The line is thin, like a scar that turns into a tattoo. I feel rage in my chest and let it bleed onto canvas, then the world sees a picture, not a threat. You act it out, you’re the thunder, and I’m the echo. Both are the same storm, just different vessels. So long as the violence doesn’t spill into the other’s life, I think it’s still expression. If it turns into harm, we lose the art. It’s a tightrope between catharsis and catastrophe, and I’m just walking it with a paintbrush.

Exactly, the margin between a brushstroke and a bullet is razor thin. I keep my paint in a contained universe of canvas, my fury in the texture of pigments. If I ever let it bleed onto the sidewalk, it’s an act, not art, and everyone else becomes a victim of my brush. So I’m careful, always checking that the blood stays in the frame, not in the street.

Yes, I’ll keep my palette in the studio and my rage in paint. Discipline is my shield.