Thoughts can be a fickle little thang

We have something like 6,200 thoughts a day. Most get ignored. A few we chase. And every once in a while, one small idea makes a big ripple.

The last few years I’ve gone from entrepreneur → freelancer → app developer → artist.

And honestly? It’s been fucking exhausting.

Exhausting from long hours.

Exhausting from disappointment in my progress (or lack thereof).

Exhausting because of the endless stream of ideas about what I should be doing instead of what I am doing.

But recently, for the first time in a long time, I’ve discovered a sense of calm and clarity. Formed an identity around my work.

And with that, momentum. The feeling that I’m finally moving in the right direction, not just spinning my wheels.

This story is about one of those thoughts that wouldn’t leave me alone.

A few months ago, I was asked last-minute to fill in speaking at a data art conference at Harvard.

I felt woefully unprepared. Less than 7 minutes to talk. No idea what to share. Would any of my work be considered “good” by this group of academics?

Frustrated that nothing I make ever feels good enough, I picked a collection I’d made using Strava data. I spoke about my philosophy around design, data, and art, showed these janky little receipts, and asked the crowd to reframe how they perceive personal data

The reception was far warmer than I expected. It gave me confidence, but more importantly, it made me realize something: I had never shown my work in person before.

In high school, you’re taught to show your work. Even if you get the answer wrong, you get credit for the process.

But even if you got the answer right, without showing your work, it was worth less. It was meant to discourage cheating, but really it highlighted that the process was more important than the answer.

That’s what I felt at Harvard. By showing my work, I gave people context. With context, they asked real questions. And I actually liked talking about my work. Way more than the usual “so… how’s the start-up?” my friends lob at me which makes for awkward small talk about how it’s not really a start-up anymore and I’m trying to be an artist full-time.

(Not a shot at my friends. More a realization that I rarely tell anyone about my work. And I endlessly appreciate those who reach out and ask about it!)

So afterward, I had a simple thought: I want to show more of my work in person.

I asked friends in the art space if they’d want to show their work too.

The answers were all the same: “Yeah, but where would I show it? Galleries are a lot of work to get into.”

That left two paths: try to get into galleries, or throw our own.

I chose the latter. It’s easier to throw a party than get invited to one that probably doesn’t want you anyways.

The biggest fear when throwing a party is always the same: will anyone show up?

With five other artists lined up, I figured we could muster 50 attendees. That felt like a win.

50 people really seeing my work for the first time? That’d be pretty amazing!

That was the plan.

Immediately, that plan went off the rails. Hundreds of people started RSVPing. Over 500 people, nearly all strangers.

Now the panic set in. This wasn’t just a showcase anymore. It was an event. What if it was too many people for a small art show! What if the cops showed up and shut us down!!!!!!

And I couldn’t shake the thought: these strangers are meeting me for the first time and they’ll judge the hell out of me and my work.

Me, an artist, throwing a gallery in what felt like a living room. The art was not on white walls. It was on walls with scuff marks, painters tape, and laid out on tables. It had personality.

Would they think I’m a joke of an artist?

The day of, it started to unravel quickly.

I woke up, threw on my finest Frosted Flakes shirt, and headed to Verci a few hours early to set up.

We had ambitious plans: to show a lot of our work, sell prints, give talks, even run an art vending machine.

The morning of, we had prints to finish, demos to set up.

And in all that, I missed the basics: signage for the space, the tables, even my own pieces.

At 1PM, as the first people trickled in, I was still scrambling. Embarrassed, I literally told the first guy who walked in to “go talk to the other artists.” (Shoutout to that guy, he stayed for 5 hours!)

The vending machine? It was empty and half-open with 3 or 4 pieces rattling around inside. It never did come to fruition.

Talks began at 2. They felt even more impromptu than planned. My mom told me I swore too much. One ill-advised Epstein joke on slide 2 bombed. Typos on the slides. And our big demo broke early, leaving most attendees out of the experience.

It felt like a disaster. And I was the face of it.

After the presentations, my family rushed out for an early dinner. Quick waves, no real words exchanged.

My only thought: “damn. Stumbled out of the gates, had a lackluster presentation, failed demo — maybe I really am just the black sheep of the fam.”

My girlfriend missed the presentations too, stuck traveling back from a bachelorette party and arrived late. Honestly, I was a little relieved she missed it.

The Frosted Flakes shirt, which, standing there amid the mess, made me feel more like even more of an idiot.

So there I was, in a room full of strangers and lifelong friends, feeling fraudulent and small. Like this event had become the punchline of some years-long joke of trying this whole art and tech thing.

Thoughts can be a fickle little thang.

