My Life as a Dealer and an Artist

When people ask me what I do, I usually just say, “I’m a casino dealer.” It’s easier than explaining that I actually live two very different lives.

Inside the casino, it’s all noise and movement—chips clicking, cards snapping, lights flashing. My hands move fast, my face stays calm, and I put on the same steady smile no matter how long the shift. It’s a job that demands presence, precision, and patience, but it also drains me. After eight or ten hours on the floor, I often come home with my head heavy from the chaos and my body aching from dealing.

And yet, the moment I step into my studio, everything changes. The noise fades. I sit in front of a blank canvas, and suddenly it’s just me, the paint, and silence. My studio isn’t grand, it’s just a spare room in my house—but it’s the one place where I can breathe.

Painting isn’t just my passion; it’s the way I heal. I started painting when I was six, and it has always been the one thing that feels truly mine. Turning it into something more than a hobby, a way to connect with people and even make a living—has been both terrifying and rewarding. Every time someone commissions me, or a painting finds its new home, I feel a mix of gratitude and disbelief.

Being a part time dealer and part time artist might sound like two opposite lives, but somehow they balance each other. In the casino, everything is fast-paced, structured, and outward. In my studio, it’s slow, patient, and deeply inward. One world teaches me discipline and resilience; the other lets me breathe, heal, and create.

Balancing these two lives isn’t easy. Balancing late shifts at the casino with early mornings (or sometimes late nights) in front of the easel takes energy, discipline, and a lot of love for what I do. I push myself to paint because I know it feeds me in a way nothing else does. There are also days when I doubt myself—when I wonder if I’m good enough, or if this path even makes sense. But when I step back from a finished painting, or see the way someone lights up when they receive their portrait, it all feels worth it. Then I remember why I keep doing it: because art gives me a voice when words fail.

Living between cards and canvas has taught me that we don’t always have to choose one life over another. Sometimes it’s messy. Sometimes it’s tiring. But it’s also beautiful—to chase what you love, even in the cracks of your everyday life.

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With heart,

Selina Dinh