Growing up, my spiral notebook was my sanctuary. I always had major issues with discipline and authority: following the rules was not my jam. And, amidst a swirl of hormones and pressure to fit in, I — like a lot of kids— felt isolated. My sticker-and-scribble-adorned notebook was a private place — a personal retreat where I could color outside the lines without recrimination and be the undisputed master of my own pre-pubescent domain.

My pieces are snapshots in time. Some are just nostalgic forays, while others hint at how torturous it can be to grow up. The work is autobiographical, but I hope it triggers people’s own memories about pint-sized crushes, about that soul-crushing C on a book report that represented hours of missed TV time. By blowing up my private scribbles to a massive scale, and heightening the irony, I’m hoping to juxtapose childish naiveté with the very real, heightened emotion and drama that is as real and earth-shattering as anything we feel as grown-ups.

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