This wasn’t just a fire. This was an altar engulfed. A life’s work, a lineage of paintings—many towering four feet by nine—obliterated in orange flame. These weren’t just paintings. They were mine. They spoke to me. They held my hope. They were my children. And now they were screaming in silence as they burned.
That morning, I had driven to Thousand Oaks to visit family. I had barely arrived when the call came in. My friend—my roommate—his voice shaken:
I flew down the 101 to Main Street in Ventura.
A crowd had gathered. I joined them, numb.
I looked up.
Second floor.
My sanctuary.
Flames licked the sharpened teeth of broken glass
where the windows used to be.
And there they were—my paintings—melting off the walls.
I stood in the chaos, the ash, the heat. And I wept.
But in the midst of the smoke and sirens, a strange stillness filled me.
A voice—clear, calm, from somewhere deep inside—rose:
“Why are you crying?”
I answered, barely breathing:
“Because they’re burning.”
The voice asked again, without judgment:
“Why is that important?”
Frustrated, grieving, I said:
“Because they’re my loves.”
Then came the question that broke me open:
“Why do you paint?”
And I whispered, with the last breath of certainty I had:
“Because I love it.”
The voice didn’t hesitate:
“Then why aren’t you doing it right now?”
I stood paralyzed—struck by the truth.
Then something shifted. My tears dried. My limbs moved. I pushed through the crowd, out to the back alley, my walk turning into a run. I had to get back—to something. Before a door closed forever.
I tore through Ventura’s streets, back to my apartment.
Slammed through the door.
Grabbed the nearest canvas off the floor.
Threw it on the easel.
And I painted.
I painted with everything I had. With everything I’d lost.
And what emerged was The Farmer’s Birth—the first painting in the series The Farmer, The Sage, and Guayasamín.
The first time I told my story on canvas—raw, vulnerable, and unafraid.
That morning, I had driven to Thousand Oaks to visit family. I had barely arrived when the call came in. My friend—my roommate—his voice shaken:
“The salon is on fire.”
I flew down the 101 to Main Street in Ventura.
A crowd had gathered. I joined them, numb.
I looked up.
Second floor.
My sanctuary.
Flames licked the sharpened teeth of broken glass
where the windows used to be.
And there they were—my paintings—melting off the walls.
I stood in the chaos, the ash, the heat. And I wept.
But in the midst of the smoke and sirens, a strange stillness filled me.
A voice—clear, calm, from somewhere deep inside—rose:
“Why are you crying?”
I answered, barely breathing:
“Because they’re burning.”
The voice asked again, without judgment:
“Why is that important?”
Frustrated, grieving, I said:
“Because they’re my loves.”
Then came the question that broke me open:
“Why do you paint?”
And I whispered, with the last breath of certainty I had:
“Because I love it.”
The voice didn’t hesitate:
“Then why aren’t you doing it right now?”
I stood paralyzed—struck by the truth.
Then something shifted. My tears dried. My limbs moved. I pushed through the crowd, out to the back alley, my walk turning into a run. I had to get back—to something. Before a door closed forever.
I tore through Ventura’s streets, back to my apartment.
Slammed through the door.
Grabbed the nearest canvas off the floor.
Threw it on the easel.
And I painted.
I painted with everything I had. With everything I’d lost.
And what emerged was The Farmer’s Birth—the first painting in the series The Farmer, The Sage, and Guayasamín.
The first time I told my story on canvas—raw, vulnerable, and unafraid.