So many illustrators and artists say, “Don’t worry about your style; it will come with enough work.” And I believe that’s true. After many years of horrible sketchbooks, watery watercolor, and bad digital illustrations, I finally think I know what I want to communicate and how.

Or at least I did.

As I prep for my mini-collection, a goal I have been trying all summer to complete, I finally got down to business. I thought I'd paint my prints with acrylic, since I had been painting my larger works that way. Done and done.

Not so fast.

They were awful. The big swipes I took on my wooden panels didn’t work on the smaller format. The colors were harder to manage. I couldn’t get the figures the way I wanted. Ugh.

I tried to move back to my tried-and-true gouache paints. That was a step in the right direction. But it still looked a little too staid. I needed to experiment. I had been loving playing with collage and wanted that look. Or at least something a little more abstract.

But the collage was too collage-y.

So far, I've settled on a mix of collage and painted elements, along with good old-fashioned Micron ink to add details. I am pretty happy with the result of the first design. But I am a little scared about whether it will resonate with folks who've purchased my work before.

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But I had to realize and come to grips with this fact: If I like it, someone else will, too.

I had to trust my instincts and push forward.

My goal is to wrap this mini-collection up next week, right after the holidays. I can’t wait to share.

Stay tuned.

It started off as a casual conversation. I attended the Kimbilio Writers Conference in Wildacres, NC, last week and was looking for a way to stay close to nature. That was easy, since the place sits on a thousand acres of protected green space.

Even as our commuter bus wound up the hill to our destination, I could feel the city pulling back and nature taking over. Immediately, you could tell this was a place where the elements ruled, not necessarily man.

Everyone on the bus got out and was immediately met with the view of the Carolina mountains. Greens of all shapes and colors created a canvas right in front of my face. The first thing I knew I wanted to do was find some trails and go for a walk. And I did just that.

The retreat has several trails winding behind the property and extending out into the mountains. I was lightweight and took a meadow trail that circles the retreat. But it was a 20-minute walk and very different from walking on my treadmill. By the time I got out, I was dripping in sweat. Luckily, at least that day, the air was dry, and mosquitoes were minimal.

Kimbilio Writers’ Retreat is a space for Black fiction writers to come together, work on whatever project they have going on, commune with fellow writers, and get time away from the pressures of daily life. The setting is usually in an isolated area, which also lets us reconnect with nature.

That part really intrigued me because I've spent so much time navigating urban spaces, traffic jams, and jumping on buses and trains. Here, my main mode of transportation was my feet.

Every day I promised to take a trail and walk around. So each day I’d lace up my hiking boots, slather on as much OFF! as my skin could absorb, and step down into the trees. At first, it was a little frightening to venture off by myself. After all, wireless service was only accessible in the main lobby and the library; the rest of the place was deliberately devoid of technological access.

Each time I went out, I was determined to go a little bit further. By the end of the week, I was used to walking on dry land or the soggy mud softened by the area's frequent showers. That's when a friend asked if I was taking a walk that day. I eagerly nodded. By the time I met him outside, there was a gaggle of Black writers all excited to take a group walk.

“Are you leading our tour?” a fellow writer joked. I joked that I wasn't responsible for injuries. But I did indeed lead the group of about 15 writers down through a basic pathway. It was amazing to hear all the observations from the many voices behind me. Some parts of the route were too easy; others were made difficult by the steep climb of steps toward the end. But it left everyone tired and glad they did it.

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The walk was brief, but it taught me something about myself, too. Sometimes you have to lead whether or not you know what you’re doing. You are building the plane as you go, and the only goal at that point is to stay in the air.

As I come back to my mini collection and other projects, I am more excited not only because I was inspired by all the beautiful wooded areas, but because I know I can navigate difficult terrain and even lead people through things we both may not fully understand yet.

Excited to see how this impacts my work.

Have you ever had to take the lead in an adventure? What was your experience?

It’s been raining a lot in D.C. Each day feels like playing “weather” Bingo. Most days start off sunny with an angry heat that strangled any chance of wind out of the air. By the early evening, however, clouds ease in like a jazz song at a house party. They start off like a pastel gray but soon darken to a meaner palette.

And then the rain comes. And this isn’t some slow build. Rain plummets down in big drops that soak your shorts in seconds.

Any hope of chilling outside is canceled, or at least postponed.

Now the rain has been great for the garden. Not so great for walking. My best outlet for creative thinking is venturing around my neighborhood on foot.

But with nowhere to go, I decided to turn to my work—my mini collection.

I was actually excited to try to transpose all my ideas into my finished work. I have made prints before. But this is the first time I am trying to push myself to do a mini collection and holiday collection with a full line of products.

I tried to work off my sketches. But it wasn’t happening. I felt stuck. Then, for some reason, I pulled out a black ink pen and did some random figure drawings. Then I painted some animals with leftover paint.

I thought I was procrastinating at first, but I actually think this was my process. To rid my body of all the visual distractions sitting on my mental palette.

Then I got to work. I just swiped huge globs of the primary paints I wanted to use on my paper. But it was too thick. I realized I needed the very thing that kept me from going outside.

Water.

I used it to thin my paints, and it ironically gave me more control over my pieces. For my painting, I like to rely on instinct, keeping the idea for the pieces in my head but not being tied to that image. Because the paints, much like characters in a book or an afternoon rain, may disagree with my plans.

I don’t know what exactly the final designs will look like, but I am excited to see what happens.

Stay tuned.

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I am in awe of my husband’s garden. He thinks he’s not an artist, but when you take a step back and look at the majesty of plants, trees, and colors, you cannot help but think: art.

For months I have watched him walk the land, draw up plans, head to the store for supplies, and come back. He then spends hours and hours out there laying dirt, unearthing gravel and other enemies of a good garden. Finally, when he thinks it’s ready, he puts the plants and seeds down.

