New journey begins

June 15th, 2024

The desert holds you differently in the moments before goodbye. Today, as I packed the last of my brushes—the ones Mom gave me when I first started painting—I felt the weight of every sunset I've ever watched from our back porch. The light was doing that thing it always does, turning the cliffs into liquid gold, and I had to stop packing just to watch it. One last time, I told myself, though I know the desert will always live in my paintings.

Mom helped me sort through my canvases, deciding which ones to ship and which ones to leave behind. Her hands lingered on each piece, and I could see her tracing my journey in every brushstroke. "You'll find new colors in New York," she said, but her voice caught a little. Dad just stood in the doorway of my studio, trying to look practical about the whole thing, but I saw him wipe his eyes when he thought I wasn't looking.

June 16th

The airport feels like a canvas waiting to be painted. Everything is potential here—every announcement, every goodbye, every nervous laugh. My carry-on is mostly sketchbooks and my favorite brushes. I couldn't bear to pack them away in boxes. They're like old friends I need for courage.

The plane window frames New Mexico like a farewell painting. From up here, the landscape looks like one of my pieces—all warm earth tones bleeding into each other, with those long shadows that stretch like thoughts across the sand. I press my hand against the glass and whisper a promise to bring these colors with me.

June 20th

My new studio in Brooklyn feels both empty and full of possibilities. The previous tenant left behind an old easel—it's worn in all the right places, telling stories of other artists' dreams. The light here is different. It doesn't spread like honey across the floor like it did back home; instead, it comes in sharp angles, bouncing off buildings and creating unexpected patterns on my blank walls.

I spent today walking through my new neighborhood. Every corner feels like a composition waiting to happen. The city has its own palette—greys that aren't really grey at all, but full of hidden purples and blues. The neon signs remind me of how I imagine bees see flowers—electric and alive. I filled three pages of my sketchbook just trying to capture the way the evening light hits the fire escapes.

June 25th

Found an art collective today—"Brooklyn Brushstrokes." They meet every Wednesday in an old warehouse space converted into studios. The energy here is different from my quiet painting sessions back home, but there's something magnetic about it. Sarah, one of the members, paints with this bold, fearless energy that makes me question my own careful strokes. We talked for hours about how city lights change the way we see color.

I set up my first small workspace today. Hung a piece of my mom's weaving on the wall—a splash of home in this new space. The rest of my supplies are still in transit, but I managed to create my first New York piece using borrowed materials. It's different from my usual work—more angular, less earth-toned. The city is already seeping into my style.

July 1st

My first art fair in New York, and my hands wouldn't stop shaking as I set up my booth. I brought prints of my New Mexico series—scenes of home that feel both close and impossibly far now. A woman stopped by early, stood in front of my desert sunset piece for the longest time. "It's like looking at a memory," she said, and something in her voice told me she understood about leaving places behind.

Sold twelve prints today. Each sale felt like a bridge between my two worlds—my New Mexico soul reaching out to touch these New York hearts. One buyer asked about the neon colors in my desert scenes, and I found myself telling her about bees and pollen and how sometimes the most beautiful things are the ones we can't see with our ordinary eyes.

July 15th

A month has passed, and today I finally unpacked my last box of art supplies. Each brush felt like a familiar friend, each tube of paint a memory of home. But as I arranged them in my new space, something shifted. They didn't feel like pieces of my past anymore, but tools for my future.

The city doesn't feel like a stranger now. Its rhythms have started to flow into my work—the endless movement, the unexpected moments of quiet, the way light plays differently here. My latest piece combines the warm earth tones of home with the electric pulse of New York nights. Mom was right—I'm finding new colors here, but I'm not losing the old ones.

Standing at my window tonight, watching the city lights flicker like stars, I realize that transformation isn't about leaving things behind. It's about learning how to carry them forward, how to let them shape the new pictures we paint. My brushes know both languages now—the quiet whisper of desert winds and the bold shout of city streets. And somehow, in the space between these two worlds, I'm finding my own voice, stronger and clearer than ever before.

The journey continues...