At fifteen, I was already obsessed with drawing the things I hadn’t yet done — but fully intended to. My sketchbooks were confessions in graphite: sweaty, unfiltered, hungry. I’d lock myself away, pour my fantasies onto the page, and let my imagination (and other things) run wild. My sheets told stories no one else would ever read. Then, back under the mattress it went — my secret gospel of filth.

Art college blew that closet door clean off its hinges. Suddenly, the world was full of beautiful chaos — greasers and punks and skinheads in bathrooms, mosh pits, and back alleys. I kissed, bit, and painted my way through it all. My fantasies became field research. The early internet became my second awakening: a place to flaunt, flirt, and find others like me. That’s when Drub was born — part artist, part deviant saint, all heart (and maybe a little hard).

To my shock, people wanted what I had. The mythology, the occult, the raw, joyous filth — it all dripped from my imagination onto paper and canvas. Before long, Drub wasn’t just a name; it was an invocation. A promise of kink and color, of sacred smut made holy by brushstroke and sweat.