Every Saturday, the entry to our back door has a pile of clothes caked in dirt. Whole plants can be nixed if an afternoon rain decides to show up. That was the case today. And when he isn’t gardening, he is studying at YouTube University, taking in all of the local, regional, and global gardeners who balance tiny microphones in their gloves.

But every year there is this moment when I am in awe of the work he has done. We may be outside enjoying a cocktail (and ignoring the helicopters above) or having friends over. They, of course, marvel at the work he put in to make this garden come alive.

In his garden, time is a construct. Hours go by in a blink. The seasons push past like children when the last school bell rings. And I am sure he has moments when he wonders, Is it worth it? And then he just gets right back out there again.

My partner’s journey is not unlike my own journey with a new creative process. I am full of ideas. I am sketching and painting, and throwing loads of unusable things away. I catch a glimmer of hope for a direction, and I move forward.

I, much like a gardener, have no idea what the end result will look like. And in a way, it doesn’t matter. I just have to get it out. And that is where the joy lies.

This month, as the sweaty palms of summer begin to lose their grip on us, I wanted to create a mini collection of work inspired by my exhibition, Under Open Sky. I realized that while I love making big works that can fill big wall spaces, I also want to make sure everyone has an opportunity to enjoy art—specifically mine, if you are so inclined. So my mini collection will incorporate that same theme in accessible art prints, greeting cards, bookmarks, postcards, and stickers. It’s a love letter to the end of summer and to being outside.

And right now, I am definitely in the planting-seeds stage. I had so many ideas, but I’ve finally narrowed them down. I don’t know if what I plant will grow, but I am hoping that in the next few weeks we can celebrate what has grown together.

If you are starting or working on a creative project, let me know what it is, what frightens you about it, and how you are planting seeds anyway.

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And if this post resonates with you, please share it with someone you care about.

Recently, I was in Chicago, not very close to a national park. But I was lucky enough to find a little park a few blocks from where we were staying. Going into new spaces always makes me a little anxious, so when I got to the park, I stopped just shy of going in.

I took stock of the wide-open space. It was huge for a neighborhood park, with a walking trail that circled the entire space. The sun was sliding into an afternoon lounge, but it was still about 97 degrees. I was ready to start, but I noticed the trail disappeared into two wooded areas. It just got swallowed up by the trees and then spit back out several yards later. I don’t know why, but it really made me nervous.

I started thinking about who might be lurking in the shadows. Maybe I should just walk on the sidewalk. But I was already there. I was literally stuck.

Then I noticed all these different people happily walking the trail. Elders were power walking and gossiping as they made their way around the park. Younger couples walked hand in hand. Groups of friends cackled as they made their way along the route.

All these people from different walks of life were moving through their fear and having a good time along the way. I decided to just start.

I walked to the clearing first. I spotted a cluster of folks making the most of the sunny weekend. Some were washing their cars. Others had pulled out chairs and were enjoying a book in the nearby shade. Still others were sitting in their cars with the windows down, bumping house music.

I continued my trek, feeling more confident, until I started approaching the wooded area. I don’t know why I was so nervous. My control-freak side was pounding in my chest. But I slowly made my way into the dark. It was instantly cooler. And because I already had sunglasses on, it felt even darker. I was freaking out. I turned off my headphones.

But soon I was back in the sunlight. Seconds later, I had already forgotten the stress I felt in that unknown stretch.

By the time I circled the trail and entered the wooded area again, I was much more confident. By the end of the week, I had walked the trails in the park about four times.

While I was navigating the trail, I was interrupted by a little bunny. It was this scared little thing that didn’t know what to do as I approached it. To that bunny, I was the thing lurking in the shadows. I stopped to let it know it was okay to pass. It waited for a moment. Still. Its eyes fixed on me and the trail ahead. I didn’t move because I didn’t want to scare it. I didn’t know how to let it know it was safe.

Eventually, it moved on.

The brave bunny made its way to the other side, and so did I. When I reached the end of my walk, an idea came to me.

I really wanted to create a mini collection of printed pieces inspired by my walks and my art exhibition, Under Open Sky. I got back to DC and started sketching out my idea. But just like that walking trail, I had a huge bout of anxiety.

The to-do list filled my brain. All the calls and research I would have to do, not to mention actually making the art. Oh God, what if it was ugly? What if the new things I had been learning didn’t resonate with anyone? There were so many unknown parts of this process I had to navigate. What if it didn’t work? What if this was another pipe dream? A waste of time?

The sketchbook remained empty for days.

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Until one day, I remembered that bunny and just started sketching it. Then came trees and other things that flourish, and the ideas became more interesting than the fear.

The more I sketched, the more I realized that fear of the unknown was seeping into both my physical and imaginary worlds. And the only solution was to just walk through it.

To me, walking is a metaphor for life and art. The rewards are obvious, but so are the fears. You’ll face unknown stretches, but the only way to discover what’s on the other side is to keep walking. Even walking in the wrong direction teaches you something. It tells you, “This isn’t the way.”

So as I think about the next few weeks and this project, I’m embracing those unknown spaces, hoping I’ll come out on the other side excited and ready to continue the journey.

Are there dark, unknown corners keeping you from moving forward with your big dreams? Let me know your story.

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I don’t know about you, but this heat has kept me from taking many of the walks that usually nourish me.

Walking has become part of my creative practice. It’s where ideas untangle themselves. It’s where I notice colors, collect stories, and remember to slow down.

But this week, instead of walking outside, I decided to take a walk through my own work.

Over the last couple of weeks, I’ve been rebuilding my editorial illustration portfolio. Like many creatives, I sometimes convince myself that I haven’t made much progress. That I’ve been spinning my wheels or waiting for the “real” work to begin.

Then I started opening old folders. What I found surprised me. I could see the growth. I could see the experiments. I could see moments where I was taking risks and others where I was simply trying to solve a visual problem for a client. More than anything, I could see someone who kept showing up.

The work reminded me that a creative life isn’t built on one breakthrough project. It’s built through dozens—sometimes hundreds—of small ones.

