Dear Diary
It’s a strange thing, trying to push myself to write these days. Especially after so much time spent presenting myself to the world as a visual artist, something that never truly felt like “me.” The irony, of course, is that I’ve never really considered myself an artist—not in the way people think, not in the way the label settled in on me. Because deep down, beneath all the obscure pastel pieces, sculptures and paint-streaked canvases, I’ve always first considered myself a writer. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been a weaver of words and a collector of stories. My thoughts, every fleeting idea, every fragment of feeling, have always lived in the sanctuary of the sacred pages I filled.
I started keeping journals when I was a child—fourth grade, I think. Inspired by “The Diary of Anne Frank,” that tender, haunting testament to youth in the grip of war. The writing captivated me; the words spoke straight to my heart. The book guided me toward the beauty and safety of what a journal could offer me-a safe space for my thoughts and feelings.
My first journal was a unique thing, a diary, written in an unassuming Hello Kitty motif autograph book. Each entry was titled “Dear Anne,” as though I were whispering into my best friend’s ear. From that moment on, I couldn’t stop. I wrote and I wrote, every page filling up with the private echoes of my life, thoughts spilling out in ink and staying hidden in bins, buried away in storage. Every single journal I’ve ever written is still with me, tucked into the corners of my past.
Even back then, as an awkward and overly sensitive and reflective child, I had this odd, gnawing instinct, that I would one day need to return to these journals. Maybe I knew I’d forget pieces of myself, that one day the fog of time would settle in, and I’d need to flip through those old pages to remember who I was. I thought maybe, just maybe, the only way to find my way back to myself would be to revisit who I used to be, to retrace the outlines of a forgotten life. I guess that is what it was always meant to be-a map, an anchor, a reminder.
But as I spit out words, I find it almost unsettling, to sit down and articulate what I truly think and feel these days, then release it into the world. Don’t get me wrong—I’ve never shied away from being in the public eye. I’ve stood in front of crowds, given talks about difficult times in my life and I’ve presented my artwork and discussed my process. But there’s something you have to understand: a public appearance, a press release, an art show—those things are performative. In those circumstances I wear a mask, a kind of shield. In situations like these, I am removed from the rawness of the moment, from the real emotions that flow when I’m alone creating. When I’m making art, really in it, that’s when I feel free. How people interpret it, what they see in it—that’s not mine to hold. And in that, I’ve found a kind of detachment, a way to let go.
But writing is different for me. There’s nothing abstract about putting my thoughts and feelings down, claiming them, and owning them. There’s no distance, no mask. It’s just you, laid bare on the page. And maybe it’s time I stop hiding behind the layers of abstraction, time I stand behind my words the way I do my art. Time to take ownership of what I think and feel—no more masks, no more distance. Just truth.
