Manhattan in Crayon

When I was a kid, I wrote a book about myself as a grown-up art dealer. I lived in Manhattan, drove a Porsche, and wore a suit. Not a cartoon suit, an Armani one. (I didn’t know what Armani was, but the name sounded like something someone important would whisper behind velvet ropes.)

I have no clue where this idea came from.

No one in my family sold art. We didn’t visit galleries. I didn’t even know what “art dealing” involved, something about walking around with a clipboard, nodding at canvases, sipping wine you don’t really like. I probably saw it in a movie, or pieced it together from a catalog ad. But there it was, a whole future life, carefully drawn in crayon and notebook paper.

I wasn't dreaming about being a firefighter, astronaut, or superhero. I was dreaming about having a gallery opening in SoHo and double-parking a Porsche. Honestly, I think I liked the idea of being someone who moved through the world with a kind of effortless confidence, someone with purpose and polish. Someone with stories.

Looking back, it wasn’t about the Porsche. It was about possibility. A fantasy of being creative and respected. Expressive and sharp. It wasn’t childish, it was aspirational, dressed in a slightly ridiculous outfit.

And then, like most childhood dreams, it disappeared. Got buried under grades, jobs, laundry, and deadlines. Years passed. I never moved to Manhattan. I’ve never driven a Porsche. I’ve certainly never dealt art.

Here’s the weird part, the dream came back. Not in the same form, but in feeling. I found myself creating again. Writing. Recording. Editing. Working with ideas instead of objects. Not chasing gallery lights, but chasing quiet moments that mean something. Still hoping to make a mark, not flashy, just honest.

The kid who wrote that book didn’t understand the logistics, but he understood something deeper, that art and meaning and movement could live inside a life. That there’s joy in trying to live deliberately, even if the Porsche gets swapped for a used Honda, and the Manhattan skyline becomes a coffee shop corner with decent WiFi.

Some dreams grow up with you. Others get rewritten. But every once in a while, one circles back. Not to mock you, but to remind you.

Maybe you were never supposed to become the person you imagined as a kid.

Maybe you were supposed to remember how it felt to believe in that person.