One assignment.

One deadline.

One sketchbook.

One illustration at a time.

As I prepare to send this portfolio to editors and art directors, I’m trying to give myself permission to feel something I don’t always allow myself to feel.

Pride. Not because every illustration is perfect. But because together they tell the story of someone who kept making things. So today, I thought I’d share a few of my favorites.

Community Is the Story

Cities have never been just buildings to me—they’re collections of people, conversations, and shared dreams. This illustration taught me to trust layering, texture, and quieter forms of storytelling. Looking back, I can see the beginning of the visual language I’m still developing today.

Democracy Happens Together

Some of my favorite assignments explore civic life through ordinary people. This piece reminded me that democracy isn’t just about institutions; it’s about neighbors gathering around an idea bigger than themselves. That’s a theme I keep returning to, both in my journalism and my illustration.

Joy Is a Strategy

I love making promotional artwork because it doesn’t have to feel promotional. This poster for a neighborhood ice cream social was really about creating a sense of welcome. Community events should feel joyful before you even arrive.

Listening Is Creative Work

Whether I’m writing or drawing, I’m interested in listening. This illustration let the relationship between two people take center stage. Sometimes the most powerful stories aren’t about speaking—they’re about making space for someone else’s voice.

Play Belongs to Everyone

Movement, rest, competition, laughter—I’ve realized I keep returning to Black people simply living full lives. Sports become another way to tell stories about humanity, joy, and belonging.

Design Can Invite People In

Working alongside community journalism has taught me that illustration can lower the barrier to participation. A poster isn’t just information—it’s an invitation. If someone feels welcomed before they even read the details, I’ve done my job.

Finding Our Way Through

This personal illustration came from thinking about navigating systems that weren’t built with us in mind. Even when my work feels playful, I’m often exploring resilience, possibility, and the search for another path forward.

Portraits Tell Bigger Stories

I love portraits that reveal more than a likeness. My favorite editorial portraits hint at the communities, histories, and relationships that shape a person’s life. The face is only the beginning of the story.

Looking through this work, I noticed something I hadn’t fully appreciated before.

While my style has evolved, my interests haven’t changed very much.

I’ve always been making work about community.

About Black life. About public spaces. About neighbors. About belonging. About hope.

Those themes eventually found their way into Under Open Sky, but they’ve been walking beside me for much longer than I realized.

Sometimes we’re so focused on what’s next that we forget to acknowledge how far we’ve already traveled.

This week reminded me that growth isn’t always obvious while we’re living it.

Sometimes you have to stop. Turn around. And walk the trail backward. Only then do you realize just how far you’ve come. Thank you for taking the walk with me.

Want to See More?

Over the last few weeks, I’ve been rebuilding my editorial illustration portfolio. If you’re an editor, art director, publisher, or simply curious about the work, I’d love for you to take a look.

Download my Editorial Illustration Portfolio (PDF)

Let’s Work Together

I create editorial illustrations inspired by community, Black life, civic engagement, education, public spaces, and the outdoors.

If you’re an editor, art director, publication, or organization looking for thoughtful, narrative-driven illustration, I’d love to connect.

Email: gkj.creates@gmail.com

Instagram: @gkjcreates

George Kevin Jordan is a Washington, D.C.–based artist, writer, and editorial illustrator. Through essays and images, he explores Black life, community, and the landscapes that shape how we live, gather, and imagine new possibilities.

It wasn’t really a planned trip.

A dear friend of mine was defending her PhD dissertation, and she wanted to be surrounded by friends once it was over.

Done.

But my schedule that week in June was tighter than most. I was leaving one job to prepare for life in a very different role.

To add to the chaos, my partner and I were celebrating our tenth anniversary that same weekend. That left me with roughly 24 hours in Harlem to see my friend and revisit the neighborhood that became my definition of city living.

When I first moved to New York, Harlem was my first neighborhood.

It wasn’t just a place. It was already a global brand, memorialized in hip-hop songs and woven into the Black creative canon. For many Black queer artists like myself, Harlem represented possibility. We imagined joining progressive arts publications, finding community, and making work that mattered.

Believe it or not, I did just that.

My creative life was shaped inside brownstones on 142nd Street, 119th Street, 117th Street, and 116th Street.

Even though I left New York several years ago, I still enjoy the idea of myself in Harlem. A part of it. Connected to it.

But this visit was limited by time, distance, and destination.

So I asked myself: if I could visit only one place while I was back in Harlem, where would it be?

There was only one answer.

The Studio Museum.

Nestled among sneaker shops and neighborhood retail, the museum had been one of my favorite places for years. Recently, it had undergone a major renovation, and I hadn’t seen either the museum or much of Harlem in at least three years.

I arrived in the city on Thursday morning, a couple of hours before lunch. I jumped on the train and was reminded how effortlessly New York collapses distance. I went from 34th Street to Harlem in less than twenty minutes.

I dropped my bag at my friend’s apartment, traded my suitcase for a tote bag, and headed back out.

The sun pressed down on the city with relentless force, but I endured it. I wound my way through St. Nicholas Park, following its curving sidewalks, cutting down the steps whenever I could, catching pockets of shade as I made my way from the 140s toward 125th Street.

The neighborhood looked so different, yet completely the same.

The gym regulars spilled out of New York Sports Club wearing barely enough clothing for the heat. Vendors lined the sidewalks selling designer knockoff sunglasses, Yankees caps, Harlem T-shirts, and tote bags.

I walked beneath what might be the most famous marquee in Harlem, the one announcing the latest act at the Apollo Theater. I passed the Renaissance Harlem Hotel, and then I saw it.

The new Studio Museum.

Its sleek black silhouette rose from the block like an enormous shadow.

The entire building reminded me of the silhouette of a stylish Black man—outsized, confident, full of swagger, and, of course, perpetually cool.

I was more than happy to pay my sixteen dollars to see the new space and escape the heat.

