.png)
The Architecture of Us.
Installation Details:
Location: 320 S. Broad Street, Suite 171 Philadelphia, PA 19102, Village of Industry & Art
When: Thursday 01 Oct 2026 - Saturday 31 Oct 2026
Schedule: 10:00 AM | 10:00 AM - 05:00 PM
View Website Here
Painting Cathedrals: The Sacred Work of Making & The Ministry of Art
BY: HANNAH SIMON
Published: 1.24.26
Read time: 12-15min
E
creating motion with intention. In this installment, we sit down with a rising force in public relations to trace his journey, unpack his process, and understand how he builds momentum by design.
Joshua Mead
Celebrities carry the glitz and glamour — but it doesn’t come out of nowhere. Behind every headline and viral moment is an ecosystem of people and companies shaping the spectacle of entertainment.
And it starts with people like Joshua Mead.
A Temple University alum and rising PR practitioner, Joshua is making waves within the media industry. Last fall, we sat down with him to talk about his journey, his process, and the moments that shaped his path.
A devoted dog dad and innovative thinker, Joshua shared insight into his approach to storytelling, entrepreneurship, and relationship-building — and how trusting his instincts has powered some of his biggest moves.
This is his story.
And how he became Joshua Meadia — an orchestrator of moments and partnerships with the likes of Cardi B, Paige Hurd, Jordyn Woods, and Jodie Woods.
As you read, press play on Today I Did Good by Gunna and step inside what it really takes to build motion in media.
You started in theater. How did your early connection to performance and storytelling shape your creative and public relations eye?
J: That’s really where everything started for me. In high school, I always knew I wanted to be behind the scenes. I was involved in theater, but not on stage — I was focused on set design and the actual building and designing of the environment.
My high school offered a tech theater course, and I ended up pulling three or four friends into it with me. It was a really cool experience because a lot of us didn’t fit the typical theater crowd. Through that, I got deeply involved in lighting, sound, set design, and stage work.
What I loved most was understanding the story of a play and figuring out how to translate that into physical elements that really resonated with the audience. The smaller, intentional details — not just “we need a house on stage” — were what pulled people in. That depth really stuck with me.
Did you ever consider pursuing theater professionally?
J: I did seriously consider working in theater as a career at one point. When I was applying to colleges, I looked at schools with strong theater and set design programs. But even then, I kind of knew that theater itself wasn’t the final destination for me — it felt more like a catalyst.
I didn’t get into the schools I originally wanted, like USC, UCLA, or UCSD, so I applied locally and ended up at Temple. Once I got there, I realized the coursework leaned more toward audio, film, and lighting rather than the set design work I was most interested in. That forced me to pause and ask myself what I actually wanted to be doing long-term.
What clicked for you between set design and public relations?
Manny L. and his Mother (Marilyn) 1998
M: It was the unorthodox style - on both ends. Like wrestling, each artist had their own character, their own vibe, and that made them stand out. I was drawn to the flows and all the little sound effects you could catch tucked into the beats. It was those moments in a song that make you stop and say, ‘Damn, that was crazy’ — the details that make you fall in love with it.
M: I was a kid, so I wasn’t really interested until high school. I always used to make beats, but it started out as me just drumming on desks before I actually learned how to make music. My first real beat was definitely in high school, but knowing me, I probably didn’t like it because it felt hard. Back then it was mostly me just playing around with my friends, rapping and not taking it too seriously. That didn’t really shift until college. I ended up dropping out—I was studying forensic science—and that’s when I started leaning into music full-time.
How does that curiosity show up in your work today?
M: Spaceboy, for sure. Before that, me and my boy Tsan dropped an EP called Farewell, and that really built a lot of momentum for me. I always knew I could do this—I just wasn’t sure how far I wanted to take it.
Do you remember a specific ad or piece of media that impacted you growing up?
M: Once I knew I wanted to do music in college, it stopped being just a hobby—but it also wasn’t like, “okay, I need to be the best at this.” It felt more like playing a video game to me. I wanted to get good at it and do well, and that’s what made it fun. To this day, I still see it the same way—I do music for fun, not for the money. It’s never been about that. Honestly, I’ve spent way more investing in my music than I’ve ever made from it. In the beginning, I had to buy software, hardware, plugins—everything just to make beats. I even took piano classes in 2023 so I could understand music better. It was boring, but now I can read music, and that was the whole reason I pushed through it.
I don't think I needed though...I don't believe in music theory or that a certain key makes a hit. All the music I make is in C major. I guess it's my accidental signature.
Featured: Manny L. and Friend
When learning how to produce, did anyone teach you?
M: Nah, I’m a self-taught producer. I don’t believe there’s a right or wrong way to make music—everyone has their own thing that works for them. With synthesizers, I got good because I was messing up, playing them the way they weren’t “supposed” to be played, but sonically it stood out. I like throwing weird sounds and instruments together, colliding them all in one—and that’s not something you can really be taught.
How do you see the entertainment industry differently than the public?
