about
I remember being in church one night, under a little open-air tabernacle, when the presence of the Lord felt especially heavy. The pastor who was leading worship suddenly stopped and looked at me.
He said, “The Lord just spoke to me. He said this week you’ll be drawn to something from your childhood. When it happens, take hold of it—and I will rip open a source of provision for you.”
By Tuesday, I was in the hardware store when I stumbled across a rack of acrylic paints.
As you can probably guess… the rest is history.
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My Story
I didn’t learn to paint in a classroom. I never studied color theory or composition. I learned the hard way—through trial, error, and something deeper.
Years ago, I stood in Pirate’s Alley in New Orleans, watching a street artist work with torn-up cardboard and a rubber spatula.
No brushes. No gallery lighting. Just motion, emotion, and color dragged across canvas.
It hit me hard—like someone had kicked open a door inside my chest.
That feeling never left me.
To this day, I still paint with cut-up cardboard strips, worn rubber blades, and even old motel key cards—anything that can hold color and memory at the same time.
I am also a musician. I come from a long line of them—especially on my father’s side.
We learned in Pentecostal churches how music could shift the atmosphere, how sound could open up something spiritual. Eventually, I realized painting could do the same thing.
A visual invocation. A kind of worship.
My life has always moved between two worlds:
the zydeco rhythm of Louisiana and the emotional heat of Central America.
I’ve lived in Honduras for nearly three decades—
married into the culture, raised my children here, and witnessed its pain and beauty up close.
I try to honor both of my homes with every piece I paint
My name is Stephen Harrelson.
Most people just call me Esteban.
People often ask why I sign my art that way.
When I first came to Honduras, I had to give away everything I owned just to make the journey. I literally arrived with nothing.
And when I got here, people couldn’t pronounce my name—so they called me Esteban.
Over time, I realized that the call to Honduras had required everything... even my identity.
So now, I sign my work with the name I was given here—as a way of honoring that surrender.
I create with bold acrylic color and physical texture.
I paint what I feel.
I paint what others overlook.
I paint because I believe art can still carry presence.
And every time someone purchases a piece,
they help feed hungry children in Honduras.
That’s not just part of my story — it’s part of my purpose.
You don´t just see life ----
YOU FEEL IT
Thank you for stepping into my story with me for a moment.
Blessings,
Esteban