feeling something

That return, to me, is important, and that that exists is a reason for me to do the work that I’m doing. I can’t really put words to it. It’s just a feeling, but it’s there. It makes me want to create, and that’s the thing that matters to me most on the planet is encountering art that makes me want to make art.

Because the telling is alive, shaped by whatever grief or joy we've carried into that particular afternoon.

And if I arrive alone? So be it. If I arrive misunderstood? I’ll survive that too. I’ve already done worse.

he put me on an “idea contract.” Every month, I had to write a memo of what I thought was interesting in travel, and what I thought we should do stories on.

“We only dream of images we have inside us”

iterate toward something that feels alive

You’re nostalgic for the bumps and you don’t even know it.