29 x 22 inches, acrylic on canvas
Acrylic on Metal

The subway car moves like a mirror through the underground—a vessel wrapped in noise and color, every layer of paint a heartbeat left behind. “Love Yourself” bleeds across the metal in red—raw, imperfect, human. The message doesn’t whisper; it shouts from the motion and rust, cutting through the static of passing lives.

There’s something beautiful about the contradiction: this declaration of self-worth sprayed over a machine meant to carry everyone else. It’s public yet deeply personal, a secret confession turned into a broadcast. The letters run slightly, maybe from rain, maybe from time—but that only makes them more honest.

The phrase becomes less a command and more a reminder that self-love isn’t polished or still. It’s layered, like graffiti—built over years, obscured, rediscovered, rewritten. Beneath the grit, the city’s pulse keeps time with the artist’s, and for a moment, the walls breathe. Loving yourself isn’t quiet; it’s defiant. It’s a red echo rolling through tunnels that never stop moving.

29 x 22 inches, acrylic on canvas
Acrylic on Metal

The subway car moves like a mirror through the underground—a vessel wrapped in noise and color, every layer of paint a heartbeat left behind. “Love Yourself” bleeds across the metal in red—raw, imperfect, human. The message doesn’t whisper; it shouts from the motion and rust, cutting through the static of passing lives.

There’s something beautiful about the contradiction: this declaration of self-worth sprayed over a machine meant to carry everyone else. It’s public yet deeply personal, a secret confession turned into a broadcast. The letters run slightly, maybe from rain, maybe from time—but that only makes them more honest.

The phrase becomes less a command and more a reminder that self-love isn’t polished or still. It’s layered, like graffiti—built over years, obscured, rediscovered, rewritten. Beneath the grit, the city’s pulse keeps time with the artist’s, and for a moment, the walls breathe. Loving yourself isn’t quiet; it’s defiant. It’s a red echo rolling through tunnels that never stop moving.