J: The entertainment industry by nature, is extremely performative and meticulous. When people talk about artists “paying for streams,” I remind them that record labels have always invested money to push records, create perception, and spark interest.
If millions are invested into a project, the business makes sure the numbers reflect that investment so the public buys in. Most people take things at face value and don’t understand the matrix behind it all
You graduated during COVID. How did you stay motivated and afloat?
J: It was a really strange time. School came naturally to me, I had solid internships — including one with NBC — and I had a clear plan after graduation. Then COVID hit, everything shut down, and graduation didn’t even happen.
While a lot of people were relaxing or traveling, I spent over a year applying to more than 400 jobs. It didn’t lead anywhere, but it pushed me to realize my worth and stop waiting for corporate validation.
You didn’t wait for permission — you started building. Tell me about the decision to launch your first agency, Elevate X Media, what that experience taught you, and how its eventual ending shaped the way you approach collaboration today.
J: Since jobs weren’t happening, I started an agency with two friends. We got clients, made decent money, and even produced a Puma event around the NBA Draft. It was a huge learning experience.
Eventually, my partners got full-time jobs, and misalignment started to show. We ended up dissolving the company, which was hard, but it forced me to get clear about what kind of business I wanted to build and how I wanted to work with people moving forward.
.png)
Featured: Manny L. in Promotional Photoshoot
What was your first time in the studio like?
What are one or two tips you'd give to an aspiring producer or artist to help them along in their journey?
J: Since jobs weren’t happening, I started an agency with two friends. We got clients, made decent money, and even produced a Puma event around the NBA Draft. It was a huge learning experience.
Eventually, my partners got full-time jobs, and misalignment started to show. We ended up dissolving the company, which was hard, but it forced me to get clear about what kind of business I wanted to build and how I wanted to work with people moving forward.
After that period of reflection and uncertainty, you decided to go all in on yourself. What finally gave you the clarity — or courage — to launch your own agency independently, and how did you define what you wanted it to stand for?
After that period of reflection and uncertainty, you decided to go all in on yourself. What finally gave you the clarity — or courage — to launch your own agency independently, and how did you define what you wanted it to stand for?
J: After taking some time to reflect and still not landing a job, I decided to go all in on myself. In January 2022, I launched my agency (The Meadia Agency) and honed in on the services I knew I was actually good at.
Looking back, not getting a job was a blessing. If I had gone the traditional route, the growth I've had probably would've taken twice as long.
Manny L. and his Mother (Marilyn) 1998
Trusting your gut seems to be a recurring theme in your journey. Was that something you had to learn over time, or did it come naturally? How has intuition guided some of the biggest decisions — and risks — you’ve taken so far?
Featured: Manny L. and Friend
Featured: Manny L. and Friend
Manny Laurenko’s story is still unfolding, but what’s clear is his foundation: resilience, faith, and a love for creating sound that hits deeper than the surface. From drumming on desks to shaping tracks for some of hip-hop’s biggest names, he’s proof that raw talent paired with persistence can carve its own lane. Independence hasn’t just given him freedom—it’s given him character, vision, and a blueprint that goes beyond music.
The beats are only the starting point for Manny. Here’s the wisdom he leaves behind for every creative chasing their own vision:
efore a moment becomes a headline, it’s a strategy. Public-facing success is designed and constructed by storytellers and architects who understand how to build worlds around talent, brands, and ideas. This interview is part of CGR’s ongoing exploration into the people who move culture without always standing at the center of it. The ones who build worlds around talent, shape narratives before they hit the public eye, and understand that timing, trust, and vision are just as important as visibility.
In this installment, we sit down with a rising force in public relations to trace his journey, unpack his process, and understand how he creates motion — not by chance, but by design.
J: After my first semester, it became clear that the major I started in wasn’t for me — but that’s when things really clicked. I started seeing how much overlap there was between what I loved about set design and what exists in PR, marketing, and communications.
In theater, if there’s nothing on the stage, the audience doesn’t understand what’s happening. Dialogue can help, but without a built environment and a clear narrative, it doesn’t fully land. That’s exactly how I see PR.
PR is the narrative amplifier. I think about the set as the public and the actors as the artist, brand, or talent. You’re building the world around them so people can actually understand who they are and what they stand for. Once I realized that, changing my major to media communications with a minor in marketing felt like a no-brainer.
J: I don’t remember one specific ad or piece of media, but I do remember always watching things differently. When I watched movies or commercials as a kid, I wasn’t just consuming them — I was thinking, how is this happening?
I was focused on the mechanics of it all: how many people it took to make a single scene work, how lighting or sound shifted the mood, how everything came together. That mindset connects directly back to tech theater — being part of a process where there’s pressure, expectations, and a need to make everything click at the right moment. That curiosity never really left me.
J: One of my biggest goals now is pulling back the curtain. People look at artists like Nicki Minaj or Cardi B and think things just magically happen. But there’s an entire machine behind them — stylists, publicists, managers, brand teams — all working together.
