I still remember the day I got caught red-handed, marker in chubby three-year-old fingers, turning our hallway wall into my first canvas. The scolding was swift “What are you doing?!” but it didn’t stop me. I just switched targets, sneaking into my dad’s bookshelf to doodle secret masterpieces inside his encyclopedias. When they found those, my father’s stern voice boomed again, only to be met with my mother’s sharp rebuttal: “Don’t be cheap! Buy that kid some paper and something to draw with.” That scrap paper and ballpoint pen she handed me weren’t just supplies, they were the keys to a lifelong obsession with art.

By four, I was already raising eyebrows. One day, my mom sketched a simple turtle and challenged me to copy it. I didn’t just draw a turtle, I crafted a detailed, textured creature that left her stunned. That moment hooked me. Art became my lens, whether I was tracing the sleek curves of Hot Wheels cars or sketching the hotrods my uncle Gary tinkered with in his garage. Those visits were pure magic: the tang of grease, the shine of chrome, and the thrill of guessing what beast he’d bring to life next.