When I stand in front of And All That Jazz, I don’t just see a canvas; I hear a roar. I wanted to capture that specific, electric moment in history where the world stopped walking and started to sprint.

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For me, this piece is a rhythmic collision of everything that defined the early 20th century. It’s about that raw, unfiltered energy that happens when old foundations crumble to make way for the new.

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I painted the thriving cities not as static buildings, but as a vertical surge. You can see the skyscrapers reaching upward—those jagged, ambitious lines of steel and glass. Speaking of which, the steel industry is the literal backbone of this work; I used industrial textures and metallic hues to represent the heavy, clanging strength that allowed us to build toward the clouds.

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I wanted the viewer to feel the rush of automobiles blurring past. There’s a sense of kinetic motion in the brushwork — a nod to the first time humanity truly felt the thrill of mechanised speed.

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And then there’s the music. Musical  innovation — specifically Jazz — is the soul of the painting. It’s syncopated, messy, and brilliant. I tried to visualize the sound of a trumpet blast breaking through the air. This was the Prohibition era, after all — a time of underground rebellion where the tension between the law and the party created a unique, frantic heat.

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The world was shrinking and expanding all at once. This shift wasn't just technological; it was human. You’ll find the echoes of changing social mores — the breaking of old traditions and the birth of a more liberated, albeit chaotic, social fabric.

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For me, this was an exercise in artistic exploration. I didn't want to just draw a picture of the 1920s; I wanted to paint the feeling of a decade that refused to sit still. It’s a celebration of that beautiful, industrial, jazz-fueled cacophony.