About The Artist

The best writers don’t write. The best writers are artists, painting pictures more vivid then anything the retina could ever process. Their words carefully crafted to create landscapes and portraits Michelangelo and Raphael never touched on. Granted a picture is worth a thousand words, but you give me a thousand words and I’ll give you a masterpiece.

But first, a self portrait.

J. Gatz is not a person. J. Gatz does not eat, sleep, breathe. J. Gatz, rather, is a state of being. It is a thought, a motive taken on by a person. He is the derivative of one Jay Gatsby. I am not Gatsby, however, and I am not great. So, please, don’t bring false accusations against me about embodying Mr. Gatsby. In no way am I trying to resuscitate a legend. Gatsby is great because he is dead, and so I leave him…dead.

But J. Gatz is alive. He lives in me. And not just me, no, Mr. Gatz lives in anyone who clings to the past. Who sees what happened as better then what is to come. Gatz lives in the few who dare to wade against the waves of time to find themselves in a place of what once was. Who loved, lost, but won’t let go. He is those who cherish the sand in the bottom of the hourglass and lose sight of the grains slipping through the neck.

J. is the lover. He is the product of pain and casualty of soft lips. His forte: the backseat, Achilles' heel: the backseat. A believer in shooting stars, cursed to fall for women who solely believe in shoes and cars. He is the swagger behind the step, the twinkle in my eye. J. is the anonym, the antidote to the anomaly. Although an arrogant aristocrat, he is still amiable, agreeable, and affable. The antiseptic to allegations, my ambitions and aspirations. Shall I move onto the B’s? Not yet. I am the alternative alleyway. The adaptation and absolute.

I am the author.

I am the artist.

I am J.