When I show up in your inbox, you can bet your sweet ass it’s not to drag you down.
The only reason I’m even here is to lift you up.
But I gotta level with you, homie…
You’re going to die one day.
Of course we all know this, but as conversation starters go, this one’s pretty damn morbid.
I don’t hesitate to go there with you, though, because this life is so very precious. And I want you to remember that.
Every single day we’re here, we get to make something. Anything. Art.
Dance. Paint. Sculpt. Sing. Write. Surf. Act. Weave. Sketch. Speak. Film. Craft your brand. Build your business. Lead your movement. Style your wardrobe. Spray graffiti on the motherfuckin’ wall.
Art is worth your time for the legacy you create.
It’s your birthright. A universal gift within. We’ve got to be brave enough to express our shit — the sooner the better because every moment we wait is lost forever.
Look, my dad died when I was a kid.
And what remains of him is paintings on a wall — squirrels, trees, brushstroke impressions of his soul.
No gallery exhibits. No critical acclaim. Simply his vision on canvas, still here, still alive.
But god knows when I think of that man, the first thing I think is that he was an artist.
And I thank him for inspiring art in me.
It’s my hope to inspire art in you. Because you, too, have always been an artist.
You don’t have to be a genius, or perfect, or “the best.”
If your shit is never in a museum or on a big stage, it don’t motherfuckin’ matter. It doesn’t matter if you don’t ever get famous or if you don’t ever “make it.” Your art is worth making.
My dad’s art mattered. My art matters. Your art matters.
What society calls “an artist” don’t mean a thing. Those false qualifiers are mere notions of social domination.
Your art is worth your time for the feeling it gives you in the moment.
Your bright ideas deserve to meet the light of day. Please don’t ignore them. You’ll die regretting it if you do.