The “27 Club” is often spoken of with tragic reverence—a list of artists who burned bright and left early. Jimi Hendrix. Janis Joplin. Basquiat. Amy Winehouse. All gone at 27, but each left behind a legacy that continues to ripple across time.
I was born on November 8, 1956. If I had died between November 8, 1983 and November 7, 1984, I would have technically joined the 27 Club. But truth be told, at that time, I hadn’t yet created a meaningful body of artistic work. I hadn’t yet spoken in the language of paint or light or dream in the way I was meant to.
But today is June 20, 2025. I’m 68 years old, nearing 69. And I’m declaring this my new 27 Club birthday—the first day of a fresh 27-year chapter. If I’m lucky enough to reach the end of it, I’ll be nearly 96. And whether or not I make it all the way doesn’t matter. What matters is that I begin. Now.
Those original 27 Club members created astonishing work in a short window. I now have that same amount of time—27 years—not at the start of life, but at the edge of deep experience, hard-won insight, and a lifetime of stories. I carry decades of living, loving, hurting, healing, and wondering. I see differently now. I feel more. I care less about what others think and more about what truly matters.
So, while others may say I’m past my prime, I see it another way: I’m finally in my prime. This isn’t the decline. It’s ignition. The next 27 years are not leftovers. They are a creative era with as much potential as any youth had at 27.
Starting today, I commit to building a body of work as meaningful and rich as any created by those who left too soon. My new 27 Club isn’t about death—it’s about defiance. It’s about rebirth. It’s about finally becoming the artist I was always meant to be.