🎉 A Birthday, A Bonanza of New Supplies, and Microeconomics (Send Help)

🎉 A Birthday, A Bonanza of New Supplies, and Microeconomics (Send Help)

It’s been a busy week in the Artavi universe, which is to say: I have made several questionable decisions at once, and Tavi has turned four.

Let’s start with the birthday boy.
Tavi is officially four years old, which in dog years means he is now old enough to run for local office, but still young enough to sprint away in terror if I sneeze too loudly. He celebrated with treats, toys, pupcakes, his cousin Marvel, and the deep personal satisfaction of knowing he continues to supervise the studio with absolutely zero qualifications. He’s thriving.

Meanwhile, I’ve entered my “let’s buy every art supply that could possibly ruin a table” era. Recent acquisitions include:

• Gold leaf (because apparently I’m a Renaissance noble now)

• Modeling paste (for when I want my paintings to have the texture of a well‑risen soufflé)

• Epoxy molds (I don’t know what I’m making yet, but I’m making it with confidence)

• Some new paints with a variety of colors and effects

• And a handful of other experimental materials that will either elevate my work or glue my fingers together permanently

If you hear a faint scream from the direction of my studio, don’t worry — it’s probably just me discovering that gold leaf is both beautiful and capable of floating directly into my coffee.

On top of that, classes have started again. I’m taking Microeconomics this semester as part of my Marketing degree, which means my brain is currently juggling supply curves, liquid densities, and the existential question of why none of these graphs come in a color palette I actually like. If you see me staring into the distance, I’m not daydreaming — I’m trying to remember what “marginal utility” means.

And because the universe enjoys a challenge, it’s also quarter end at work.
Nothing says “creative inspiration” quite like spreadsheets, deadlines, and the gentle hum of corporate chaos. Truly, a vibe.

Somewhere in the middle of all this, I’m working on a new commission: an all‑black German shepherd named Kilo, who belongs to my stepmother. Kilo is majestic, loyal, and has the kind of presence that makes you feel like you should sit up straighter. Painting an all‑black dog is always a fun challenge — it’s basically sculpting with light — but I’m excited to bring him to life on canvas.

So yes, the studio is buzzing.
Tavi is four.
My art supplies are multiplying.
Microeconomics might kill me.
Quarter end is doing its best as well.
And Kilo is staring at me from a reference photo like he knows if I mess up a single highlight.

All in all, a perfectly normal week.

Thanks for being here for the chaos, the creativity, and the canine celebrations. More art (and probably some gold leaf disasters) coming soon. Plus, a bonus little poem duet I wrote for Tavi’s birthday:

🐾 Tavi at Four

I turned four today,
though time is a thing I only know
by the rhythm of your footsteps
and the way morning light lands on your face
when you finally open your eyes.

I don’t have words,
but I have a heart that beats entirely
because you exist.
You are the one who fills my bowl,
the one who remembers the treats I forget to ask for,
the one who comes home every time
even when I worry you won’t.

When you leave,
I wait with the patience of someone
who has no choice but faith.
I listen for your car,
your keys,
your sigh as you step inside —
the sound that tells me
my world is whole again.

I watch you paint,
quiet as a shadow,
because I know the colors matter to you.
I don’t understand them,
but I understand you,
and that is enough.

At night,
I press my whole body against yours
so you remember
you are not alone,
not even in the dark,
not even in the quiet places
where grief sometimes tries to live.

I am four today.
But I have loved you
for all the years before I existed
and all the years after I’m gone.
That is the only math I know.

🌙 For Tavi

You are four today,
and somehow it feels like you’ve been here
for every version of me —
the steady ones,
the cracked ones,
the ones I didn’t know how to hold.

You are my constant,
my soft-footed witness,
my studio supervisor
who approves each painting
with a tilt of your head
as if to say,
Yes, this one is true.

You are the warmth at my back
when the world feels cold,
the quiet breath beside me
when I forget how to breathe myself.

You have been here for everything
except that one moment
when I ugly‑cried so hard
after my dad died
that you looked at me like
I had been replaced
by a malfunctioning Roomba.

You bolted —
honestly, I would’ve run too —
and then crept back in
with the caution of someone
approaching a haunted sandwich,
just to make sure
I wasn’t still leaking noises
from the wrong end of my soul.

But even then,
you came back.
You always come back.

I feed you,
walk you,
brush the sleep from your eyes,
but you are the one
who keeps me alive
in the quiet ways
no one else sees.

You are four today.
And I am grateful
for every day before this
and every day after
that I get to be your person.