About

In the middle of the table is a small crate, with salt, pepper, Tabasco, and a chipped white ramekin filled with individual butters. To 8-year-old me, each foil-wrapped rectangle is exciting purely because of its size. I patiently wait for my blueberry waffle, coloring in a T. rex with a purple crayon. I can feel the slightly greasy, worn oilcloth under my tiny fist, focused only on keeping the crayon in the lines.

At that age, joy lives in every object.

Art is no easy journey, I have begun to understand the difficulty of holding onto passion. There are moments where I have found myself judging everything and everyone, wanting to be on top of the world. I look into a mirror, and all I can hear is silent laughter and loud opinions.

But I remember why I am here. As the world gets smaller and angrier, I believe art returns us to holding a crayon and believing joy can be found in something as small as a pat of butter.

I have taken a vow to try and weave magic around our feet, create a picture that can be seen.

I dream of creating goosebumps.