Art isn’t just one thing to everyone. Neither is Home. It isn’t necessarily comfortable or happy. It doesn’t necessarily smell like frying bacon and brewing coffee in the morning. Sometimes it is cold and dark and unforgiving. It is a place created for us, or as we grow older, created by us.

Sometimes it just happens. You just fall asleep and there it is. You wake up and it’s gone. You trip on it like a rock in the middle of the sidewalk; you taste it mixed in with your soup. You feel it. It is transcendent.

Art is Home.