About the Artist

There is a sentence I have carried with me since I was fifteen. It opens my favorite book, and somehow, it has never let go of me.

“Once upon a time, in a land long since burned to ash, there lived a young princess who loved her kingdom very much.”

I grew up in a kingdom that was burning.

I grew up in Ciudad Bolívar, Venezuela, the old Angostura, a city shaped by the Orinoco River, history, legend, and myth. It is a place where the past feels close enough to touch, where stories of revolutionaries and heroes exist alongside legends of fairies and seven-headed serpents. Growing up between history and myth shaped the way I see the world. I have never been able to look at a place as simply a place. I see the stories that happened there, the people who came before, what was lost, and what might still become of it.

Before I left Venezuela, I found art. I studied at the Academia de Arte Miguel Herboniere, where I learned technique, discipline, observation, and the patience required to truly look at something. But while I was learning how to draw the world around me, the world I knew was changing. My kingdom was falling apart, and there was no hero coming to save it.

Eventually, I understood that I had to leave. Perhaps the greatest act of love I could give the place I came from was to leave it, even if doing so broke my heart.

I still carry that history with me. I care deeply about the past, even when it hurts to look at it. I am still finding my way through the anger and grief of what was done to my country, and I do not think I need to erase those feelings in order to move forward. Instead, I explore them through stories. Somewhere along the way, my memories began changing shape.

Today, my work lives somewhere between fantasy, history, mythology, and dystopia. I am drawn to ancient worlds, fallen kingdoms, warriors, forgotten stories, and characters standing at the edge of something unknown. My work carries a classical and mythical feeling, but beneath the imagery is something deeply human. I am interested in what happens when the world we know breaks apart, and what we become when we have to find a way forward.

But underneath all of it, I keep returning to the same questions:

What survives us?

What makes a person keep going?

What do we become after losing the world we knew?

And what does it take to build another one?

My work is interested in the strength that exists inside people who have been broken, displaced, underestimated, or forced to begin again. I don’t paint perfect heroes. I paint people who have been through something. People who are afraid, people who are grieving, people who have scars, and people who stand anyway.

I know what it means to love something that is hurting. I know what it means to miss a place that you cannot return to. I know what it means to carry a past that you did not choose. But I also believe that surviving something does not mean surrendering the rest of your life to it. There is a difference between remembering what was lost and allowing loss to define everything that comes after.

My art lives in that space, between grief and hope, between history and possibility, between the world we inherited and the world we might still create.

I have spent much of my life losing things. But I keep thinking that after losing, and losing, and losing again, maybe one day we could win. And if I cannot make that happen in the world yet, I can make it happen in my drawings. I can give my characters the victories I long for. I can let kingdoms rise again, let the wounded become powerful, let flowers grow where nothing should survive. I can make it happen once, a thousand times, as many times as I need to.

That is why I chose art.

Not to escape the past, and not to live inside it, but to see what we can create with it. Art gives me a way to take the history I carry, the grief I am still learning to understand, and the hope I refuse to lose, and turn them into something new. I can transform memory into story, history into mythology, pain into beauty, and survival into possibility.

I want to live for more.

More than what was lost. More than what happened to me. More than the world I inherited. I want to see what we can create with everything we carry: the memories, the scars, the history, and even the pieces that remain after everything else is gone.

The kingdom in that opening sentence burned. But the princess loved it anyway.

I understand her now.

I know what it means to love a place that is hurting, and I know that loving what was does not mean living there forever. Maybe that is what my art has always been trying to say: we can remember, we can grieve, we can carry the scars, and still choose to imagine something beyond them.