It’s one of those things you can’t describe, like how listening to your favorite song for the thousandth time or how the smell of an old bookstore makes you feel. Whenever I create, something clicks and I know I’m home.
Home is where I can let my guard down. Art thrives on vulnerability and being susceptible to your own judgment and critiques. At the start of any piece, the blank paper is a question that asks me to reveal my identity and my intentions. In these moments of absolute honesty, I am able to divulge my secrets, insecurities, and passions. With certain colors, textures, or shapes, my emotions are transcribed into expressive imageries without the use of a single word. Home is where I can act like no one is watching, and there is no reason to conceal any thought. I can wear my ugliest but most comfortable sweatpants while losing all sense of time.
Home is where time stops as I create. In these moments, everything else seems to slow to a halt, pulling away as it dissolves. Creativity has no limits, nor a definite resolution as there is always something I can do to improve my work. It’s a time warp that makes five hours feel like five minutes, always leaving me always wanting more.