I Believe… [Freedom is a Dirty Word]

...that there is no stable market for meaningful art. There has never been anything resembling such a thing.

...that, if your management style involves an almost non-stop nitpicking over seemingly unimportant details, your style is more about relevance and control rather than improving the quality of the work.

...that art isn’t therapy and it sure as hell isn’t branding. It’s weaponized vulnerability. It’s shouting “I exist!” in a room full of people too busy scrolling to care. The moment you make it safe, you’ve neutered it. Art should threaten comfort like a bad habit.

...that freedom makes people nervous. It upends structure, pokes at authority, and refuses to follow the goddamn script. It’s the wrench in the gears, the chaos in the order, the idea that you might not need permission to exist exactly as you are.

...that hope isn’t soft. Hope isn’t some Instagrammable mantra painted on reclaimed barnwood. Hope is the goddamn middle finger raised to despair’s bulldozer. It’s the smirk on your face as you light a cigarette in the rain after everything’s gone sideways. Hope doesn’t whisper—it dares.