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If you had stepped into my parents' house sometime in the mid-1970s and wandered over to the fridge, you’d likely have spotted a small drawing of a futuristic city proudly pinned under a magnet. It wasn’t just decoration—it was my Father's Day gift.

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The artist? A curly-haired kid bursting with imagination, convinced that a cityscape was the perfect tribute for his dad—even if he wasn’t exactly a fan of architecture. But to my surprise, he loved it. He marveled at the detail, claiming more than once, “I couldn’t draw like that in a million years.”

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I was proud, of course. But even then, I knew the drawing wasn’t magic—it was the result of stubborn patience and endless practice. I had a knack for seeing images clearly in my mind and pulling them onto paper, a skill that felt more like purpose than hobby.

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That quiet drive never left. Through adolescence and well into adulthood, I kept chasing that same pull—refining my craft, expanding my vision, and learning to bring imagined worlds to life.

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