The Minneapolis sky was a perfect, crisp blue, a shade my Catholic mother would affectionately call "Mary's Blue." Perfectly pillowed clouds danced in the distance, a serene backdrop to a profoundly nostalgic moment. There I stood, in the heart of the Hollywood Theater – not just any theater, but the historic Hollywood, the legendary Hollywood, the fabled Hollywood. The very same Hollywood that, until recently, had languished in dilapidated silence. As a child, I spent countless hours here, utterly transfixed by the stories that flickered across its slowly molding screen. Movies like E.T., Raiders of the Lost Ark, Ghostbusters, and Back to the Future weren't just films; they were vibrant pigments that colored my childhood, imbuing it with flavor and magic. Sure, not every cinematic gem was a masterpiece – I’m looking at you, Breakin’ (though I admit, my friends and I did attempt some cardboard backspins the next day, a brief, fleeting homage). Still, in those days, Hollywood held a magic that feels far rarer now. Decades later, I found myself back in this sacred space, a witness to its glorious rebirth. The theater had endured years of decay, patiently awaiting the love and substantial investment needed to reclaim its former glory. A quick walk through confirmed it: she was back, in all her majesty. No longer primarily a movie house (though they do host screenings occasionally), it’s now a versatile rental venue. And on this particular Sunday, I was participating in one of its new chapters. It was the day of the Market of the Beast, a dark arts market perfectly suited for my most haunting creations. I call them, collectively, "My October Collection" – a gathering of ghouls, mystics, demonesque figures, and magicians. I'd just finished unloading my pieces, and the two-hour countdown to setup had begun. A quick glance at the other thirty artists’ work confirmed it: my art was right at home. While the load-in itself is never glamorous, I genuinely love the process of building out my booth. It’s like breathing life into a miniature gallery. My secret weapon? A meticulous layout planned and photographed in my own studio the night before. Today, however, presented a delightful curve ball: a corner spot! My initial design hadn't accounted for this, but it was a fantastic problem to have. More wall space meant more visibility, and I could open up one corner of my 10x10 foot "sacred space" for better foot traffic. Sacred space, you ask? Absolutely. For me, galleries are temples, holy ground where the human soul reveals itself. My booth was no less. The unexpected corner did demand a quick flip of my design and a bit of rushed rearranging, but with moments to spare, my mission was accomplished. Just enough time to sprint to the local store for snacks before the doors swung open. Returning, I was met with a glorious sight: a sizeable line of dozens of hardcore dark art enthusiasts, practically vibrating with anticipation. There’s something truly invigorating about seeing a line to get into an art event. This is how it should be! Art, in all its forms – whether an intimate gallery opening, a bustling market, or a grand fair – is one of culture's greatest gifts. It’s where countless hours, days, even months of solitary creation finally meet the public, a moment of profound communication and celebration. So, yes, the anticipation, the desire to be first in line – I applaud it wholeheartedly. It brings to mind other lines: the immense queue for the Van Gogh exhibit at the MIA when I was a child, stretching through the museum and down the block; the lines for fashion shows during Fashion Week, immortalized in the BBC documentary The Look; even, if I’m honest, the lines for Cabbage Patch Kids in my youth or the recent frenzy for tech gadgets at Walmart. Okay, maybe not all lines deserve equal reverence. But for the arts? I’m all in! Even as a gallery owner myself, nothing fills me with more joy (and simultaneous stress) than seeing people line up ten minutes before an opening, knowing I still have forty minutes of work left. But no matter how rushed I feel, the doors always open precisely at 6 PM, and I eagerly, gratefully welcome every single person. And so, with mere minutes to spare, after quick chats with fellow artists, we entered and unveiled our individual sacred spaces to the public. This was Minneapolis’s first Market of the Beast, and while the market for dark and haunting art, and oddities, is rapidly growing, a new event in a new city always carries an element of uncertainty. Yet, the organizers had done their job exceptionally well. I’d seen promotions plastered across multiple social media platforms, and coupled with word-of-mouth, the turnout was a massive success. Did I mention the line to get in? From 1 PM to 6 PM, it was a near non-stop flurry of conversations about art, answering questions, and, of course, selling. As someone relatively new to the fair circuit – this was only my fourth event, and my first indoor market – I wasn’t sure what to expect regarding sales. I’d brought my most signature, often larger and more intricate, pieces (reflected in higher prices), alongside smaller works and, a new addition, signed prints in three sizes. Prints, by far, were the biggest sellers by volume, and I couldn't be happier about that. I’m a passionate advocate for the democratization of art, making it accessible to everyone, regardless of background or income. When I buy original art (which I try to do once a year), it’s almost always through a payment plan. And if an original is out of budget or no longer available, a print is a fantastic alternative. So, yes, prints are my new jam! As the market wound down, I took my time breaking down my booth. Other than the organizers, I was the last artist to leave. I wanted to savor every last moment in the venue that had delivered so much magic in my childhood. I also had the chance to chat with the woman who now manages the theater. It turned out our paths had crossed many times before – which, considering where we were standing, made perfect sense. Northeast Minneapolis, if you know it well, has a curious way of weaving divergent paths back together, facilitating the oddest connections, not over months or years, but across decades. And so, to the universe, thank you for a truly magical summer Sunday afternoon in NE Minneapolis! Cheers!

Have you ever wondered where an artist finds their muse, or what narratives unfold in their mind as they bring a canvas to life? For my painting, "Drift," the inspiration emerged from a memory back to my teenage years, a time steeped in cosmic wonder and introspection. Imagine a 13 or 14-year-old me, tucked into bed on a Sunday evening, precisely at 10 PM. The air would fill with the ethereal sounds of "Hearts of Space," a radio program dedicated to ambient electronica, designed to transport listeners to the deepest recesses of both outer and inner space. As the music washed over me, I'd pore over the latest issue of OMNI magazine, my favorite at the time. Its pages were a gateway to the unknown, brimming with articles on astral projection, out-of-body experiences, UFOs, and alien encounters. All of this unfolded against a backdrop as equally captivating: the lights dimmed, my bed, nestled against a wall adorned with a vast wallpaper mural of the Space Shuttle, effortlessly hurtling thousands of miles an hour, hundreds of miles above the sprawling expanse of Earth. This blend of auditory immersion, speculative reading, and a visually inspiring environment fueled a boundless sense of wonder about the universe. It was from this potent cocktail of memories and sensations that "Drift" was conceived. "Drift": Embracing the Infinite In the stark monochrome of "Drift," a solitary figure stands at the precipice of the infinite. Her bowed head and the gentle slip of her blouse below her shoulders don't convey vulnerability, but rather a profound surrender to the vast abyss that lies both within and beyond. This is the edge of self, the quiet release of ego into the boundless present moment. Within this act of letting go, a deeper strength emerges—a quiet courage drawn from the wellspring of consciousness itself. As you gaze upon "Drift," I invite you to feel the pull of the infinite, to experience the unwavering faith born in the heart of surrender, and perhaps, to glimpse your own boundless potential in its profound stillness. Learn More HERE