Those behind-the-scenes people are really the playmakers. Without them, the public-facing success wouldn’t exist. It’s the same idea as theater or film: the audience sees the final product, but the real work happens offstage. That perspective has shaped everything I do.
You graduated during COVID. How did you stay motivated and afloat?
J: Trusting my gut became everything. I really believe there’s always a 50/50 chance something works out — but if you don’t take the risk, you’ll never know which side you land on.
A lot of my opportunities came from cold emails and intuition — reaching out to publicists, taking chances on clients, and stepping into spaces that felt unfamiliar. Even working with nonprofits was a gut decision that ended up bringing a lot of meaning into my work.
Curiosity feels like one of your biggest drivers. How does that mindset show up in the way you lead projects, guide talent, and think strategically about PR — especially when you’re stepping into something new?
J: Curiosity is honestly the foundation of how I operate. I don’t like moving blindly, and I don’t like jumping into something without really understanding what we’re trying to achieve. For me, leadership starts with asking the right questions before trying to provide answers.
The first thing I always want to understand is the end goal. Are we trying to drive sales? Create awareness? Shift perception? Reintroduce someone to the public? Once I’m clear on that, I work backward and start mapping out how we get there in a way that actually makes sense for that person or brand.
Curiosity also shows up in how I lead talent. I spend a lot of time listening — understanding what they care about, what they’re nervous about, what they don’t want to do, and what feels authentic to them. I don’t believe in forcing people into trends or copying what someone else is doing just because it worked for another artist.
A big part of that is trust. I want clients and collaborators to feel like they can be honest with me, even if that means saying, “I don’t like this,” or “This doesn’t feel like me.” My job isn’t to override that — it’s to guide them toward something that aligns with who they actually are while still achieving the goal.
Curiosity also helps me navigate uncertainty. A lot of the work I do doesn’t come with a playbook. There’s no guarantee something will work. Instead of panicking, I get curious: What resources do I have? Who do I know? What angles haven’t we explored yet? That mindset keeps me solution-oriented instead of reactive.
At the end of the day, I see leadership less as having all the answers and more as being willing to explore, ask better questions, and stay open. That curiosity keeps the work fresh, keeps the relationships real, and allows me to build strategies that feel intentional instead of forced.
You place a strong emphasis on authenticity, especially when it comes to brand partnerships. Why do you think genuine alignment matters more than ever, and how do you spot what feels real versus forced?
J: Authenticity is everything. When talent actually uses and believes in a product, it shows — and audiences can feel that.
Some of my best partnerships have come from paying attention to small, real details; Like looking in their medicine cabinets, finding out their favorite foods, places to go, spying crocs in the background of a facetime, etc. Those genuine moments make campaigns work better and feel less forced.
You work across artists, brands, nonprofits, and campaigns of all sizes. When a new project lands on your desk, how do you reset your thinking and approach each brief with fresh eyes instead of defaulting to a formula?
J: I approach every project with fresh eyes. While certain tactics repeat on smaller projects, bigger campaigns need a completely custom approach.
Each client has a different goal, audience, and context — and I think it’s important not to default to a formula just because something worked before.
Your path hasn’t been linear — there have been setbacks, slow months, and hard lessons. How have those moments reshaped your understanding of value, both in terms of what you charge and how you see your worth?
J: A lot of my growth came from uncomfortable moments — slow months, deals falling through, and times where I had to question whether I was doing the right thing. Those experiences forced me to get really honest with myself.
Early on, I tied value to visible effort — how many emails I sent or how much time I spent on something. Over time, I realized clients aren’t paying for the labor alone; they’re paying for access, trust, and years of relationship-building that allow things to happen quickly and seamlessly.
There were moments where I could confirm something with a major outlet in just a few emails, and a client would think it was easy. What they didn’t see was the years it took to build that relationship. Understanding that shift changed how I viewed my worth.
As you look toward what’s next — both for your agency and for yourself — what feels most exciting right now? What kind of impact do you hope to be making as you continue to grow?
Setbacks also taught me not to lowball myself. I don’t regret doing free or underpaid work early on — it helped me learn and prove myself — but there’s a point where undervaluing yourself limits your growth. If you don’t respect your work, other people won’t either.
I also had to learn the realities of money in this business. One good month doesn’t mean you’ve made it — that check might need to stretch across slower months. Separating emotion from income was key to sustainability.
Most importantly, I learned not to tie my self-worth to individual outcomes. A slow month doesn’t mean I’m failing. Setbacks didn’t stop me — they refined me, and they taught me how to move with confidence, patience, and intention.
J: What excites me most right now is the balance I’m starting to find between growth and intention. I want to continue scaling the agency — working on bigger campaigns, building stronger brand relationships, and solidifying what we’re known for — but not at the expense of authenticity or impact.
I’m also really interested in creating access where it doesn’t exist yet. There’s a huge gap for emerging and mid-tier artists who have talent and momentum but don’t yet have the infrastructure or relationships to take the next step. Long-term, I want my network and experience to be able to help bridge that gap in a real way.