Inside, I was greeted by warm smiles from the security staff and front desk workers, along with a family who seemed just as excited to explore the museum as I was.

The best way I can describe the building is this: imagine a page of text where every line is flush right instead of left. It felt familiar and disorienting at the same time. A little unexpected. A little playful.

That’s part of what makes a museum memorable.

I rode the elevator to the top floor and spent time reading about the museum’s history before wandering through the galleries.

The design felt like maximal minimalism—clean spaces with generous room to breathe between each experience.

The highlight for me, though, wasn’t inside a gallery.

It was the rooftop garden.

Wrapped around the building, it felt like an oasis suspended above the city. Standing there, I felt transported somewhere entirely new, a place where Harlem’s history met the urgency of things still growing.

Eventually I left the calm, cool comfort of the museum and stepped back into the relentless heat blanketing the city.

But I carried something with me.

The rest of my visit was filled with beautiful memories, reconnections, and laughter. My friend’s celebration filled my cup in all the ways I hoped it would.

Still, my favorite memory came from simply walking those same Harlem streets I first wandered twenty years ago.

A little slower.

A little older.

And, just like Harlem itself, still full of life.

Maybe that’s what Under Open Sky is really about—not escaping to somewhere new, but returning to familiar places long enough to see them with different eyes.

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I work at a school for my “me.com business incubator” day job, and recently we took about 100 first graders to the zoo. Managing one child at the zoo would be a task. Managing 100 emotional Molotov cocktails? That’s something else entirely.

To be fair, the journey leading up to the trip was amazing. I spent days talking with students about the excursion. They were excited, curious, and surprisingly focused. Honestly, it became one of the best behavioral management tools imaginable.

And when we finally got to the zoo? The kids were incredible. They stayed in line, listened carefully, followed directions, and were genuinely having a blast.

Then, at approximately 1:35 p.m.—right when we were almost done—a switch flipped in nearly every child.

“I’m tired,” one student announced dramatically before clutching my arm like they could no longer physically walk.

“When are we going home?” another asked, instantly spreading the exhaustion to everyone within earshot.

Even one of my most high-energy students burst into tears and whispered, “I want to go home.”

What the kids didn’t realize was that every adult there was holding back tears, too. We were exhausted. Completely done. We just wanted to get everyone safely back to the bus.

And when we finally did? Relief.

We had made it. Everyone was safe. It was time to go home.

But then, somehow, a final burst of energy hit the kids. Maybe the excitement of the day finally caught up with them. Suddenly, they were yelling again, bouncing between seats, talking over each other like tiny overcaffeinated podcast hosts.

Oddly enough, the whole experience reminded me of preparing for my latest art show.

While painting late into the night, rewatching episodes of Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt, I was in complete bliss. I was locked into that magical flow state artists chase forever.

The work was coming together.

But the moment I got to the gallery and unloaded the paintings, I crashed emotionally. I was done. Completely depleted. I couldn’t think about the work anymore. I was tired, cranky, overwhelmed, and ready to crawl into bed. The show hadn’t even opened yet, and somehow I already felt finished.

And now, on the day of the opening, I can feel the energy returning.

I don’t know what the future holds for these pieces. I don’t know what opportunities will come from them. But I know I did my best. And more importantly, I had an amazing time creating them.

Making art feels a lot like riding a roller coaster. There are incredible highs and exhausting lows. Moments where you feel unstoppable, followed immediately by moments where you want to quit entirely.

But if you can walk away knowing you survived the ride and gave it everything you had, then maybe it was all worth it.

I have always felt blessed to be an artist—whether I was “just” an artist or an artist juggling several other jobs to survive. The ride remains chaotic and unpredictable, but I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

And sometimes, “Welp, I tried my best” is more than enough.

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Walking is one of the most important things in my life. During the pandemic, it literally saved my sanity and gave me something else to do besides begin happy hour at 3 o’clock every day.

Being outside and walking the same two-mile circumference around my house felt like a doable accomplishment. It was also a very private time to think about my to-do list and other projects.

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But recently, I stopped living in my head and on the phone and began to appreciate the gift of my little Black body roaming outside. I enjoyed the liberation of exploring new parks and forests, and the minutes and hours flew by as I climbed a mountain or hill.

But over the past several months, I have been locked inside my studio trying to finish one of the biggest moments of my professional life—a solo exhibition. And to add to the irony, the show is about Black folks exploring the outdoors.

Things were going great until I just hit a wall. I didn’t know what to do. I was stuck, and then I remembered: the thing I was creating paintings about, I wasn’t doing.

So I got up and took a walk. First to my local store, and then around the neighborhood. Since it had been a while since I walked like that, I was winded quickly—but also excited by the prospect of reengaging with old haunts and streets. And just like that, ideas began flowing again. I could see the rest of my show.

I am not sure what will happen during this show—if people will come, if any pieces will be sold. But I do know the works are as close to the feeling I get exploring the real outdoors. And that is the only win that matters to me.

If you’re in DC beginning May 17, I’d love for you to come see my show with the Nicholson Project. And if it moves you, go outside and take a walk of your own.

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Okay, it’s already March, and I am already feeling stretched. Normally — especially in certain political years — it feels like time inches by. But the last two months have been very busy for me.

I’m making progress on my first solo exhibition, which will share the name of several of my other creative projects this year. Under Open Sky is a labor of love — discovering the connections and reconnections Black and Black Queer people have with the land.

I’ve also been trying to reopen my shop this spring. I’m not doing this randomly. I’m doing it as part of a strategic plan to make sure I’m working on my art on all fronts. And to do that means stretching myself.

As an artist, I’ve always found myself stretching to the occasion. As an author, I had to stretch to write my first novel, then my second. And when my second novel was rejected, I had to write a third before my contract ran out. I pulled it off — and I was exhausted.

Me and my big mouth told the world I’d be working with wood panels and large formats for this current project — and now I’m stretching to do that too.

