When I was 14 years old, my mom would drive me to the heart of downtown Phoenix and drop me off in front of a building called The Artery. It had an artist-run exhibition space and in the concrete basement were several studios. I would spend 4-8 hours on a Saturday afternoon making work with this kooky middle-aged airbrush artist.

I remember the skin on his arms looking like it was vacu-sealed to his veiny flesh - and he had one of those thinning rat tails you can only find at a Sci-Fi convention. He would scream explitives at me, like a drill sergeant instructing his platoon, while I dismantled my Iwata HP-C airbrush, cleaned it, and put it back together again. Then he had me spray a grid with hundreds of colorful dots, each varying in size and saturation - until I could steadily control the flow and pressure of the tiny machine. Subsequently, we would talk about what I wanted to make. I dug up a few examples of some things I was really focused on during middle school. Totally hilarious.