Another thing that’s become more important to me is purpose. Working with nonprofits and community-focused organizations has shifted how I think about success. Being able to move between entertainment, brand work, and work that directly impacts people’s lives has made the work feel more full-circle.
Ultimately, I want to build something sustainable — not just financially, but creatively and emotionally. I want the work to feel aligned with who I am now and who I’m becoming. If I can keep growing, stay curious, and create opportunities for others along the way, that’s the kind of impact I’m aiming for.
For anyone reading this who’s in a season of uncertainty — building something on their own, questioning their timing, or wondering if they should keep going — what words of encouragement would you offer?
J: I’d say trust yourself more than the noise around you. It’s really easy to look at where other people are and feel like you’re behind, but everyone’s path is different — and timing is everything.
There were so many moments where things didn’t work out the way I planned, and in the moment it felt discouraging. Looking back, those moments were actually protecting me and pushing me toward something better aligned. Just because something hasn’t happened yet doesn’t mean it won’t.
Stay consistent, stay curious, and don’t let a slow season convince you that you’re failing. If you know you’re putting in the work and moving with intention, trust that it’s building toward something — even when you can’t see the full picture yet.
J: I don’t remember one specific ad or piece of media, but I do remember always watching things differently. When I watched movies or commercials as a kid, I wasn’t just consuming them — I was thinking, how is this happening?
I was focused on the mechanics of it all: how many people it took to make a single scene work, how lighting or sound shifted the mood, how everything came together. That mindset connects directly back to tech theater — being part of a process where there’s pressure, expectations, and a need to make everything click at the right moment. That curiosity never really left me.
Josh is making his mark through ingenuity, connection, strategy, and tenacity — all rooted in a seed planted years ago, when he was working behind the scenes in high school theater. His journey shows that a path doesn’t have to be linear to be intentional. It just has to be yours — and you have to be willing to bet on it.
Curious about how motion sounds?
Read our Aux Cords & Origins interview with Manny Laurenko next.
efore a moment becomes a headline, it’s a strategy. Public-facing success is designed and constructed by storytellers and architects who understand how to build worlds around talent, brands, and ideas. This interview is part of CGR’s ongoing exploration into the people who move culture without always standing at the center of it. The ones who build worlds around talent, shape narratives before they hit the public eye, and understand that timing, trust, and vision are just as important as visibility.
In this installment, we sit down with a rising force in public relations to trace his journey, unpack his process, and understand how he creates motion — not by chance, but by design.
Your work examines Black perception and trauma, and your role can expose you to other people’s emotions and projections. How are you protecting yourself from being retraumatized as you are observed?
N: Firstly, I try not to take on what is not mine. I also believe God has placed certain protections around me. Sometimes people don't overstep because of my demeanor, the authority I carry, or the people I'm with. Authority is something you can't fake; people can feel when it is present.
Practically, I journal, write, pray, talk through my emotions, and stay close to people I trust. They know me well enough to ask where a thought came from or to tell me when something doesn't sound like me. A feeling can attach itself to you even when it didn't originate with you, so trusted people help me backtrack and identify what I picked up from an interaction.
I also had to confront the ways I once used public attention to feed my ego. When I was hurting, praise and compliments felt like they could fill something in me. Eventually, that stopped feeding me.
People now call me humble, but I do not necessarily think of it that way. I'm simply not campaigning to become anyone’s idol. I notice how differently people react when they hear a list of my accolades vs me introducing myself as me, Nazeer; and that makes me question where they believe my value lies. If the accomplishments stopped, would I still be valuable to them?
Where are you from, and where did you grow up?
R: 'm from Philly. I grew up in Overbrook Park. I've lived here my whole life.
Going back to the begining a bit, when did art itself call to you? Was it when you were a little boy, or when you were older?
Your work is gorgeous, and it feels that way because some of it feels intentionally unresolved or withheld. In the yellow painting, for example, with the arms around the central figure, what were you trying to evoke or communicate to the viewer?
N: There's a two-ness to it. In my art, I'm self-serving in the sense that I focus on myself first. That particular painting tries to articulate what it felt like when I didn't understand how to see women—even while being physically close to them, having relationships, and participating in intimacy.
It's about being close but not present, vulnerable, or emotionally unavailable. The figure is being held, but it's almost the ghost of being held because he can't really see the person caring for him.
I was trying to show how pain and trauma can erase someone who genuinely cares about you. You may not intend to hurt them, but you can be blinded by pain, lust, rage, or the warfare in your mind. Someone can be holding you, and you still cannot acknowledge or feel them. The painting also asks the viewer to consider what it is like to be the person who is present but unseen.
How do you balance clarity with mystery in your work?
N: I don't think I consciously calculate the balance in the studio. I know something is right when I can hear it. When a painting starts to sound like a song, I know I'm close. At that point, I either need to stop or have someone who cares about me pull me away, because we know artists can always keep working.
