About This Journey

I worked in finance first. Numbers, reports, spreadsheets. The kind of work where you stare at cells all day and forget what sunlight looks like. I was decent at it. It paid the bills.

Then I became a programmer. Code, logic, systems. Different kind of cells, same fluorescent lights. I liked the problem-solving. I liked building things that worked. But something was always missing.

I always wanted to create art. To draw, to paint, to make things that exist for no reason other than beauty. Not to solve a problem. Not to optimize a workflow. Just to make something and feel something.

But life was always too busy. There was always a deadline, a meeting, a bill to pay. Art was "someday." Someday I'll take that drawing class. Someday I'll open Blender. Someday I'll buy a sketchbook and actually use it.

Someday never came on its own.

I lost my job. Just like that. One day you're employed, the next you're not. No warning that feels like enough.

Then mum got diagnosed with cancer.

And my son — he was constantly ill at the time. So my days became full-time care for a sick child, and my nights became shifts at the hospital, sitting beside mum. Day shift with my son. Night shift with my mum. No breaks. No weekends. No "someday."

Suddenly I had all the time in the world — and no time at all.

The world felt meaningless. Everything that seemed important before — the career, the salary, the status — none of it mattered anymore. The spreadsheets didn't matter. The code didn't matter. The performance reviews and the promotions and the five-year plans — none of it. Not a single cell in a single spreadsheet was going to help me sit in a hospital room at 3am and feel okay.

It was during those days — the long days with my son, the quiet nights in the hospital — that I picked up a pen and a piece of paper. I don't know why. Maybe I needed something to do with my hands while my son napped. Maybe I needed to feel like I was making something instead of watching everything fall apart.

I started drawing. Terribly. Like a child. Wobbly lines, wrong proportions, faces that looked like potatoes. Between feeding my son, between checking on mum, between the exhaustion and the worry — I drew. It was embarrassing. It was frustrating.

It felt meaningless.

But that was exactly the meaning.

Creating something from nothing, when everything felt like it was falling apart -- that was the only thing that made sense. There's something about putting a mark on paper that says: I was here. I made this. This didn't exist before, and now it does, because of me.

Art didn't fix anything. Mum was still sick. I was still unemployed. The bills didn't care about my sketches. But art gave me something to hold onto. A small, quiet anchor in a storm that wouldn't stop.

Art helped me be strong. It accompanied my mum through her last days. It kept me sane through the night shifts at the hospital, through the exhaustion, through the grief. And it's still here with me now.

My son is so much bigger now. So much better. When I look at him, I see why I kept going. When I draw, I feel mum somewhere, watching.

I started recording what I learned. Every technique, every mistake, every breakthrough. Not because anyone asked me to. Because the act of writing it down made it real. It made the progress visible on days when it didn't feel like progress.

MasterAllArts isn't a school. It's a notebook — a record of one person's journey through every creative discipline they can get their hands on. Drawing, digital art, 3D, pixel art, game development, photography. All of it.

I'm not teaching from a pedestal. I'm sharing notes from the road. Some of those notes are messy. Some of them are wrong, and I go back and correct them later. That's how learning works. That's what honesty looks like.

Every video on this site is a real moment of learning. Not a performance. Not a script read by someone who figured this out ten years ago and forgot what it feels like to not understand.

The mistakes are real. The confusion is real. The moments where something finally clicks -- those are real too. You can hear it in my voice. You can see it in the work.

That's what makes this different. Not polished perfection, but honest progress. I'd rather show you my actual journey -- stumbles and all -- than pretend I have all the answers. Because I don't. Nobody does.

But I'm walking forward. And I'm writing down what I see along the way.