About

Awww...how sweet. You could be doom scrolling or watching cat videos, but instead, you opted to find out who the hell I am. I'm flattered. 

The name’s Nate Hananger, in case you feel like indulging your inner detective. Go ahead, poke around. No skeletons in my closet—just a few half-finished canvases and some regrettable fashion choices from the early 2000s.

Art’s my weapon of choice in this never-ending battle against life’s greatest villains—terrible drivers, overpriced coffee, and the cruel joke that is “getting enough sleep.” What started as mindless doodles on doomed high school quizzes eventually turned into something worthwhile, marketable, even borderline respectable. Who knew?

My grandpa had a badass collection of neon beer signs, the kind that would be worth a small fortune today—if only grandma hadn’t played the role of buzzkill-in-chief and demanded he toss them. That tragic act of domestic tyranny planted the seed for my neon obsession.

Fast-forward a few years, add in my questionable sense of humor, and here we are—bright, glowing proof that I found a way to express myself without sending the hypersensitive into cardiac arrest… most of the time.

Born and raised as a rambunctious only child in the quaint abyss known as Snohomish, Washington, I chased the sunshine and delusions of affordability all the way to L.A.—where I quickly learned that dreams are expensive and rent is non-negotiable. So, I did what any self-respecting artist would do—I packed up, cut my losses, and found salvation in Las Vegas.

These days, you’ll catch me roaming the Arts District, occasionally taking my girl out to a restaurant that doesn’t require liquidating my assets, ridding myself of my love handles at the Summerlin gym, and throwing in with charities like F.E.A.T. of Southern Nevada and The Charity Series of Poker—because giving a damn is still free.

Most of the time, though? I’m in the garage, playing mad scientist with neon and resin, pretending it’s a real job.