Autobiography.

Every person carries an unwritten autobiography inside them. We are all archives that no one else can fully read. For a while, I kept coming back to the same thought. We don’t write by hand as much anymore. Almost everything we say now passes through a screen. Faster. Cleaner. Easier. I don’t think that’s a bad thing. It’s just different. Handwriting asks for your time. It carries your pace. It carries your mistakes. Even before you read the words, you’re already looking at something that belongs to one person and no one else. I’ve wanted to work with that for years. Autobiography is the first of many on chain in an ongoing series where handwritten notes become part of the portrait itself. I wasn’t interested in illustrating a story or revealing something hidden. I wanted the writing to exist the same way a scar, a wrinkle or a gesture exists. As part of the person, not an explanation of them. A portrait can never tell us everything about someone. I don’t think it’s supposed to.