But if I’m being honest, I’m stretching in every area of my life. I may be pushing extra hard, maybe trying to make up for decades when I wasn’t as productive. I know trying to catch up with life is like trying to catch up on sleep after weeks of insomnia — it just doesn’t work that way. Still, the pressure for that next stage of life is real.

And while I don’t have a lot of resources, I still have my work ethic — and I still have this period of life. Stretching now feels different. And if I’m being honest — and boasting just a little — I’m having better success as I stretch in this phase.

Maybe that’s because of a few things.

First: your fifties.

Yep, I said it. I’m 53 and it feels amazing. In your fifties, you are not the center of attention anymore. The eye of the media and advertising storm isn’t really directed at you. Sure, you’ll still get commercials about improving your A1C, but have you noticed the shift?

In movies and TV shows you’re not the main character anymore — you’re the crusty uncle or auntie who guides them. Maybe you watch reality TV and nobody looks like you.

Well — that’s because we live in a youth-obsessed culture that centers the young.

But honestly, that’s great news.

Because that gaze being directed somewhere else gives me freedom to be yourself.

Age has also given me focus. I’ll hopefully have many more trips around the sun — but realistically, far fewer than I had earlier in my life. That reality has me focusing on what I want to accomplish and the work I want to get done.

I wish I were one of those people who told you this is the time to really around friends and family, and that they are the most important thing.

For me… It’s always been about exploring and questioning the world through my work. That’s what gives me the most joy — the next project.

Of course, I love my family and friends. They know that. But they also know I always have something running in the background.

And not to contradict myself, but I feel super young, sexy and vital, and alive. I feel like I can conquer the world, and I’m excited that I still have the energy and focus to try.

So even though I’m stretching myself, it feels like I’m in a very sophisticated yoga pose — the kind that’s going to be good for me in the long run.

And I’m excited to keep stretching and see what comes next.

I didn’t intend to write a post on Valentine’s Day. And I definitely didn’t intend to write about love.

The love marketing machine is in full swing today, and I didn’t mean to contribute to the madness.

But…

Love, much like the house in a casino, always wins. So here I am.

And love hasn’t been unkind to me. I got married. I’m doing all kinds of work that I genuinely love. I have friends I adore. A life I’m grateful for. All of that is true.

But one social media post humbled me—ground me down into a sobbing mess.

Most people of a certain generation know who James Van Der Beek is, one of the standout stars of the teen drama Dawson’s Creek. Like a lot of actors from that era, he kind of stayed frozen in time in my mind. A person from another season of life.

But when news broke this week that Van Der Beek had died—so young, from cancer, at only 48—it hit harder than I expected.

Not just because of the tragedy of it.

But because of a video he posted shortly before his death.

In the clip, Van Der Beek talked about the identities he’d held onto his whole life: actor, father, husband. He talked about how those labels gave him purpose, even pride, even comfort. And then he said something that shook me.

When he got sick, when he could no longer perform those roles the way he used to, he was left sitting with a terrifying question:

Who am I without all of that?

And then he said this:

“I am worthy of God’s love simply because I exist. And if I am worthy of God’s love, shouldn’t I also be worthy of my own?”

That line was a gut punch.

Not because it was new. I’ve heard versions of that idea before. But because this man—standing at the edge of this earthly plane—was able to see something so simple, so clean, so undeniable.

Meanwhile, the rest of us are out here exhausting ourselves.

We stay busy. We continue producing. Creating. Working. Hustling. Chasing love. Losing love. Trying again. Trying harder. Trying to be worthy. Trying to be impressive. Trying to be chosen.

But the love Van Der Beek was talking about wasn’t complicated. It wasn’t transactional. It didn’t require you to earn it.

It was just acceptance.

Acceptance that you are enough.
Acceptance that there is nothing else you need to do to be loved.
Acceptance that there is nothing you need to prove to love yourself.

That might be the bravest thing I’ve heard in a long time.

And that’s the kind of love I want to carry with me as I move forward.

So this Valentine’s Day, I’m not sharing cards. I’m not pushing products. I’m not posting anything cute or romantic or curated.

Today, I’m taking a moment to sit in God’s love.

And I’m going to take the time to love myself, too.

And guess what?

You can do that too.

I can’t believe we’re already in February! January felt like a flash of light.

Pop!

Then gone.

Now, in a new month in 2026, I’m wrangling with big ideas, big projects, and my big mouth.

This spring, I have my first solo exhibition with the Nicholson Project. This is the culmination of my six-month stay in the organization’s studio in the middle of Ward 7. It was so much fun to explore new ideas during that time. Now it’s time to transition from Ideation Island and move to Progress Boulevard.

But the storm and the freezing temperatures have slowed all progress. I’m just now getting the energy to push forward.

And that desire, that need to push forward, reminds me of a recent trip to Great Falls. It was right before winter announced itself. The ground and the grass were still visible. I remember being very excited by the idea of taking a longer hike. Usually, we tapped out around three miles. This one was double that, if I remember correctly.

My excitement continued until we began walking. My body started arguing with me the moment we embarked on our first hill.

“Why are you doing this?”

“You’re too old for this!”

“You should have bought that treadmill, and you could be watching Stranger Things as you walk.”

Even though I prided myself on walking around my neighborhood and easily snatching 15,000 steps on a normal day, this journey was harder than I imagined. But we kept walking. We kept talking. We kept laughing. And sure enough, we reached the end of our journey. And, it felt amazing.

As with all big hurdles, the feeling after you’ve done it is magical. That’s when all of this became simple.

You’ve heard it a million times, but sometimes it takes hearing it differently, from a different person, for it to sink in—so here I go.

The BIG IDEA is fun because it lives in your potential. It’s cradled in the loving embrace of the imaginary. It’s perfect. Once you move toward the thing (the art exhibit, the book, the article, the fill-in-the-blank), it becomes real.

And reality is boring.

It’s laborious.

It’s a constant battle to stay on that path.

