The Assignment That Changed Everything

“Learning is a life long process” - My dad

Sometimes your life changes and you don’t recognize it in the moment. 

In 2008 the economy crashed.

The real estate investment firm I'd built a graphic design department for no longer needed graphic design, but because they loved me as an employee, they moved me into IT to fix computers.

I was grateful to still have a job when so many people around me were losing theirs.

But creatively, I felt like my career had disappeared overnight.

I'd always dreamed of working in movies or video games, so I enrolled at the Art Institute and started taking one class each semester to see if I could find a new direction.

I wasn't chasing another degree as much as I was trying to figure out what came next.

After falling back in love with painting in a color theory class, I signed up for Typography.

I wasn't actually interested in typography.

It was general education and as a graphic designer (ex-designer), it just seemed practical.

I figured if I ended up looking for another design job someday, it couldn't hurt.

I had no idea it would change the direction of my art forever.

One assignment, in particular, has stayed with me.

We were asked to illustrate a word using only that word.

The examples were straightforward.

If your word was Bold, make it large and heavy.

If your word was Weight, place it near the bottom of the page so it felt physically heavy.

Then everyone drew a random word.

Mine was Bright.

I immediately started thinking about how I'd illustrate brightness using only the word itself.

The obvious answer was white text on a dark background.

Maybe add an outer glow.

That felt too easy, so I kept thinking.

Brightness only exists because of darkness.

That idea stuck with me.

What if I created darkness by writing the word bright over and over again?

Layer after layer.

Building density the way I'd crosshatch with a pen.

Then I could leave open space in the shape of the word itself.

Less density around the edges would make it feel like the word was glowing from within.

Bright.

My teacher loved it.

I loved it too.

I'd been using words in my artwork for years by that point, but always as texture.

As background.

As something hidden beneath the image.

This was the first time I'd used words to actually render something.

Looking back, that little experiment became the foundation for the word portraits I still create today.

I didn't realize it then, but I'd just stumbled onto an idea that would quietly shape the next 20 years of my life.

Around this same time there was a guy who worked in another office on the floor of my building who had become something of a mentor.

He was retired but still came into the office to work with a few select clients.

We'd sit outside during cigarette breaks talking about life.

One afternoon he could tell something was bothering me.

He asked what was wrong and I admitted that I hated fixing computers.

Then he asked me a question.

"If money wasn't a concern, what would you do?"

The answer came immediately because I’d known since I was a little kid.

I'd be an artist.

I'd paint.

He looked surprised.

He didn't even know I made art.

So later that day I sent him photos of my work.

The next time we met outside he looked at me and said,

"You need to quit your job."

I argued that it wasn’t practical, especially since I’d barely managed to keep mine. 

He said that Money comes and goes. Time doesn't. You have to take risks or you’ll live with regret.

I couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d said  so I decided I wanted to make him something.

A thank you of sorts.

He'd recently been watching a biography about Einstein so we were talking about him a lot. There was a shared admiration, so I decided to start a portrait of Einstein.

Like the portrait I'd made for my dad, I planned to write a letter over it to let him know that what he said meant something to me.

Then I remembered that little typography assignment.

What if I rendered the portrait with words instead of paint?

Better yet...

What if I built Einstein from Einstein's own words?

I gathered quotes that reminded me of all the conversations we'd had together.

Then I spent the next week after work slowly building his face from those words.

When I gave him the finished portrait, he was speechless.

He kept saying he didn't really understand art, but that what I'd made was something special.

A few days later he told me his wife had taken it to a framing shop in Los Angeles.

She loved art.

She knew where to take it.

According to him, the people in the shop couldn't stop asking questions about it.

Who made this?

How did they do it?

Where can we see more?

Then he looked at me again.

"You've got to quit your job."

This time I listened.