Image 1 of 1
Image 1 of 1
Image 1 of 1
Image 1 of 1
2024
12 × 16 in.
Watercolor on Paper
Original / 1 of 1
It's a cock telling me I suck.
There's a sentence I never expected to use to describe one of my paintings.
The idea for You Suck originally came from my skateboard. I had this character on it, a male chicken, or a cock, and eventually I wanted to turn him into his own piece.
But the joke became personal.
Skateboarding has this wonderful ability to expose exactly how scared you are.
You can know how to do a trick. You can understand where your feet need to go. You can roll up to it over and over again knowing exactly what needs to happen.
And then, at the last second, you don't commit.
That was me.
So this chicken became the voice telling me what I sometimes needed to hear.
YOU SUCK.
Not because I actually thought I sucked at skateboarding, but because sometimes insulting myself was funnier and more effective than giving myself some beautiful motivational speech.
Stop hesitating.
Stop overthinking it.
Stop being scared.
Commit.
There's another stupid layer to the joke too.
He's a cock.
I was telling myself to stop being a pussy.
Apparently my motivational system is just poultry, profanity, and genital slang.
But underneath the joke, this piece represents something skateboarding taught me that applies to a lot more than skateboarding.
There are moments where preparation can only take you so far.
Eventually, you have to put your feet on the board and go.
You might land it.
You might eat shit.
But if you bail every single time because you're afraid of falling, you'll never find out what you were capable of landing.
I think creating has started to feel the same way for me.
For a long time, I could tell myself I wasn't good enough to be an artist. I could make things privately, question whether they were worth showing anyone, and keep waiting until I somehow felt qualified enough to take myself seriously.
At some point, you have to commit.
Put the art out there.
Make the website.
Show people what you created.
See what happens.
And if I start overthinking all of that?
Apparently I already painted myself a motivational speaker.
He's a cock.
He's rude.
And unfortunately, sometimes he's right.
2024
12 × 16 in.
Watercolor on Paper
Original / 1 of 1
It's a cock telling me I suck.
There's a sentence I never expected to use to describe one of my paintings.
The idea for You Suck originally came from my skateboard. I had this character on it, a male chicken, or a cock, and eventually I wanted to turn him into his own piece.
But the joke became personal.
Skateboarding has this wonderful ability to expose exactly how scared you are.
You can know how to do a trick. You can understand where your feet need to go. You can roll up to it over and over again knowing exactly what needs to happen.
And then, at the last second, you don't commit.
That was me.
So this chicken became the voice telling me what I sometimes needed to hear.
YOU SUCK.
Not because I actually thought I sucked at skateboarding, but because sometimes insulting myself was funnier and more effective than giving myself some beautiful motivational speech.
Stop hesitating.
Stop overthinking it.
Stop being scared.
Commit.
There's another stupid layer to the joke too.
He's a cock.
I was telling myself to stop being a pussy.
Apparently my motivational system is just poultry, profanity, and genital slang.
But underneath the joke, this piece represents something skateboarding taught me that applies to a lot more than skateboarding.
There are moments where preparation can only take you so far.
Eventually, you have to put your feet on the board and go.
You might land it.
You might eat shit.
But if you bail every single time because you're afraid of falling, you'll never find out what you were capable of landing.
I think creating has started to feel the same way for me.
For a long time, I could tell myself I wasn't good enough to be an artist. I could make things privately, question whether they were worth showing anyone, and keep waiting until I somehow felt qualified enough to take myself seriously.
At some point, you have to commit.
Put the art out there.
Make the website.
Show people what you created.
See what happens.
And if I start overthinking all of that?
Apparently I already painted myself a motivational speaker.
He's a cock.
He's rude.
And unfortunately, sometimes he's right.