I'm lost. Waiting to be found. Or you may say... discovered. Just like everything in this City of Angels. LA doesn’t hide its soul—it seduces you with it, glimmering just under the sun-soaked surface. The contrasts here aren’t loud like in New York. They’re quieter, stranger. In New York, the skyline tells you who’s winning and who’s barely hanging on. In LA, the contrast is subtler—between palm trees and parking garages, between fame and anonymity, between an owl on a Beverly Hills sidewalk at midnight and a billboard screaming a new face you'll forget by fall.

The First 10 years, no camera, just observation. Take it all in, there's a lot. Sitting in the West Village with some dear friends over a perspiring cocktail giving my life story, I lamented over my training as a classical musician and here I am building out this visual brand/empire of sorts, waxing of how the industry has changed so much in 20 years. Jay glances up at me with a small smirk and soft chuckle, "You're a creative." Period. Full stop. No explanation, no breakdown of how or why, just a passing moment and a glance as if to say, "This is who you are, you're lucky, move on." We did, and took another sip.

It's loud, or rather, it was always loud. It was a haven for those in the world of print, a rite of passage. It was the House of Portfolios NYC, Inc. I was too late. My timing has never been great. It has always seemed to allude me. In music school, of which I spent 8 years studying and then some, taught me that keeping time in a measured manner was paramount. For me, the sound of silence excited or held anticipation for the next passage. Solos that floated through my clarinets seemed to bend time over accompanying piano, or orchestra, but playing together as a body at times felt constricting.

The world is on fire, quite literally. The people running things are, to put it nicely, incompetent assholes. And to top it all off, you still can’t lose the layer of fat over your stomach. But when so many things are out of your control, there’s one arena where you get to be in charge: your mindset and your health. With a few simple steps, you’ll begin to control the things you can. And when you master your own circumstances, everything else becomes manageable.

Once upon a time, many moons ago, I met her. I met Her. We were attending an erotic poetry reading event. She was a black cat type of woman, her style quiet chic—only truly curious eyes would notice the custom-made dress, the shoes, that enormous red scarf dragging on the floor like a queen's mantle. One peculiar detail that caught my attention was the red lollipop she was licking throughout the entire time.

In 1994, I studied with an inspirational rabbi in Israel; before long, I was painting fictitious portraits of orthodox rabbis, a stylistic breakthrough for me. The elongated, bearded visage of this rabbi conveyed so much history and so much wisdom. I felt I couldn't do him justice without giving him a mouth. In recent times, I've had a strong need for my peaceful rabbis to confront some serious issues and put their mouths to use by engaging in meaningful dialogue.

Dear reader, I didn’t think I’d become a painter. When I was four years old, I told my parents I wanted to be a dessinatrice—a graphite artist. I didn’t know what that fully meant, only that I wanted to spend my life with pencils in hand, in a quiet room, making images appear where there was once only blankness, until late in the night. It felt like a kind of peaceful magic, and it still does. But life, as it often does, led me through a long and scenic route.

For some artists, genre is a box to be respected. For others, it’s a sandbox to play in. For me, it’s always been the latter. I thrive on variety and transformation. Whether it’s slipping into a folk aesthetic, leaning into experimental textures, or drawing from my classical training, I’m most alive when I’m moving fluidly between worlds. Genre, to me, isn’t a destination, it’s a set of tools, moods, and histories I can call on to tell a story.