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FIND YOUR PEOPLE | JOIN THE COLLECTIVE | CHAPTER 1 COMING 09.2026 | SIGN UP FOR FIRST ALERTS |

We only get one chance

I don't think I've ever been obsessed with the Wild West because of the guns or the outlaws. It's always been something else. Maybe it's the idea that there was once a place where your future wasn't already decided for you. A place where your life could become whatever you were willing to build with your own hands. That idea has always felt deeply American to me, especially knowing that my family came here chasing exactly that—a chance to create a better life than the one they left behind. Whether that dream was always true doesn't really matter. What matters is that people believed it was. Growing up, my dad always had country music playing. At some point those songs stopped feeling like music and started feeling like stories. They were about freedom, hard work, mistakes, love, small towns, open roads, and the kind of life that can't really be measured by money. They painted this picture of America that felt imperfect but hopeful. I think that's what stuck with me. Years later I found myself at Bike Week in Myrtle Beach, climbing onto a mechanical bull for the first time. It's funny how something so small can unlock an old feeling. For a few seconds it wasn't about riding a bull. It was about being completely present, laughing at yourself, trying something new simply because life is more interesting when you say yes. That's where this design came from. The words Ride of a Lifetime aren't just talking about a motorcycle trip or a rodeo. They're talking about life itself. I think we spend too much time waiting for extraordinary moments while overlooking the fact that they usually arrive disguised as ordinary experiences. A concert your dad convinced you to go to. A road trip that wasn't planned. A city you've never seen. A stranger who becomes a lifelong friend. A mechanical bull you know you're going to fall off. Those moments become the stories we tell. The cowboy has always represented freedom in our imagination. Maybe not because cowboys had easy lives—they absolutely didn't—but because they answered to the horizon more than they answered to anyone else. There was something honest about forging ahead into uncertainty with nothing guaranteed except the work in front of you. I don't know if that version of America ever fully existed. But I think the dream behind it still does. The belief that life is something you build. That adventure is worth chasing. That the people you're with matter more than the destination. That freedom isn't something you're handed—it's something you create through the choices you make. Maybe that's why this piece resonates with me. Because none of us get another ride. So we might as well make this one a lifetime worth remembering.

Ride Of A Lifetime
Tombstone

When I started thinking about this piece, I kept coming back to one name. Laughing Sam. Not the person, because no one really knows if there ever was one. Just the idea. Somewhere in the history of the American West, there's a name signed in a book of outlaws. Laughing Sam. No photograph. No confirmed identity. No legendary shootout attached to him. Just a name that seems to disappear as quickly as it appears. I couldn't stop thinking about that. What if the reason no one ever caught Laughing Sam wasn't because he escaped? What if he was never meant to be found? In my mind, he became something different. A ghost that rode into town under the highest sun, when no one expected danger. There were no dramatic duels in the street and no warning shots. You wouldn't even know he'd been there until someone walked into the bank, or noticed a safe standing open, or realized the sheriff was asking questions after the story had already ended. Then he was gone. That's the version of the West I fell in love with. Not the perfectly documented one, but the one built from stories people swore were true. A place where every saloon had a rumor, every canyon had a hidden fortune, and every stranger might be someone running from a past you'd never hear about. History and imagination lived side by side until it became impossible to tell where one ended and the other began. I think that's why the Wild West still feels so dreamlike. It was one of the last places where America still believed there were blank spaces on the map. Somewhere beyond the next ridge there could be opportunity, danger, or a completely different life. Whether those stories were true almost didn't matter. People believed them, and belief has a way of becoming its own reality. Cowboy Killers grew out of that feeling. Not as a celebration of violence, but as an appreciation for the mythology that shaped an entire era. The sheriffs, the outlaws, the wanted posters, the towns that seemed to appear overnight and disappear just as quickly. It's a world that feels familiar because we've inherited its stories, yet distant enough that it almost feels like a dream we collectively remember. Maybe that's why we're still telling those stories over a century later. Some places disappear. Some people disappear. But the myths keep riding long after the dust settles.

Cowboy Killers
Renaissance Continued

I've always found it interesting that every generation thinks it's creating something entirely new, yet we keep finding ourselves inspired by the same things. Flowers have been painted for centuries. Different countries, different artists, different movements, different lives. They survived the Renaissance, Impressionism, Expressionism, and somehow still feel worth painting today. Not because artists ran out of ideas, but because beauty never really becomes outdated. This piece started there. It's a small appreciation for the artists who came before us—for the people who spent their lives trying to capture something as temporary as a flower and, in doing so, made it timeless. Each panel feels like a different voice. Different colors. Different moods. Different ways of seeing the same subject. None of them are trying to replace one another. Together they tell the story of art constantly evolving without ever forgetting where it came from. I think that's true of creativity as a whole. Nothing exists in isolation. Every idea is built on another idea. Every artist borrows something, whether they realize it or not. We inherit techniques, perspectives, mistakes, and obsessions from people we'll never meet. The work changes, but the desire to create remains the same. The surreal quality of the piece was intentional. Dreams don't organize memories chronologically. They stack moments from completely different times into the same room. You might see a centuries-old painting beside something that hasn't happened yet, and somehow it feels natural. That's what this composition reminds me of. History doesn't feel distant. It feels alive, existing alongside us, quietly shaping the way we see the world. Maybe that's why I keep coming back to flowers. They're one of the few things that have inspired artists for hundreds of years without losing their ability to stop someone in their tracks. They remind us that beauty doesn't have to be complicated to be meaningful. Every generation finds its own way to paint the same flower. And maybe that's the point. We aren't here to make beauty from nothing. We're here to add our brushstroke to a canvas that's been growing for centuries.

Painted Flowers
Making it a Reality

I've always thought dreams are funny because they don't really care whether they're good for you or not. The ones that matter have a way of taking over everything. You wake up thinking about them. You find yourself drifting back to them in the middle of work, while you're driving home, or lying awake when you should've been asleep hours ago. They become this quiet obsession that follows you everywhere. That's what this piece is about. The fire isn't meant to represent destruction. It's that feeling of being completely consumed by an idea. A dream can light you up in a way nothing else can. It gives you direction when you have none. It makes long days feel like they're building toward something. It keeps you moving. But dreams don't always keep their promises. Some of them become your reality. Others never happen at all. Some burn so brightly that they become the only thing you can see, until one day you're forced to let them go. The strange part is that even the dreams that don't work out still change you. You aren't the same person after chasing them. You carry the discipline they taught you, the people you met because of them, and the version of yourself that only existed because you believed something impossible was worth trying. Maybe that's the point. Maybe dreams were never meant to be measured only by whether they came true. Maybe their real purpose is to set something inside you on fire. I wanted the figure to feel small because every meaningful dream starts that way. You're standing in front of something much bigger than yourself, not knowing if it'll warm you, guide you, or consume you. You chase it anyway. Because I think living with a dream—even one that eventually burns out—is a better way to live than never finding something worth burning for in the first place.

Burning Dreams