But if you stay on that path, you will finish. And you usually end up better for it. The things you discover along the way are truly worth more than whatever it is you set out to do.

So am I scared about this exhibit?

Yep.

Am I going to trudge along to get it done?

Absolutely.

Because I can’t wait to meet the new me at the end of this journey.

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If you have a big project you are working on, I would love to hear about it.

This post marks the beginning of my ongoing series, Under Open Sky, a blend of field notes, reporting, art, and reflection on how Black and Black queer people are reclaiming the outdoors through recreation, walking, farming, camping, art, and environmental justice.

Recently, my partner and I have been making an effort to get outside more often. Part of it is to escape the house-shaking noise from the helicopters that fly over our heads daily. But a large part is the sort of urban suffocation you sometimes may feel in megacities like Washington, D.C. Most of my entire adult life has been spent in big cities: Atlanta, Chicago, New York, and Los Angeles. I gobbled down images of city life growing up and couldn’t wait to live in a major city.

My hometown of Milwaukee wasn’t a country town by any stretch of the imagination, but I think it lacked, for me, the glamour that bigger cities provided. And I don’t regret a single decision to live in these places. The ability to try to forge a name for yourself and the simultaneous possibility of complete anonymity were huge draws for me.

Dating-wise, I don’t think I would have connected with so many beautiful souls if I hadn’t made the leap of faith to go east, or west, and back east, and then northeast again. Even as an artist and writer, the communities I built or joined were in large part due to my proximity to big cities.

I love the walkability of my current neighborhood and the ease with which I can jump on a bus, train, or bike around the city. And as a culture snob, I love having free access to many of the world’s greatest museums right here in D.C.

Living in cities has given me so much. And I am very grateful. But as I get older, I can’t help but wonder: What did I lose in the process?

On a recent trip to Mississippi to visit my partner’s family, I found a little bit of what I was missing. Durant, Mississippi, is a small but sturdy town in Holmes County in what I believe is the central part of the state. We had to fly into Jackson, Mississippi, then drive another hour just to get to the family property.

When we crawled up the gravel driveway to the main house on the family land, I knew things were different. Despite a flurry of family chatting and catching up, the majority of my time there was spent in silence. I walked around the property, first on the road, then through fields and woods. The quiet and solitude felt louder than the sirens, Dodge Chargers, and motorcycles back home in that moment.

On one walk, I passed a herd of cattle, which stopped at the sight of me and watched as I moved along the fence that protected me from them, and them from me. As I continued my walk, I heard young family members down by the lake, ecstatic that one of them caught a fish.

“Someone record this!” one kid screamed, his voice riding above the hill I watched them from. These simple moments outside were so foreign to me. But I know I have experienced them before. I know I went camping as a kid. I was in the Cub Scouts (I did grow up in the Midwest, after all). But it was hard to unearth them from the lockbox of my mind in that moment.

It was clear that I had chosen to be a city mouse many moons ago. Now, however, I was having a change of heart. Or at least I was becoming more interested in the other side of my choices.

So a month later, when my artistic mantra arrived at my doorstep—A shelf full of books; a wall full of art—I suddenly had a lens through which to view my vocation. Over the past several years, I’ve seen and read about Black folks reclaiming their right to live in and explore the great outdoors, whether that is walking and hiking more, camping, running a farm, or fighting for environmental justice.

I have had such an amazing time exploring what cities have to offer. I think it’s time to adjust my viewpoint to see what nature has to offer Black folks.

Now, of course, there are some very historical and systemic reasons why I may have looked at city life as the only way to find success or freedom in this country. But I know there are other stories out there for Black folks, and that is the space I want to cover.

Wish me luck as I dig into this space.

Question: Is there a big project looming in the back of your mind? Is there some pressing question you want to investigate through your art, or just quietly for yourself? Hit me up, and share what mystery currently excites you.

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Under Open Sky is a slow, ongoing exploration of Black and Black queer life outdoors—through field notes, art, memory, and movement. Subscribe if you’d like to spend more time here.

So many people I know are greeting the passing of 2025 like a houseguest who overstayed their welcome by about 11 months. From a bird’s-eye view, it wasn’t a great year for many individuals, communities, or—depending on who you ask—the country.

I carried a sense of dread about the future like a weighted blanket, slowing me down at every turn. To distract myself from the political upheaval and general madness, I retreated to my safest place: work.

Work has always been my haven—my distraction, my escape. Even in jobs I hated, I could lose myself in the process. This year, I said yes to almost every opportunity I could find.

Art projects. Teaching—both elementary school and artist workshops. Illustration. Freelance writing. Grant writing. I did everything. And honestly, it was a relief to have money not be the traumatizing force it has so often been in my freelance life.

But by the end of 2025, in my attempt to distance myself from the world through work, I found myself doing the very thing I complain about with my students.

“You’re doing too much.”

Just… too much.

And as much as I will die on the hill that multihyphenates exist and are deeply misunderstood in this culture, there is a limit to everything. So when I could finally afford a few days over the holidays to do absolutely nothing, I took stock of what my body, mind, and soul were trying to tell me.

As I wrote my morning pages—The Artist’s Way style—something kept surfacing. At 53, I am firmly in middle age. But I still feel young. I still feel like I have meaningful years ahead of me. Work that matters to do.

The difference is this: I am no longer mostly potential. I’m living in a very lived-in body. My future isn’t theoretical anymore.

My future is now.

So what do I want from it?

A phrase kept rising to the surface:
A bookshelf full of books, and a wall full of art.

I already have those things, of course—so what was I really saying?

Oh.
I want to write a bookshelf full of books.
I want to cover walls and walls with my art.

That felt clear. Direct. And it made something else obvious: going forward, everything I say yes to needs to move me closer to that reality.

This year, I’m not interested in making a long list of goals. I’m more interested in getting honest about what I want to do with my life—and letting that mission statement guide my decisions.

If I’m in the workforce for another 20 years and stay true to that mission, I’ll be good.

