It was 2007, and my garage smelled like turmeric, old coffee, and the kind of hope that only comes when you're broke but believe in your bones. That's where I hung my first exhibition. Not in some white-walled temple of high art, but in the space where I kept my tools, my sketches, and my dreams.
The lighting was just string lights strung across the ceiling, casting shadows that danced like the rhythms of Kendrick Lamar's verses. Every canvas was a story, every brushstroke a heartbeat. And the coffee? Oh, the coffee was always too hot, burning my tongue but keeping me awake long into the night.
"Every mistake's a chance to teach somethin' new."
I remember the first time I hung a piece crooked. My hands shook, my heart pounded, but I didn't stop. I adjusted, I learned, I grew. That crooked canvas became my teacher, just like the cracked slab that taught Albert the true meaning of patience.
The visitors? They were neighbors, friends, strangers who wandered in because they heard about the girl with the paint-stained hands and the fire in her eyes. We talked about art, about life, about the colors that make us feel alive. And every time someone stopped in front of a piece, I felt like I was winning the lottery.
That show didn't make me famous. It didn't fill my bank account. But it taught me that art isn't about perfection—it's about the journey, the mistakes, the moments when you think you've failed but you're actually just learning.
Now, when I curate exhibitions for emerging Black artists, I remember that garage. I remember the coffee, the string lights, the crooked canvases. And I remember that every crack in the floor is just another chance to grow.