In the year of 2017, I began to create art around the two most significant men that shaped the tumultuous experiences from 2015 to where I am today.
I didn't think of myself as an artist until recently. In the midst of ingrained stoicism, the origins of which I am unsure, I didn't know how else to express myself. Art became a meditative exercise for me on those nights of me ugly-crying, alone, in my bed. It allowed me to have the conversations with myself and with the others that I didn't know how to.
The one who brought so much pain, humiliation, shame, anxiety and trauma into my life. The one who gave me so much baggage that will colour my future self and relationships in ways that I will not foresee.
The one who stands polar to everything that I promised myself I would never allow again. The one that blindsided me because I didn't know I had this capacity. The one who I loved but who couldn't love me back. The one who I don't really understand if it was the man, or just the idea.