, and I painted hair - very close up, and in swirling patterns. My professor scowled at the finished products since they weren't actually abstract. I stayed quiet and looked the other way. I was a stubborn student.

This is me becoming bored with my sudoku in the paper and doing something else with it. I'm sure this took up a great deal of class time where I was probably supposed to be working. Oh well.

Mother and daughter in the MoMA.

From my final year of school. This photograph would play a large part in my thesis. That's my grandpa (on left) and great-uncle Mike dancing in make shift kilts (table cloth and bathrobe) with Papst Blue Ribbon beers in their hands.

It's my favorite picture of my grandfather.

A friend wanted nautical style tattoos of Iman and David Bowie. These were the first sketches I came up with. Again, this isn't art, but it was in the sketchbook.

Benicio. Need I say more?

Who Are You?

I'll have to take a better photo of this at some point. I love this drawing. Alice and post-it notes go well together in my opinion.

My main problem in school was motivation. I had trouble doing what the professors asked me to do since I was a stubborn brat with enormously outdated romantic ideals about artists and creating. I lost them fast after experiencing how different New York actually is from my childhood imaginings. When I finally fell into a good, steady, working routine of productivity, it was two weeks to the end of my school career.

I'm not kidding.

There were only 10 of us working on our thesis projects at that point, and the energy in the rooms we had available to us was palpable. It made us want to work harder, push more. All of us became so tired and run down that absolutely no inhibitions were left in our bodies when it came to our art. We'd all collectively reached our breaking points and then pushed past them in those final days. It was an incredible, freeing feeling.

Trying to find that same energy now is extremely difficult, but I find it in my own way. I don't paint anymore, and barely draw. Writing is easier, and creating things with my hands makes me feel more productive as an individual since it's so tangible. Being alone with good light streaming in from a large window and a white surface to work on, whether it be a table or a blank page, is when I'm happiest.