Everywhere I look, things are blooming.
Magnolias burst open with defiance. Bougainvillea creeps over fences like it’s reclaiming space. Even the weeds are showing off. Nature is putting on her loudest, lushest dress—and I can’t stop thinking: what a strange time to be beautiful.
Because while spring is doing her thing, the country is coming apart at the seams.
Another wave of rights under attack. More performative patriotism, more violence masquerading as law. Each day feels like waking up to a new erosion—of truth, of autonomy, of basic human dignity.
So I paint.
When Beauty Becomes Rebellion
My Beauty in Decay series wasn’t born of politics—but it’s become impossible to separate the two. What began as a meditation on impermanence has become something closer to resistance.
There’s power in painting what is overlooked: the bruised fruit, the fallen petal, the cracked vessel. There’s defiance in saying, This is still beautiful. This still matters. This still speaks.
In the face of sanitized narratives and picture-perfect propaganda, I’m interested in showing the rot beneath the surface—and the life that insists on growing anyway.
Spring Is Not Always Gentle
We talk about spring as renewal. But spring is also upheaval.
Roots rip through soil. Buds force their way open. Rain doesn’t ask permission. It floods and overflows and makes everything messy. Spring is gorgeous—but it’s not passive.
And neither is my art.
In the coming months, I’ll be starting a new protest portrait—a piece that centers not just one man’s corruption, but the system of cruelty, denial, and decay he represents. It will be a portrait, yes—but also a reflection. A challenge. A mirror we don’t want to look into but must.
Where We Go From Here?
As the world warms and flowers bloom, I’m not finding comfort in the usual seasonal metaphors. I’m finding urgency. Wildness. Warning.
If you're feeling the same—adrift in chaos, awake in a body that doesn’t feel safe, searching for beauty that isn’t performative or polite—you’re not alone.
There is beauty in decay.
There is power in acknowledging what’s breaking.
There is hope in what keeps growing anyway.