HER TOOLS.
MY CANVAS.

Before there was canvas, there were brown paper grocery bags. Growing up in Buffalo, New York, I'd flatten them out and fill them with worlds — comic book heroes, block letters, whatever was playing in my head. Nobody called it art. It was just what I did with what we had.

The habit of making something out of ordinary materials never left. It followed me through music production, fashion, photography — and eventually to Singapore, where I started painting for real. Oils first, learning the slow way. Then acrylics, for the same reason I love hip-hop and jazz: spontaneity. Rhythm, instinct, exploration. No formulas.

My mother was a creator — a seamstress, a maker. When she passed, I kept her art supplies. Her scissors, her brushes, her tools. Every piece I make now, I make with them.

That's not a gimmick, and it's not a ritual. It's just the truth of how the work gets made: her hands are in it. Each painting is a personal meditation — street culture and fine art pulling against each other, bold lines and vibrant color, and underneath all of it, her legacy holding the line.

Real paint. Real canvas. Real art. This ain't fast food.