Realizing I wanted to live from art was one of the scariest thing I’ve gone through. I cried myself to sleep every night for months, wishing with every inch of my body and soul that my ambitions would be more trivial, that I had the capability of settling down and being happy with a normal life: working from 9 to 5, being married, having two kids. But I couldn’t make it, as hard as I craved it. I couldn’t imagine myself in that routinary scenario. I needed the rush, the creativity, the risks. I ached for a life of feeling every single emotion at its fullest and showing it to the world. And like that, at such young age, I began to fear the ordinary
She is Art. What the fuck do you expect from her, other than confusion, beauty and goddamn soul?