Now comes the hard part: staying true to it.

I already have an idea I want to expand on, and I plan to use Substack as my main landing space for this next phase of my work.

We’ll see how it goes.

For now, as Rachel Maddow would say: watch this space.

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I have a problem settling down.
I have a problem picking one career.
I have a problem staying in one city.
I have a BIG problem making a choice.

Or at least, traditionally, I have in the past. Call it the Libra dilemma. This is why I was a little nervous about taking on a visual arts residency at the Nicholson Project. It was the opportunity I had been praying for—a space all my own. For six months, I had the opportunity to ideate, create, and think about big projects. That was the goal.

I imagined huge paintings on wood that would take up an entire wall. I imagined scores of collectors would hear of the work through—what, osmosis?—and come banging on my studio door, begging to add my pieces to their collections.

That did not happen. Instead, something more important happened—a sort of breakthrough of the mind. I was breaking through the first, but most important, hurdle as an artist. I was able to identify as an artist. But more importantly, I was able to identify as an artist with multiple disciplines.

I was able to see myself as an artist even if I need a day job, or two.
I was able to see myself as an artist who sometimes can’t create anything.
I was able to see myself as an artist who embraces false starts.
I was able to see myself as an artist who sometimes makes paintings all night.
I was able to see myself as an artist who teaches.

As the year and my residency draw to a close, I feel like I have accomplished a great deal. I learned that being an artist is a practice of discipline and daily attempts to try different things. I learned that working in a community is better than working all by myself. No one can guarantee sales. But success is how you define it.

Now, I do have big pieces I’m working to create, and a recent trip helped me focus on how to execute my vision (more on that later). And I did make A LOT of art. What was more important, however, my residency gave me the time to be my imperfect self and figure out how that transformation affects my work.

And if you can get up and do the work—no matter how much or how little—every day, you are an artist.

ON AN UNRELATED NOTE

This Substack is about to make some major changes. I’ve really enjoyed my time here and want to devote more time to cultivating my relationship with the folks on the app. I have a large—no—VERY LARGE—project I want to work on, and I think Substack is the perfect place to launch it. I am terrified about it, so I know it’s a good idea. Until then, I have a couple more posts before the end of the year.

See ya soon.

When people say they want to be an artist—well, when I say it—I’m often fantasizing about the idea of already creating the work. I catch myself daydreaming about being someone like Amy Sherald, walking through her gallery like she did recently on 60 Minutes.

I’m in awe of her work, her color palette, the way she sees the world. But I tend to forget—until I’m reminded—what makes her work so powerful: the decades of unrecognized, unacclaimed, ignored effort she put in before becoming “Amy Sherald.”

That stretch of time is where the real stuff happens. You make mistakes. You follow promising ideas down dead ends. You start projects you don’t yet have the skillset to finish the way they looked in your head. You make work so ugly you want to throw it away. In the end, art is a game of volume and time.

Over the past few months, I’ve been deep in my own version of volume and time over at The Nicholson Project, where I’ve had a studio space. It has been amazing to have a place to ideate and noodle around with ideas—but once I sat down to actually create, it was a tough season of making bad work. Work that didn’t fit my vision. Work that, by the time it hit the canvas or archival paper, looked nothing like what I imagined.

But that’s the point.

Recently, through a fellowship, I got to work with high school students on pieces inspired by the “magic of everyday life.” It sounded simple enough. We used the same tools I relied on as a full-time journalist: we journaled, then interviewed one another to draw out small details that mattered to our stories. Those details became the breadcrumbs we followed in our art.

It was an intense two days that ended in some incredible work by the students. I made a piece too. Even though I wasn’t thrilled with it, it finally cracked something open for me—how I want to use collage, acrylic paint, and words together.

I say all this to say: these past months have been filled with focus, ideating, drawing, sketching, and hours and hours of creating “meh” work. Not work that made me feel great about myself—work that led me to an opening where I can start to find my best work.

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You only get there through volume and time.

I’m excited for what the next few months, years, and decades will bring to my practice. Whatever comes next will be seeded by the work I’m putting in right now.

Where are you in your art journey? How do you think about those long hours of not-so-great work on the path to your craft? Shoot me a line—I’d love to hear.

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I am a dreamer. I can walk through my neighborhood every day and notice the slow-changing leaves, neighbors waving hello in the afternoon. But most of the time, I’m walking through an imaginary world where all my artist projects hover just over my head.

I love that world. Everything there is complete. It looks great. People love it. But the truth is—it isn’t reality. If I want to be a working artist, I have to push those imaginary pieces through the meat grinder we call life.

Over the past several months, I’ve tried to do just that. I’ve had some success with illustration and art projects I’m proud of. Still, many ideas remain stuck in the pages of my journal or sketchbook, never making the leap into what I like to call Earth 1.

For a while, I felt guilty about this. How could I write stack after stack of to-do lists, fill spreadsheets with product ideas, and still not push past the planning stage?

But when I look back at my career as a writer, I have to give myself some grace. When I was writing novels and articles, there were hundreds of ideas and projects I never finished. Only a select few made their way through my subconscious, caught the attention of my conscious mind, and spilled onto the page. Then the real work began.

As I get older, I’ve come to understand: many beautiful ideas, perfectly executed in the mind’s eye, are never meant to make it to the forefront. And the few that do? They’re meant to be there.

As a journalist—especially a freelance one—I had scores of pitches that never made it past my notebook.

Now, my goal is to ensure that the ideas I can’t let go of are nurtured into reality, and to be okay with letting some dreams drift away.

I’d rather bring a few meaningful projects into the world—pieces I feel confident and comfortable sharing—than overwhelm myself (and others) with a sea of underdeveloped ones.

So I no longer feel bad about unfinished projects or unfulfilled dreams. They’re not failures. They’re bridges, carrying me closer to the ones that matter most.

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Thanks for reading! If this resonates with you, I’d love for you to join me on this journey of art, ideas, and bringing things to life. Subscribe above for weekly reflections, process, and projects.

