A Face Like Home

{The Storm by Edvard Munch}

 

In a crowd, with bodies unknown and faces unfamiliar pressing in to you, have you ever had someone slip their hand in yours? Before you can turn, your defenses shout, beat, and burn. But once you have the space to turn your head, you see a face like home and the hand is sudden comfort.

Last summer I got to step out of the noise and press and heat of New York City into the cool and hush of the Museum of Modern Art. A good chunk of the crowd seeped in behind when the doors opened and shut, and the floors were weekend chaos and crush. But the rhythm was slower, a reverential nod to the masterpieces that said so much in their still silence.

Hungry for the visual consumption of the unabashed creativity, I turned corner after corner, photographing with my phone works new to me, paintings pulling taut the chord in me that acts as kindling for my own creative fires. I loved the new; I was famished and I had found a feast.