My art makes its home. It began quietly—scratched into the corners of notebooks, hummed softly on long nights, pieced together in words and sketches that no one else ever saw. Over time, those fragments—lines, sounds, sentences—became a world: a shy pufferfish who finds his courage when it matters most, a mopey whale who carries kindness even while carrying his own sadness, a jellyfish who floats unimpressed through the rush of the world. These characters are more than drawings.
They are songs I’ve never stopped singing, stories that refused to stay silent, rhythms that echo the soft thud of a curious heart. Through illustration, music, and words, I build small, strange worlds—each one a doorway into a feeling we’ve all known: wonder, loneliness, hope, the quiet ache of growing up, the fragile bravery of starting again.
Before I was an artist, I wore a different uniform. I served, I wandered, I tested my limits in places that taught me how fierce and fragile life can be. But life after service left me with wounds you can’t always see. Living with PTSD and chronic pain slowed my steps, but it also opened my eyes. In the stillness that followed, I found something I’d been missing—stories waiting to be heard, colors that wanted to speak, songs that needed to breathe.
Becoming a father deepened that search. My family became the heartbeat behind the worlds I create—the reason I value the small, magical pauses in life even more. I’ve come to believe that the most powerful stories are the ones we can share across generations: tales that spark a child’s imagination and, at the same time, remind an adult what that spark feels like.
Art, music, and storytelling are how I stay in motion now. They are how I reach across the quiet and say: Here is a piece of me—does it sound like you, too?
For children, what I create is an invitation into wonder: a melody that feels like a secret, a picture that lives between the page and the imagination, a tale that makes the night a little less dark. For adults, it’s a quiet tug at memory: a reminder that creativity isn’t lost as we grow—it simply waits for us to return to it.
I don’t make art to fill walls, or songs to fill silence, or stories to fill shelves. I make them to create pause. To give people—whether three or thirty or seventy—just a moment to stop. To listen. To breathe. To feel something real, however small.
Whether you meet my creations in a children’s book, a song whispered late at night, a Webtoon panel, or a painting that watches quietly from your wall, I hope they find you where you are—busy, hopeful, tired, restless—and carry you, even for a heartbeat, somewhere softer. Somewhere a little more magical. Somewhere that reminds you the world is still full of hidden stories… and that you have one, too.
If any of this speaks to you, stay a while. Explore. Listen. And maybe, when you’re ready, share your story too—because this isn’t just about my art. It’s about the spaces we create together.