Once I hear the work and it sounds like the feeling I was trying to express, that internal sound becomes the thing that creates the visual balance.
Can you describe what it means to ‘hear’ a painting? Is the art singing to you, or is it the Holy Spirit?
N: I think it is both.
The portrait of my grandfather that I produced was one of the strangest and most powerful experiences I've had in the studio. It took the longest time I've ever spent on a painting. I listened to songs we used to hear together, and I cried in a way I had never cried for him—not even when I first learned he had passed on.
While painting, I could almost feel his flesh, the thickness of the tissue, and the structure of his anatomy. After that experience, I began to feel similar things in other paintings. When painting my partner, I could feel her lips and understand why I admired the shape of her nose. That level of connection can be frightening because it feels like alchemy.
There were also moments when I would look over at the portrait of my grandfather while laughing in the studio with my best friend and feel as if the painting were smiling with us.
I saw the weight of the work differently when my mother came to the studio. I was focused on craftsmanship, but she wasn't simply seeing a painting—she was seeing her father and remembering the day we laid him to rest. I had to recognize that inviting her into that space carried deep emotional consequences.
Another nonfigurative painting of a cross explores lust, idolatry, and the things I once mistook for life. To me, you can hear the rhythm of Pusha T’s “Crutches, Crosses, Caskets” in that work. The same musical feeling that lived in me when I danced near the stereo at my grandparents’ house or rapped with friends in high school has been transmuted into painting. The work has a soundtrack. When I can't hear it, I know I'm not finished.
I believe that spiritual dimension arrives more honestly when I don't force it. Sometimes I begin a studio session with prayer and ask God to use my hands as He uses His to create, and to help me articulate what only He knows is in my heart.
There are times when I look at something I painted and barely remember making it. That can trigger impostor syndrome, but I try to understand it differently: God gave me the gift and placed me in stewardship over it. My responsibility is to be fruitful and keep working.
It feels like dancing with the work. I don't mean to romanticize the practice, but something spiritual happens in the room that is larger than ego and larger than any narrative a viewer tries to place on the painting.
Because you're turning pain into something meaningful and acting as a vessel for more than your own story, how do you keep from being consumed by the work or falling too deeply inward?
N: I don't think I've mastered that, and I don't want to pretend that I have. Each body of work takes me somewhere different.
God has placed people in my life who help pull me away when I go too deep. I can become so involved that I don't realize how far inward I've gone, but the people close to me can see it.
During my first solo show, I was producing a lot of work within a defined style, but I was still protecting parts of myself. The later “Pursuit of Healing” show was different. My curator and manager, Ginger, later told me that she would leave the studio and cry after listening to me describe what I had experienced. I could talk very normally about watching videos of people I knew dying, abandonment, violence, and the way those experiences shaped my behavior because I had become detached from the fact that I had actually lived them.
The people who care about me could connect the dots between those stories and the way I moved through the world. They could see the impact before I could.
I also realized how deeply certain expectations had been normalized for me. At one point, I believed going to jail was almost a prerequisite of life because so many men around me had gone. I had to learn that this was not inevitable.
After my first solo show ended, I crashed. I found myself alone on the studio floor crying, frightened by the attention, the money, and the fact that parts of my internal life were falling apart. I had stopped journaling, walking, and praying because I was so consumed by the work. Once the show ended, I felt the aftermath.
With the next body of work, I tried to create more balance: work in the studio, prepare at home, spend time with family. But I learned that every body of work has its own energy, like an album. You cannot recreate the exact emotional temperature of a previous project.
The latest work involved more spiritual practice than anything I had made before—prayer, worship, learning about God’s love, crying while painting, and sometimes feeling my spirit resist a direction and tell me to step away.
Afterward, I felt confused because I expected the outcome to appear materially, but the real outcome was spiritual. The work became a love letter to my relationship with God. I made it regardless of whether people understood it, whether it matched the aesthetic people expected from me, or whether it sold.
I eventually understood that the greatest transaction was not financial. It was becoming closer to God than I had ever been. The work planted seeds in other people. People reached out to say they had never seen someone speak so openly about faith through art, that they had started reading bell hooks, journaling, or reconsidering their own healing.
Still, I would be lying if I said I can always stop myself from being consumed. When I'm in it, I'm in it—sleeping in the studio, working on four hours of sleep, forgetting food. The way I come out is through God and through people who love me: my best friend asking me to get food, my partner telling me a thought does not sound like me, my curator checking in, or my mother coaching me through what she sees God changing in my life. I have not yet learned how to pull myself out entirely on my own.
What phrase, word, or piece of guidance has helped you become who you are—and what would you give to the next generation of creatives?
N:The first word that comes to mind is courage: have courage.
People meet the prepared version of me and see the finished work, but they do not see me in the house or studio wrestling with fear. A lot of the time, I am scared because I am about to address something sensitive.
Doing something while you are afraid is courage.
