WHAT I’D SAY IF YOU ASKED
" This isn’t a real interview.
It’s a conversation I imagined—questions crafted by ChatGPT to help me reflect on my path from engineering to art.
I didn’t expect it to feel this honest.
But somehow, stepping into a make-believe interview let me say the things I hadn’t quite found words for—until now."
Q: What led you to transition from engineering to becoming a full-time artist?
I spent years in a demanding engineering role—leading teams, solving complex problems, always moving at full speed. There were challenges and exciting moments that kept me going, but over time, the problems started to feel repetitive. The spark was gone, and the work no longer felt rewarding. After a string of management changes that made the day-to-day even heavier, I found myself counting the years until retirement.
I wasn’t planning to quit. I kept telling myself it was just a phase. Leadership changes happened all the time—I’d seen it before and assumed things would eventually improve.
But while all of that was happening, something else was quietly taking shape. I was painting more and more—and getting better. I had enrolled in the Mastery Program from the Milan Art Institute, and what I was learning gave me something I had never truly felt before: confidence in my skills. And with that came a stronger desire to finally embrace what I had always dreamed of.
It still felt like a dramatic leap—but it was also the result of a slow, steady shift. Until one day, I reached the moment I always knew would come: the point where I could finally say, I’m a professional artist. And even though it didn’t make perfect sense on paper, I knew I couldn’t keep waiting.
It was time to jump.
Q: Did your engineering background influence your approach to art?
At first, I didn’t think they had anything in common. Art felt like freedom—no rules, no pressure, no calculations. But over time, I started to notice the overlap. The problems are different, yes, but painting still requires problem-solving.
Sometimes it’s about fixing a composition that feels off. Or making decisions about contrast, balance, or movement. You try something, then have to figure out how to make it work—or how to cover it up without losing what’s underneath. That process is surprisingly close to what I did in engineering: identifying issues, testing solutions, refining outcomes.
And I actually like that part of it. I’ve realized I tend to create extra chaos in my early layers—on purpose. I make a mess just so I can solve it. It keeps me curious. It keeps the painting alive.
Q: What was the hardest part of transitioning to a full-time art career?
Surprisingly, it was unlearning the habits of my corporate life.
A few months after leaving engineering, I realized I was still operating under the same pressure-driven mindset—setting unrealistic deadlines for myself, pushing nonstop, and feeling guilty when I wasn’t “being productive.” I had left the job, but the job hadn’t quite left me.
It took time to recognize that I was still in anxiety mode—just in a different setting. I had to actively teach myself how to slow down, how to experience time differently. I’m still learning to take in the world at a softer pace, to notice the small details that make it surprising and beautiful.
I’m still figuring it out—how to be in my day without constantly trying to optimize it. I’m learning to pay attention to what grabs me, what stirs something in me, without rushing past it.
Q: Did you ever try to convince yourself to stay in engineering?
Many times. I told myself I was close to retirement—just a few more years and I’d have fulfilled my role, secured what I needed to contribute to our future. I kept rationalizing it, convincing myself that staying was the responsible thing to do.
But no matter how much I tried to make it make sense, the conviction never lasted.
The day I finally quit, I was exhausted. I had no motivation to go to work, no excitement for the projects I was leading. I got in the car and started my usual commute—only to turn around halfway there. It felt pointless. Heavy.
After I made the call to resign, I went for a walk. And for the first time in years, I actually enjoyed it. I wasn’t trying to fix anything or make the job more fulfilling—I was just walking. My mind felt quiet. Calm. Like something inside me had finally unclenched.
Q: When did you first feel like an artist?
I think I always felt like an artist. What I lacked was a voice.
That’s part of what kept me in engineering for so long. I was a good engineer, a good supervisor—I knew how to solve problems and handle pressure. There was comfort in that role, in being competent and reliable.
But as an artist, I felt like I was always experimenting—moving between media, styles, and techniques. I was learning, yes, but I couldn’t quite see me in what I was making. It took a lot of letting go, a lot of practice in surrendering control, before I started to catch glimpses of my voice in the work.
The first time I truly felt connected to what I created was when I finished In My Garden—from my Imagined Garden collection. As I looked at it, memories of childhood flooded back—days spent playing with my cousin at her house, making up small adventures. That painting held all of it. It felt personal, unfiltered. It was the first time my art spoke back to me—and the first time I really saw myself in it.
Q: How does your personal journey reflect in your art?
I think my art mirrors the way I’ve come to understand life. Imagine life as a building. You start on one floor and learn how to navigate it. Things happen—unexpected, messy, sometimes overwhelming—and you have to make sense of the chaos that’s thrown at you. You go through it, pick up new skills, new ways of seeing. And eventually, you’re ready to move up to the next floor. Sometimes that takes longer than expected. And that’s okay.
My paintings are layered the same way. The first layer is pure freedom—just me throwing anything that comes to mind onto the canvas. I try not to get desperate 😊. I rotate it, look at it from different angles, searching for something to work with. Then I start building the next layer. Each layer brings more clarity. Each decision shapes what comes next.
I don’t usually start with a clear plan. The plan shows up after the chaos. And that’s the part I love—turning something wild and unpredictable into something that feels grounded, intentional, meaningful. It takes resilience, acceptance, and a bit of courage. You have to live with the unexpected effects of what you made before—and let them be part of the story.
Final Thoughts
Reflecting through this imagined interview helped me connect some dots I didn’t even know were waiting to be connected—how my past shaped my present, how my painting process mimics it.
This wasn’t about reinventing myself completely. It was about listening more closely. Making space for something that had always been with me.
If you're standing at the edge of a change, wondering whether it’s too late or too risky, I hope this reminds you: the shift doesn’t always happen all at once. Sometimes, it comes in waves. And sometimes, the answers only arrive once you let yourself be ready.
