when i stand in front of a figure in a painting or a sculpture, i have an emotional response before i have a thought. it asks something of me. it makes me curious before i know what i am curious about.

their crying no longer affected me. their stories, which had once moved me, passed through without leaving a mark. i had watched colleagues reach that point and keep working.

i go on walks sometimes, but not the kind that need shoes. i move through a space in my mind where no one notices me and no one needs to. the figures i encounter there exist without fear or shame

the earthy smell of clay was comforting. the weight of it felt grounding, and the texture pressed back against my fingers and left their marks. i was overconfident, and started experimenting to my heart's content.

i have not found a way to make social media work for me. years of trying, deleting profiles, starting again, repeating the cycle. i've collected likes, but you can't live on likes.

ordinary conversation would introduce skin colour as if it is part of a person's name. we went to a new restaurant, and the manager is a black man. this is a mild example, almost polite, but it's offered like it explains something essential.

i punched the sculpture. it hit the ground. i saw my hand palm up. then the pain, and then the shock: i had fractured my wrist. i remember thinking, cleanly, without negotiation: i can't keep doing this.

destruction has followed me through my life as an artist. i've burned, broken, and erased my own work, searching for release when i cannot stand the pain. in recent weeks, two sculptures met my hammer.