Street art found me before I found it. The idea that a flat wall could trick the eye into perceiving depth—that two-dimensional surfaces could feel three-dimensional—became an obsession. When anaglyphic 3D technology (the same red/cyan stereoscopic effect from classic 3D cinema) crossed my path in 2014, the application was immediately obvious. Spent months mastering color separation, spatial planning, and scale—figuring out how to make walls breathe.

I became the first artist globally to apply the technique to large-scale murals, turning a technical curiosity into a signature style that made every wall a dimensional experience.

I never approached a wall as a blank canvas for self-expression—approached it as a responsibility to the community it belonged to. Every mural was research first: local mythology, cultural symbols, what the space meant to the people who walked past it daily. The Naga serpent in Thailand, the Mother Dragon in Vietnam, the Bengal tiger representing Khon Kaen's strength—these weren't designs imposed on spaces, they were gifts rendered in paint. Street art's affirming nature is what drew me to it: unlike gallery work behind closed doors, murals meet people where they are, beautifying neighborhoods while demanding nothing in return.

Street art remains one of the most powerful platforms available to any artist. No gallery gatekeepers, no collector networks, no pay-to-play. Just a wall, paint, and every person who walks by it for the next decade. This accessibility is what makes it radical—and why I stayed committed to it while building design studios, leading product teams, and founding nonprofits. The walls were always running in parallel. Baltimore's creative community needed murals, interior activations, and large-scale productions—and for over a decade I was the along the top few locals that delivered them.