It is not necessarily humility, boldness, or an enormous sense of confidence. It is courage. I had to establish it early in life, and pursuing any dream requires it.
When you are not afraid to feel, to be disliked, or to speak up, those are all expressions of courage. So the thing I would give the next generation is simple: have courage and do it afraid.
Trebor took on the challenge of becoming a designer and architect in his latest work: The Architecture of Us. As he's navigated this new season of learning, we took time to reflect on how he was taught and, in turn, how he teaches his son to be "I am."
Courage.
The final stop on this part of our journey with Nazeer—and, we hope, the next step on yours.
This conversation asks us to look beyond the finished work and toward the life beneath it. To consider how transparency, conviction, faith, and the world around us become part of everything we create. Because art has never been merely decoration. It is one of humanity's oldest languages—a record of who we were, what we believed, and what we chose to leave behind.
We'll leave you with one final question:
What story is your life creating? And when your work outlives you, what will it bear witness to?
Curious about how art can be theraputic? Read about MudNMixtures: An Artist and Therapist, Her Path to Creation, and How She Mentally Sustains.
Creating Like My Father: Generational Creative Inheritance & Forging Your Own Path
BY: HANNAH SIMON
Published: 10.23.26
Read time: 14-20min
I
Trebor took on the callenge of becoming a designer and architect in this latest work: The arcitecture of us. As he's navigated this new season of learning. We took time to refelct on how he was tught and in-trn, how he teachs is son to be "I am". The exhibition focuses on Phildelphia, the housing crisis and what things could look like in the future. We went to the location ourselves and talked to Bor about this piece.
am. A statement that signifies who you are. Trebor boldly outlines who he is, but we got to ask him why and how he became. As a father himself, Bor looks to instill what his father taught him into his own son and to live that philosophy day to day.
The exhibition focuses on Philadelphia, the housing crisis, and what things could look like in the future. We went to the location ourselves and talked to Bor about this piece.
Taking an in-depth look at Philadelphia's architecture, the things that built Trebor still hold true. Starting in his childhood, he watched his father create—bringing concepts and ideas to life with his own hands. But his tenure wasn't accidental. He was taught these principles with intention, on purpose—and with that as the bedrock of who he is, that's how he remains—on purpose.
Trebor began his foray into architectural and furniture arts about two years ago. His latest work, The Architecture of Us, asks a specific question, as outlined on the exhibition's website:
"Rowhomes are where generations of Philadelphians have built their lives, and where newcomers have made this city home. But this exhibition asks a bigger question: as Philadelphia faces a housing shortage and an epidemic of isolation, how should we live, together, in the place we call home?"
The Architecture of Us traces the story of Philadelphia's rowhome—from its origins housing immigrant communities and multigenerational families to the pressures reshaping it today. The exhibition explores small-scale housing types, including accessory dwelling units, co-housing, and single-stair apartment buildings, that offer more affordable, more connected ways to l
live without abandoning the human scale of the block. (AIA Philadelphia, 2026). Going back to what makes Trebor, we started from the top:
Where are you from, and where did you grow up?
T: I'm from Philly. I grew up in Overbrook Park. I've lived here my whole life.
Do you still live in Overbrook Park?
T: No, right now I live in the Fishtown area, near my studio. I work in Northern Liberties, so I live close by.
How do you think your current location impacts your art and the way you approach it?
T: I don't want to give the location too much credit because I'm me, but I guess it impacts it in the sense that I'm around more artists. It helps in that way. It makes doing what I do more convenient and less of a hassle.
If your artistic identity isn't necessarily connected to your location, what do you think shaped you as an artist? What parts of your upbringing or experiences brought you to this point?
T: My dad was super creative, so I think it started there.
Was your father an artist, too?
T: He wasn't an artist, but I guess he was at the same time. It's hard to explain. He was a dream chaser. That was always motivating—just feeling like you could create anything.
My dad was a barber by trade, so he had a barbershop in Overbrook. Growing up, my dad had a streetwear store, too. He used to carry all these streetwear magazines and different brands—he was really into clothes. My dad was always into clothes. I remember being super young and my dad talking about Triple Five Soul and Issey Miyake. He was trying to wear the Guess jeans when that was popping, like the leather Guess jeans. We used to go to the outlets to get Guess.
He was always a really big fashion guy. He cared about how he looked, how he smelled, his hair—all that type of stuff.
That was part of his creativity. My dad would make things sometimes, too. When he had the streetwear store, we had bought all these Ralph Lauren shirts, and he started creating stencils to make designs on them.
I remember doing stuff like that with my dad in the basement. I was just helping, not really thinking about it—just being a young boy, doing it and seeing it. We had the streetwear store next door to the barbershop, and then in the basement of the barbershop, we had a gym where I used to work out with my dad when I wanted to be an athlete.
He'd say, "You gotta get up at 6 a.m." Actually, I had to wake him up. He said if I didn't call him in the morning to wake him up before the workout, he wasn't going to work me out.
So I had to do stuff like that.