Hey folks,

It’s a short one this week as I gear up for some big things in the coming weeks. But before we talk big, I wanted to revisit something that’s been on my mind lately: line work.

When I first decided to follow my passion and become a full-time artist, I gravitated toward my earliest inspirations—comic books and, more importantly, line work. I would draw people, places, and things, then fill them in with color. However, as I took more classes and studied other artists, I noticed that lines were becoming less prominent. In their place came shape-based drawing, with only a few strokes to indicate gesture.

At times, it almost felt taboo to lean too heavily on lines in my own work. But recently something has shifted. I feel myself slowly returning to line work, and honestly, I’m not mad about it. When I start with pen, I capture so much more of the energy I want than I do with an unsteady brushstroke. There’s a personality in those lines that I’ve been missing.

I don’t quite know yet where my lines will land stylistically (pun absolutely intended), but I’m excited to explore. With Inktober right around the corner, I’ll be leaning into this part of my practice and seeing what comes out. My goal is to stay open, free from judgment, and let the work lead me.

We’ll see where the lines take me.

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Thanks for reading—if you enjoy following along on this journey, I’d love for you to subscribe and share this newsletter with a friend who loves art too.

Hey Friends!

I planned to get this out weeks ago, but I was doing what the headline says, getting my rest. So much more to come, but for now, enjoy!

As a freelance artist and entrepreneur, the idea of vacation can spark a range of emotions. On one hand, the need for downtime is pivotal to being creative and working effectively. On the other hand—if we’re being honest with ourselves, especially in the early stages of our careers—the idea of work-life balance can feel like a bit of a myth.

I find that those who push for rest as a priority have often already reached a level of success where not looking at their computer doesn’t automatically equate to losing money. That’s not my life just yet. But I still have to find ways to center rest in my life.

This past week, I think I found a happy medium. I was a plus-one to a plus-one invite to Martha’s Vineyard. Just getting to the island was a meditation in patience. My husband and I drove a car across much of the East Coast, boarded a ferry, grabbed another Uber, and finally arrived at one of the most stunning houses I’ve ever seen. The entire place was designed for comfort and relaxation, and our wonderful host was incredibly generous with the food, drinks, and amazing company.

During this trip, I got to do exactly what I wanted on vacation: watch hours of mindless television (thank you, Apple TV’s Acapulco), exercise, ride bikes across the island to get my Larenz Tate in The Inkwell moment, and take aimless walks listening to my favorite music.

That’s not to say work didn’t come up—I still had a couple of deadlines, but I managed to schedule them between lounging and laughing. They weren’t at the top of my list. I was at the top of my list.

On the way back to DC, my husband and I stopped at Longwood Gardens—an 1,100-acre garden complete with dancing fountains and open meadows. We spotted American goldfinches and monarch butterflies roaming around as if they owned the place.

During the entire trip, I didn’t draw a single thing. Instead, I took it all in—trying to engage all my senses so I could remember it later. I feel filled up now, ready to keep creating.

Rest looks different for everyone, and you have to find what works for you. For me, doing absolutely nothing for a week wouldn’t work. But finding that middle ground—enough to feel inspired, relaxed, and surrounded by amazing people—is exactly what I need to keep going in this world.

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How do you define rest? Tell me what your perfect “happy medium” vacation looks like. I’d love to share some of your answers in my next newsletter.

I want to talk about time—but first, I need to talk about food—namely, my lack of discipline around it.

Oh, I’ve talked a good game for years about how I’m an “eat to live” person, not a “live to eat” person. And maybe that was true… until I hit the age where my metabolism went on strike. Suddenly, I was 20 pounds over my ideal weight, and I looked completely different to me. (I know many people go through serious weight journeys, and this might not seem like a big deal in comparison, but we all have our own paths—so just follow me on this one.)

So I did what many men do: I ran to the gym and worked out like crazy.
And voilà—nothing happened.

It wasn’t until I sat down and took real stock of what I was consuming—actually recording every meal, every cocktail, every late-night pantry pilgrimage for a fistful of chips—that I started to see the problem.

Turns out, I do live to eat. I lived (and in some cases still live) for potato chips, pretzels, three-cocktail nights, and cheat weekends full of McDonald’s, pizza, and fries. My plan of attack—the gym—was no match for what I was doing during the other 23 hours of the day.

Now I’m on a different road.

I record everything. And I’ve noticed that if I swap out chips for watermelon or grapes, I feel pretty good. I can still eat huge portions—but without the huge setbacks. I even found an AMAZING (and I mean amazing) sparkling tea to replace weeknight drinks. It’s nonalcoholic and less than 160 calories a bottle. A bottle.

I’m about a quarter of the way back to my “old” body, but I have a renewed idea of why I’m doing this—and how to get there.

At the same time that I’m navigating weight and aging (welcome to Gen X), I’m also juggling major illustration projects—both commissioned and personal. I’ve set a lot of goals for myself. And, just like with my weight, I’m seeing progress.

My portfolio has 12 new pieces I actually like. I’m doing work I never imagined I’d get paid to do. I’m still trying to transition my art career into something that can financially sustain me—and I’m not quite there yet. And that’s okay. Because I’ve figured out how to use time to my advantage.

I record all my projects. I map them out in my calendar, in my journal, and in this very long Google Doc. I check in on my progress every day. I’ve cut out scrolling on my phone during work hours (the artist’s equivalent of potato chips) and replaced it with reading a book.

Time is scary—because it’s so precious and so finite. But, as counterintuitive as it might sound, tracking how I use it (or waste it) has helped me reach real milestones in my creative life.

So let me ask you:
Do you keep track of your time?
How do you get the most out of your working and creative hours?

I’d love to know.

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If this resonated with you, share your experience in the comments—I'd love to hear how you manage your time, your goals, or your cravings. And if you know someone who’s juggling creativity, career, and health too, forward this post their way. Let’s work on ourselves together!