Brenden Matthews

I was recently banned from Rover, a specialized craigslist website for finding pet sitters and dog walkers. They didn’t specify why exactly, though I know the walker claimed my dog bit her. I find this claim suspicious since my dogs have never bitten anyone before, certainly not hard enough to break skin, and her story contained several inconsistencies.

Yesterday, I took a walk to the Brooklyn Bridge, a notorious tourist trap but also a beautiful and marvelous feat of engineering. I wanted to photograph it (a cliché, I know) so I can make a print for someone as a gift. Hours passed in what felt like minutes. This experience, this immersion in creation for its own sake, is what makes me call myself an artist. So when a friend of mine–who reads this blog–made an off-hand comment critical of the fact that I call myself an artist, I wasn’t offended, but it did get me thinking about: who is an artist? What makes someone an artist? Is it enough to just make art? Do you have to show it? Sell it? Call yourself an artist on your LinkedIn profile?

The year is 2025. I’m turning 40 soon, sitting in a cramped 450-square-foot apartment with thin walls, $50,000 in credit card debt, and a credit score of 646. My financial worth: $100 in liquid assets. My net worth: deeply negative. Five years ago, I was worth over $7 million. This isn’t a story about market crashes or economic downturns. This is a story about human fallibility—specifically, mine. If you’re looking for a cautionary tale about greed, overconfidence, and the psychological pitfalls of sudden wealth, welcome. I’ve lived it all so you don’t have to.

I was sitting on the subway the other day and glanced up from my book to notice something that shouldn’t be remarkable, yet somehow was: every single person in my line of sight was staring at their phone. This wasn’t the first time I’d observed this phenomenon, but something about this particular moment struck me differently. It wasn’t just that everyone was looking at their phones—it was the mechanical thumb-scrolling and the complete disconnection from their surroundings.

I’ve been thinking a lot about boredom lately—specifically, how we’ve become so good at avoiding it. We reach for our phones at the slightest hint of downtime, filling every possible moment with scrolling, tapping, and consuming. It’s as if we’ve collectively decided that being alone with our thoughts is some kind of punishment to be avoided at all costs.