About the artist

I was born and raised in a flat corner of southern Illinois — cornfields to the horizon, and not one flicker of hope in sight. I was the sensitive, creative kid, the strange one, the one who tried to fit into the land around me and never quite did. I found relief in coloring books, sketchpads, the glow of the television, as three women — my mother, my aunt, my grandmother — raised me.

As far as childhood goes, much of it is blocked out. I stare into the distance within myself, and there’s a black void. The good and the bad, all of it black. I draw everything on top of that.

Home was heavier than a child should have to carry. My father was absent, but his hands were rarely quiet. He left marks that never faded, and the consequences of being his son have rippled on through the length of my lifetime. They swirl around in my body and crash as a wave breaking through my face with Tourette’s. Embarrassing, and Dad loved to make fun of me for it. He loved anything that wasn’t me. My love for drawing and coloring began back then. My reason for it flourished.

By the time teenage years appeared, art became my escape hatch. My pressure valve. My refuge. By high school, the art room wasn't a classroom anymore — it was a hiding place with good lighting. Surrealism was my native tongue. A language built for secrets, for dreamscapes, for worlds where I finally got to write the rules. In the world outside, things happened to me. On the canvas, I happened to things. And in the way that things unfolded, I haven’t seen my dad since I was 15. My best friend died in a car accident when I was 16. My high school crush and dear friend died in a car accident when I was 17. Grief, sorrow, anger, pain, and suicidal inclinations have been my companions ever since then.

For over twenty years, making art has been teaching me how to be human. One honest brushstroke and line at a time. It taught me how to feel things all the way through, and how to give shape to emotions that never had names. The kind that feels like my heart is held by the talons of a raven.

I learned to treat the canvas like a friend I trust completely. No pretending. No staying inside the lines. No plan drawn ahead of the feeling. Just a place to spill what needed spilling, and wander the unlit wilderness of myself without a flashlight. I painted my way through that very long, dark night.

My hands move on instinct now, not foresight. I feel my way through a painting rather than think my way through it — and there is a whole world of difference between the two. Life has always made more sense to me in surreal images: strange, layered pictures that hold more truth than any tidy explanation could. I learned to translate the tangled, beautiful language of being alive — especially its loudest griefs, and the love that outlives the person who gave it.

Every piece I made became a paper trail back to myself, although it was never the whole map. My paintings, drawings, and journals were like different trails through wilderness — each picture a place I stood, a fire I sat beside, a weight I carried for a while before setting it down. My scars run through every brushstroke. Actual wounds on display. The paintings held my heaviest years so I could move on with my life and heal. They remind me that I walked through the fire and came out the other side. I’m happy to be here. And I’m happy to move on.

Wolves, Wilderness, and What Keeps a Heart Online

In my twenties, I learned that becoming whole takes more than making art alone in my bedroom. Writing found me. Photography found me. And then exploring the outer wilderness found me. And it found me in that bone-deep way that makes you wonder how you ever lived without it. It felt like I was being introduced to myself.

My husky, Levi, came too — equal parts wolf, philosopher, and full-time drama queen. He is my studio assistant and adventure companion, reviewing every piece with the withering gaze of someone who has opinions, delivered mostly through theatrical sighing, and he has never once been wrong about when it's time to stop working and go outside.

Together we've slept beside fires under mountain skies, wind moving through the pines as we hear owls and coyotes trading verses in the dark. Those nights have healed parts of me no paintbrush ever reached. Mountains don't perform. Rivers don't pretend. I never had to stand next to an Old Pine and be edited. I never had to hide my shadows as I gazed into the setting sun lighting up both our worlds over the Pacific. There is something clarifying about spending time around things that have no interest in criticizing you — and I've built my present-day creative life around chasing that particular kind of honesty, acceptance, and belonging. It looks neon as a sunset.

Evolution of an Artist

One of the lessons I’ve learned in recent years is that art isn’t just about me—it’s about us. I'm no longer selfish with my artwork and am considering an audience and what kind of art they might enjoy having. The golden moment remains the same: when you see a piece of yourself in my work, and something stirs inside you as joy and encouragement. We’ve all had dark nights, long roads, and heavy hearts, and it takes all of us to remind each other it’s just a bad day and not a bad life. I don’t want my work to just be art on a wall—I want it to be a spark, a conversation, a shared understanding. The friendships I build with my collectors are treasures! And I strive to create a legacy of integrity, loyalty, and real human connection and acceptance between us through my art.

And then, there are the holographic stickers. These? These are pure joy to make. My inner child is a ‘90s kid, and if there’s one thing I never grew out of, it’s the sheer delight of reflective, rainbowy stickers. Slapping them on notebooks, skateboards, laptops, water bottles, bicycles, helmets, and basically anything with a flat-enough surface was the childhood flex. I lived for the scratch-and-sniff, glow-in-the-dark, and especially the holographic ones that shimmered like tiny pieces of magic. Now, as an artist, I get to bring that bright, colorful spot of childhood back to my life. My holographic stickers are little bursts of personality to add color and shine to your world as much as mine.

Life Right Now

I am still here, not painting as much, still dreaming more than ever, and having a lot of fun drawing illustrations on my iPad using Procreate. Art is my way forward and always has been. Every purchase of my work helps me reclaim my life, piece by piece, breath by breath. It allows me to keep healing from Lyme disease and keep building my world in Flagstaff, Arizona.

With the deepest gratitude—thank you for supporting a living artist. And his dog.

Sincerely,

Weston & Levi