Why Do I Paint?

The simplest answer to why I paint is this: it makes me feel better.

I was born in 1970 in a small, church-oriented town in South Carolina. Growing up, there was very little in the way of gay representation. In fact, when there was any representation at all, it was usually someone portrayed as sick, mentally unstable, or the butt of a joke.

By the time I reached puberty, the AIDS epidemic was upon us. It was often referred to as "the gay cancer." It was a frightening time for many people, but trying to understand your own sexuality during that period was especially dark. For a very long time, I did my best to deny who I was—to myself and to everyone else.

The world I grew up in was not a very tolerant place. I remember the first time someone called me a version of the word "faggot." I was in kindergarten, and one of my classmates called me "Tinkerbell." I don't think I fully understood what any of it meant at the time, but even at five years old, I knew it was something I did not want to be.

More than 50 years later, there are times when it feels as though the world hasn't changed much—or that, in some ways, we've gone backward. The name-calling and hatred are still there, and they still hurt. What has changed, without a doubt, is that positive representation exists. We see it in movies, books, television, public figures, and even within our own families. We still have to fight for that representation, though, because it is so important that these stories continue to exist so people can find themselves in them.

This is where my painting comes in.

In my mind, I am creating the representation that was missing throughout much of my life. Sometimes that intention is obvious; other times, it is more subtle. I paint for myself—to heal, at least a little, from the scars of my past. And who knows? Maybe my work will reach someone else who needs it too.

But the most important thing is this: painting makes me feel calm. It makes me feel seen.