We have something like 6,200 thoughts a day.

And this particular one didn’t linger.

The moment passed quickly. People came up to congratulate me. Callbacks to the jokes. Strangers lining up to try that receipt machine.

At first it felt obligatory. Even now, part of it still does.

But I can’t shake it: I’ve never had such kind words said to me, ever.

Strangers telling me they were inspired. My dad sending a touching email the day after. Friends texting long, vulnerable notes about how they’re going to pick up habits they’d neglected.

The other artists? They thanked me for the opportunity, one even calling it a bucket list event.

Inspired? By me? Who the fuck could this mess have inspired?

All I was doing was sharing the work I’ve been tinkering on for years — and giving friends a chance to share theirs.

But maybe that’s the point.

Maybe I missed every single thing that went right because of a few things that went wrong.

What people saw wasn’t polish. It was risk and vulnerability. The f-bombs. The haphazard tables. The crumpled receipts. The Frosted Flakes shirt.

All of it was unapologetically Pete.

If it had been white walls, buttoned-up, everything perfect, maybe it would’ve read as more “professional.”

But it certainly would’ve read as less inspiring.

People even told me the first f-bomb jolted them. What they expected to be a stiff presentation of artists telling them why their art is good suddenly felt more relaxed and fun.

Fun. Imagine that in a white-walled gallery.

I realized: I am not a gallery artist. And I’m also not some “fuck the free world” rebel either.

The work I want to make isn’t meant to sit on some white wall just waiting for critics and collectors. It’s meant to sit in the same spaces people actually live in. Spaces where they can bump into it, touch it, laugh at it, let it spark something.

Art that feels experimental and alive, not just preserved behind thick glass.

That’s what my work has always been about: people, the environment around the piece, storytelling.

You don’t tell stories in white-walled galleries. You tell them on couches, over coffee, in the middle of everyday life. As part of life.

Does that mean my work will never live in a gallery? Or be judged by critics? Of course not. I very much hope galleries and critics welcome the work one day.

But its home is somewhere else: in the hands of people, not some arbitrary collector or marketplace.

And that’s consistent across everything I’ve made: the viral Spotify apps, the walking-distance apps, even the pieces that rely on sensors.

All of it reflects the people who interact with it.

This all started with a tiny idea: what if I just showed my art in person?

It wasn’t perfect. It was messy. It was chaotic. Most importantly, it happened.

And that’s the point. All too often we wait for big ideas with polished roadmaps and clean rollouts. But there’s something beautiful about the small ones. About exploring, failing, and seeing what works in action.

We have about 6,200 thoughts a day. Most come and go. A few stick. And sometimes the smallest, seemingly inconsequential, ideas are the ones worth following.

So if you’re wrestling with an idea, no matter how small: give it some daylight. Give it time. See what it becomes.

It might just be the thing that gives you the direction you’ve been searching for all along.

There’s plenty of room to improve the next show. Better signage. Demos that don’t crash. A few less f-bombs, maybe. And a clearer way to share and support the work.

But the plan stays the same. We’re just artists showing our work to anyone who wants to see it.

That’s the identity I’m leaning into. Someone whose work is best shared in progress, in personal spaces, and, most importantly, with people.

The next event will carry that same spirit. Maybe it’s back at Verci, maybe in a coffee shop, maybe in someone else’s home. The place matters less than the feeling. It isn’t an art show for the art world’s sake. It’s an art show for people’s sake.

(there is some joke for Pete’s sake in here but I digress)

And most importantly, anyone is welcome.

Lastly, thank you to everyone who showed up last weekend, or has ever shown up for any of my work, whether online or in person. I love you from the bottom of my heart.

To show up for someone, whether they’re family, a stranger, or a friend, is simple but it’s also immense. I felt that love and I don’t take it lightly, no matter how small you think the action is.

I took this week to catch up on sleep and ease back into a few healthy habits. Back in the gym and logged some miles on the ole heel-toe-express.

The vision ahead is clear. I want to make art, share it, and allow people to experience this weird little corner of the world I am trying to build.

To do that means planning how I want to follow-up v 1.0, how I want to talk about it online, and finding the right partnerships.

I made a short little recap reel, and set-up some meetings for this next week to show the work elsewhere.

Now the main focus is my most hated job: content.

I need to share my damn art online the same way I do in-person.

Any creators who have tips for me to share my work more consistently, or have thoughts on the idea of this work-in-progress artist identity, please HMU.

Digital Signatures by Conrad is so simple yet soooooo good. This is something where I look at it and I’m like goddamn how no one every think of this before.

Below is mine! Create yours here.