The Origin Story: Art That Refused to Die

 

For years, I walked away from art. Not because I didn’t love it, but because the world around me was brutal on my heart and mind. They called it rushing. I called it ideas rushing through my mind that I had to get out quickly—I drew those ideas before school, during school, after dinner, and in secret notebooks I hoped no one would find.

In a highchair, crayons in hand, drawing with a toddler’s urgency, on walls I wasn’t allowed to decorate, admiring the room of my cousin Kim, whose drawings became my private museum of Black girl power. It begins next to a quiet 4th-grade classmate named Mary, whose sketches taught me that the body—especially the Black woman’s body—was sacred, fluid, and worthy of being drawn again and again.

But my love for art would be challenged again and again. Teachers punished me not for poor work—but for finishing too fast, so they claimed.  Even though they would admit that my art had surpassed their example. My talent was measured not by its impact but by how long I could pretend to struggle. 

I was wrongfully taught that great art required my suffering, delay, and ultimately—death. My high school guidance counselor informed me that I’d have to die before my art could live.

I believed them. I gave up my dream of being an artist and pursued journalism instead. But letting go of art nearly killed me. Literally. The absence of creation fractured my sense of worth, blurred my mental health, and dimmed my life force.

And then something wild happened.

In 2020, when the world paused, art called me back. I discovered NFTs—not just as a tech trend, but as a new sacred space. The blockchain became my gallery without a gatekeeper. Suddenly, the idea that my work could outlive me wasn’t tragic—it was thrilling. My art could be traded, collected, remembered. Not because I died, but because I lived.

I’m back now. Different, deeper, wilder.

I’ve created many works that reflect societal impact and survival. I move across mediums—digital, mixed media, traditional—with a spirit that channels memory, healing, rebellion, and joy. My collections speak in layers: of color, code, archetype, ancestors, emotion, and dream logic. No two collections are the same. When I look at each collection, I think to myself, my art also has dissociative disorder. 

Each piece I mint is more than an image—it’s a signal. A time capsule. A story encoded with a meaning only the viewer knows.

Collectors: if you’re not just looking for art, but for meaning that moves through time, energy that survives systems, and a voice that refused to be silenced—follow me.

This is my reclamation. And it’s just getting started.

Thanks for listening — Janel.