Art is a Feeling

I parked my little blue Miata outside of a massive house with plentiful gardens, in a no parking zone. I was running in to pick up my entire family so that I could head out to Australia.

The entrance of the house led to a spacious room with dark wood floors and a giant orange painting flagged by two brown leather chairs. The work extended out into a shrine-like formation and was almost luminescent. I put my arms out like I wanted to hug it.

Beyond the room my mom and I found a secret door with a tiny flight of stairs leading to an unknown space. I wanted to explore the rest of the art so badly, but had to battle myself into leaving to ensure the car wasn’t towed and that I didn’t miss my flight.

The last piece I saw existed in smaller entrance/exit room. It was a mirror, cut into segments, suspended with string over another mirror cut in a similar way. The two faced each other, suspended in space, creating a fractal of distortion. Whoever came up with this concept was a genius. I wished it were my idea, and wanted to use the concept in my next instillation of a migraine, mirrors would be the ideal thing to represent the visual cortex’s inability to piece reality together.


When I was showering and remembered a few pieces of dreams, I was delighted to realize that the mirror idea was actually mine, less so to discover I had a slight cold. I made some miso/ toast and my flat mate invited me to come sit in the sun where girls were tanning in bikinis.

I realized I had forgotten the bike tour, had missed it by several hours, and was disappointed. This made me glad I was sick, because I probably wouldn’t have been up for it anyway.

I had no desire to become tan or drink margaritas, so I went to my room to study neuroscience, start a painting, and blow my nose.

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