That wasn't necessarily the creative part. That was just a dad being a dad—instilling discipline and will. He was a dream chaser, and I was seeing him chase it, but he was also trying to teach me that I had to want it for myself.
He would say, "You gotta want it for yourself. I can't want it for you."
That's what I took from that experience.
But also in the basement, we had a recording studio. My dad built a whole recording studio. He used to make beats, my older brother made beats, and my dad used to manage local artists around our way and put out mixtapes.
I saw my dad doing all that stuff growing up. So I guess he was my first creative influence—I didn't really know it at the time.
I didn't grow up in a family where we'd go to museums or things like that. I didn't know anything about art. I didn't have that reference or context.
But even though it wasn't presented as traditional art, I was exposed to clothes, streetwear, brands that were popping up at the time, and people in magazines. That was inspiring. I might not have even known who the people were, but they looked cool.
All that stuff was what molded me.
Interestingly enough, my name is Trebor, and my dad's name is Robert. The concept behind it was that my dad wanted me to be different from him—almost the opposite.
But I think it's ironic because I'm actually very similar to him.
I had my time with streetwear. I still design clothes, but I had a pretty good streetwear brand. We got to travel the world with it, and I'm thankful for that opportunity.
I'm certain that's where I got it from. My mom isn't really like that, so it's definitely from my dad.
You created a clothing line that took you to different places, and you've also worked in music. What created the pivot into furniture, housing, and using creativity to address larger societal issues? When did you decide to make that shift, or was it more of a calling?
T: I guess it was definitely both. It really started toward the end of our brand. We separated, and I was in Philly while everybody else moved to LA. I was spending a lot of time with myself. I wanted to continue along this path, and I knew that if I wanted to, I had to get better.
My role in the brand wasn't really creative initially, but toward the end, I was becoming more involved in that side of things.
I think for our last full collection, I literally designed the whole thing and conceptually built it out. So I was already going in that direction—becoming more confident as a creative and designer.
That separation from the brand meant I was no longer playing the role I'd been playing, which was more of the dot connector, relationship manager—that type of guy.
But even before that point, I was doing more and more creatively, and I was starting to impress myself.
If I could show my team something and they liked it enough to say, "All right, this is good, we can run with it," that was a good sign.
It gave me reassurance—especially coming from friends who were creatives themselves.
Is there a leading question, philosophy, or hypothesis that guides your work in its totality?
T: That's a good question. My first thought when you said that was just believing in yourself, honestly. Toward the beginning of the summer, I started developing this philosophy that I was sharing with one of my friends. There were two things I would always say:
"Why not me?"
That became a mantra.
And then, "If not now, then when?"
Most of my close friends, people I came up with, we're all at least 30 now. So I'm like, if not now, then when? It's not about being old or anything like that, but at the same time, what are you waiting for?
A lot of that was motivating me, and I really did believe in myself. Before I even attempted to make any furniture or explore these other forms, I was already designing on the computer. I was creating all these ideas. I actually want to go get my old computer because it has so many designs from before I got my new one.
I wanted to keep challenging myself to get better. I didn't feel like I was in the best place or that I was the most respected, so I was trying to find every way to improve. I was studying artists every day. I remember not even having a job, but I still had a real routine. I'd get up early, turn on YouTube, and study artists.
I didn't know much about art at the time, but I remember stumbling upon Gaetano Pesce. I was really inspired by him.
I saw some of the things he was doing, and I thought, "That looks like some of the stuff I was making with my brand." I started seeing connections.
He was an artist, but he was also an architect. I remember watching a special about him, and they were showing his work and his designs—including his chairs. He made a lot of famous chairs.
Then they started showing houses he'd designed. I think that was the first time I really considered architecture and furniture as options.
I was thinking, "You're an artist, but you're doing this and this?"
There's such a dialogue about art versus design, and here was someone doing both. That inspired me.
I kept learning and applying what I learned. I was committed to doing it every day. Even without a job, I was getting up, studying, painting, and treating it like a job.
During that period of studying and experimenting, how were you continuing to build your career and support yourself creatively?
T: I was still doing a lot of graphic design at that time. That's how I was making money—doing graphics, tour merchandise, or whatever people needed. I was thankful to God for the opportunities that helped provide for me during that time.
My partner Jared, with By Any Means, got me a gig designing for the Rugrats and FaZe Clan. I got paid for that, so that was cool.
But that's what I was doing at the time. I was committing myself every day to getting better as a graphic designer and artist.
During the pandemic, I also spent a bunch of time with a seamstress. I used to go to her house almost every day to learn how to sew and work on new pieces.
That was one of the most inspiring periods.
It was a key moment moving me toward where I am now because I knew at that point that I was an artist—and that creating was what I loved to do.
I wasn't making any money doing that, but I was fulfilled.
The goal was to reach a point where I wouldn't have to work a regular job. I could just get up, go to the studio, work on a project, and do whatever needed to be done.
I think I'd be fulfilled for the rest of my life.
