I think that I’m sexy when I drive alone: a quarter life autobiography

One might ask why. Why might the world, or rather, the two or three tutors who will end up reading this, need an autobiography written by a white, middle class, somewhat mentally ill, most certainly neurodivergent, art student such as myself? To that I would rebut, that to write about my work is to write like this, limited academia, no frills, or fancy words, in a voice unapologetically my own. In developing my practice I’ve curated a voice that exists exclusively on my terms, and where better place to exercise that voice than right here, right now, in discussing my art.