How to hunt the rich: art in the 21st century

In public school I wanted to be a marine biologist. By junior high I was already a book addict, and by high school I imagined myself as a Warholian Hunter S. Thompson. Truthfully, I had no idea what I wanted to become. I just knew I wanted more.

I've always been obsessive, and that obsession eventually became my artistic medium. It demands exhaustive research, complex artistic processes, and complete immersion in my subject matter. Serialism is a modern maximalist language that reflects the technological age while communicating through something timeless and universal.

I've always been fascinated by the impact art can have on culture and on individual lives. More than that, I've admired the fact that great artists did it on their own. That hermetic act of creation has always been central to my attraction to art. Across history, artists have recorded, filtered, and transformed myth, beauty, and lived experience into enduring visual narratives. They become both targets and totems—their works evolving into symbols of truth, memory, and spiritual meaning for generations of viewers.

Today, artists are no longer commissioned to paint for Popes or build monuments for warring kings. Thankfully, Michelangelo never became a photographer, and we'll never have to read a mean tweet from Leonardo da Vinci. Yet since Warhol, the contemporary art market has become increasingly obsessed with celebrity, wealth, and branding. Celebrities masquerade as artists, content creators masquerade as artists, and everyone seems to be partying beneath the same tax shelter.

This isn't about hating the player AND the game. I'm simply not interested in painting Louis Vuitton logos, stacks of cash, or Taylor Swift portraits any more than I'm interested in attending the next Forbes dinner in Dubai. Of course I use Instagram and Facebook to promote exhibitions and connect with collectors. They're tools. The artwork itself is what matters, and it's the only thing that will ultimately endure. Twenty years from now, I doubt anyone will revisit TikTok videos as profound emotional experiences or treasured objects of nostalgia.

I'm far more concerned with shallow art diminishing the potency of art than I am with artificial intelligence. Art has always evolved alongside technology. The camera didn't destroy painting—it liberated it, forcing artists to reconsider realism, the human figure, and the possibilities of the handmade image. AI is simply another technological shift. It won't replace meaningful art any more than a Fleshlight will replace human intimacy.

The people who collect my work aren't looking for a cheap mural to help sell frozen yogurt. They're collectors who often become friends. They live with the work, and I become part of their story as much as they become part of mine. Together we create environments enriched by a shared appreciation for art, history, and the deeply personal experience of collecting original work.

In such a vapid cultural climate, where celebrity has become the dominant measure of artistic success, perhaps the most punk rock thing I can do is return to the masters. To restore the artist's role as both outsider and cultural force by producing timeless work—art that reaches heights unattainable through taping a banana to a wall or worshipping wealth.

By reinterpreting the great Renaissance minds and artistic giants through a contemporary language, I hope to create work that remains culturally relevant while becoming personally meaningful to those who live with it. Art that earns a permanent place not in a storage unit or an investment portfolio, but in a family's home, memory, and history.

The true value of a work of art isn't found in its price tag. It resides in the artist's life experiences and the path they ultimately chose to follow. The life of an artist is one of perpetual exploration, curiosity, and wonder—a lifelong education shaped by experience and by the artists who came before us. Every work becomes an attempt to make that love, knowledge, and lived experience physical.

Of course, the irony is that in this economy, to continue that artistic journey, I must continue to hunt for rich people. As a sole proprietor and small business owner, my greatest advantage isn't scale or marketing—it's producing truly original work and offering an experience that cannot be replicated. My collectors don't simply acquire a painting; they become part of its story. They live with it, share it with friends and colleagues, and often return—not simply to buy another artwork, but because they believe in what I'm building. My goal has never been to create disposable commodities. I want to create works that people seek out, cherish, and pass down through generations.

My ambition isn't simply to stand on the shoulders of giants.

I want to become a giant standing on the shoulders of giants.