I left New York when 9/11 happened. I wanted to see America. Went from NY to Vegas, started painting on the walls there with Magic Markers. A friend suggested I come to Venice Beach. I’ve drawn my whole life. Got into tattoos. Started to paint here in Venice. An oil painter on the boardwalk taught me painting techniques. I learned different techniques from different artists who shared brush strokes. I’ve slept everywhere from alleys to parking garages to sidewalks. I’ve stayed on friends’ sofas. The community takes care of me. They look at me as a resident who lives outside. Homeless has become a dirty word. It should be a hate crime to use that word. I don’t like the stereotype; we’re not all the same. I’m not a shitty homeless person. I’m an artist. I’ve earned that right. I have my art supplies and my bass guitar and that’s it. I don’t have piles of stuff. I’m not a hoarder. My work is fun. I like a certain depth of texture. I get canvasses donated and I just paint over them. I paint a lot of clowns. They scare the shit out of kids. Scared me when I was a kid. I sold a big painting the other day and a leather trench coat that I painted a mural of clowns on. If I had my own place I’d fill every square inch with murals because that’s what my life is: one big painting.
