It took me years to paint on anything other than a wall, a fence, or a train. Nothing else felt right—too smooth, too lifeless. The surface has to fight back a little, have a soul of its own.

I can’t paint on something flat. I need to feel it under my hands, rough, raw, alive. The surface has to have texture, history, something real. It has to remind me of the streets, of concrete worn by time, of walls that have stories to tell.

So when I paint on canvas, I make it my own. I build it up with layers, adding depth, chaos, imperfection—until it feels right, until it’s something you don’t just look at, but something you can touch, something that breathes.