This painting marked one of many affirming moments in my life as an artist.
This painting was more than a performance—it was a turning point. It revealed how art could exist not only on the wall but also in the air between the artist and the audience. That understanding continues to influence my work today as I seek deeper engagement.
The roots go back to a night in college, sometime between 1997 and 2000. My first “live” painting occurred at the University of Georgia’s Black and Gold Ball. The bassline of Marvin Gaye’s Sexual Healing flowed through the theater—smooth, deliberate, and impossible to ignore. I was nineteen, full of energy, standing under stage lights with just a charcoal pencil, an airbrush, a compressor, an extension cord, and four sheets of 18-by-24 paper taped together and leaning precariously on a masonite board.
I sketched and painted in the air, lost in the rhythm. The song was barely three minutes long, so I kept asking the man on the mic to rewind it. Each time, I would turn to the crowd with a grin: “THIS IS THE REMIX!” By the end, the paper held two caramel-toned figures, their afros proud, with their hands resting gently on each other’s shoulders—a gesture of connection I didn’t yet realize would resonate throughout my career.
Nine years later, that memory returned in full force. I named the practice NOW Painting, a way to capture life and energy in real time. Over the years, I created more than seventy-five canvases in this style before one evening confirmed its place in my work.
It was 2013, at the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation’s annual fundraiser. I had been booked to create two paintings—one in the foyer, a seated figure in red and blue, and another during the main event. The challenge was steep: two complete works amid constant movement and conversation. Yet this is the essence of NOW Painting—art made in motion, with the crowd as both witness and participant.
Later, I slipped to the back of the room for a quiet look at the finished piece. A man approached me at the bar, introduced himself, and asked, “Do you like Woodford Reserve?” Then, without hesitation, he said, “I’m bidding $10,000 for your painting. Can you paint my family somewhere in it?”
That night, I painted his family into the scene—subtly seated at the left side of the table. In doing so, the work became both a record of a moment and a personal legacy for the patron.
Looking back, both of these experiences—one as a fearless college student improvising with tape and masonite board, the other as a professional artist in a high-stakes philanthropic setting—taught me how art can connect, adapt, and belong to its audience without losing its integrity. This is the spirit I now bring to my current work: a practice rooted in presence, engagement, and the human stories that make art matter.
