“I face the raw blank canvas taped to the studio wall, body-sized and at eye level. Approaching the canvas instills a fear within my body and tenses my throat. I feel the same as when I gaze into a mirror, unable to accept that what I’m seeing could ever be good enough. But the music intervenes, a rich, dramatic piano piece by Liszt. The recording—played on repeat—is old, a recital performed by my grandfather in 1977. A retreat into a time before my own has always been a way of blocking out the relentless distractions of modernity.

I hear the notes and envision his hands, their strength and energy creating these swooping and complex melodies. I feel my own hands and limbs start to clench, contort, and release; my heart accelerates; my body ricochets throughout the space, across rooms, flat on the floor, all driven by the power of the music, not my thoughts. This is not dance and it’s not performance; these are my genuine, instinctual feelings—normally repressed—expressing themselves. When the music has taken over me and fear has left me, a channel opens, and music, movement and emotion are all directed at the canvas. I approach the paints.”