Sometimes I get lost in oil paints. Not metaphorically—actually lost. The sun sets, music plays low, and my brush starts moving like it knows something I don’t. I forget to eat. I forget I’m only wearing panties and a messy shirt. But I never forget how painting makes me feel: seen, even when I’m alone.

There’s something erotic about it too. The textures, the colors, the way the oils cling to my fingers like they’re trying to stay. I once finished a piece at 3 a.m., looked down, and realized my skin was covered in shades of red and gold… and nothing else.

Do you want to see what that looked like?