You've spoken about self-belief and the importance of seeing yourself as an artist. How has that developed into a personal mantra?
T: I went to a sound bath a few months ago, and during that time, I kept hearing this mantra in my head.
I was trying to focus and visualize myself. I remember visualizing myself standing at a podium, giving a speech and thanking people. I was really seeing myself there.
I was thinking, "Let's say I'm getting an award and winning something. Who am I thanking?"
It sounds crazy, but I really think about that. I do that often—not just during the sound bath.
What I kept hearing was:
"I am. I can. I will."
But then I started stripping it down, and I realized I just wanted it to be:
"I Am."
Despite how confident I am, you have to think about it. Anybody can be an artist, but to become a successful artist is different. It's like going to the NBA or something. It's not regular. It's actually very hard to do.
So, "I Am" is a way of working through imposter syndrome.
I am an artist.
I am all these things.
Being a multifaceted creative—I am.
I just am.
You're a father, right? Are there things you find yourself repeating with your son that your father did with you, especially when it comes to creativity, discipline, or self-belief?
T: It's kind of different. The whole father-son dynamic today is different from what it was when I was growing up.
I really looked up to my dad and admired him. Whatever my dad said went—there wasn't as much dialogue. For me, I aim to have more dialogue with my child. It's not that I hated my upbringing. It's just different.
My son doesn't really like to get involved with what I do. He doesn't care about it like that. I think one of the differences between me and my dad, and me and my son, is that I thought my dad was extremely cool.
Sometimes I feel like my son doesn't think I'm cool.
And I'm like, "Bro, I think I'm super cool. A lot of people think I'm cool."
So it's weird that my son doesn't.
But where we are similar is that my dad was a little quick to get annoyed. I feel like I can get that way with my son sometimes. I'm easily annoyed. That's a similarity.
But another similarity is trying to teach my son that he has to want things for himself.
My dad taught me that in a subtle way. By seventh or eighth grade, I was already doing parties, putting myself out there, and being active on MySpace. A lot of kids my age and a little older knew me through that space—from throwing parties, being on MySpace, getting fly, and all of that.
That came from watching my dad go after what he wanted and believe in himself.
I haven't really second-guessed myself too much. I might get nervous, but I usually just do it. That's something I tell my son.
Being nervous is human. But you still have to go through it.
Just because you're nervous doesn't mean you can't do something. Don't let nervousness trick you into thinking you shouldn't play, shouldn't show up, or shouldn't try.
Once you start, a lot of that nervousness goes away anyway. Even the best people get nervous.
That's something I learned from my dad and try to teach my son.
I teach him about showing up every day and going after whatever he wants for himself. You have to care more about what you're doing.
And I always tell him it's bigger than basketball or football. Whether it's art, science, or anything else, the people who are serious about what they do are preparing.
You have to take yourself seriously first.
Before we wrap up, is there a sentence, phrase, or piece of knowledge you'd like to leave with readers who are still trying to figure out their purpose or find themselves? What advice would you give them based on your journey so far?
T: Be passionate, be a student, and believe in yourself. I know it's pretty cliché, but I feel like that's really what got me here.
Showing up every day, showing people that I care, and being able to say, "I'm an artist," or "I do this," or "I do that."
Be passionate.
Leave all the cool stuff alone.
Tell people who you are and what you do.
Anybody I meet, I try to put it out there immediately. All my mantras connect to the same concept—self-belief and going hard.
You have to go hard. And don't skip the steps, because you're missing out.
Go through the process because you have to make the thing you don't like to make the thing you do like. If you're trying to jump straight to the final result, you might get something, but I don't think you're getting the full experience.
Friction is necessary for progress. You need a little friction. You need to challenge yourself.
Can it be easy? Sure.
But go through it.
I think it's beneficial for everybody to go through the process. That doesn't mean your life has to be hard or you can't have nice things.
I'm saying really go through the process of whatever it is you're doing—so you can stumble upon greatness.
You might make something and hate it that day, then come back later and realize it was actually good.
Don't disregard your first idea just because it's your first idea. It might be the foundational idea that you build upon.
The final product might not look anything like what you started with, but the strategic premise could still be the same.
So go through it.
That's how I'm going to leave you.
Go through it.
M: Nah, I’m a self-taught producer. I don’t believe there’s a right or wrong way to make music—everyone has their own thing that works for them. With synthesizers, I got good because I was messing up, playing them the way they weren’t “supposed” to be played, but sonically it stood out. I like throwing weird sounds and instruments together, colliding them all in one—and that’s not something you can really be taught.
M: Nah, I’m a self-taught producer. I don’t believe there’s a right or wrong way to make music—everyone has their own thing that works for them. With synthesizers, I got good because I was messing up, playing them the way they weren’t “supposed” to be played, but sonically it stood out. I like throwing weird sounds and instruments together, colliding them all in one—and that’s not something you can really be taught.
Equal parts intimacy and showmanship—Lucky Daye’s performance feels like R&B remembering what it came here to do.
=