we could be anywhere
volume one: the beginnings
7 piece physical series
2022
Centered around identity, overcoming, indecision, and truth, these works aren't unique to
the characters and scenes from which these stories were born from. but to all of us.
A culmination of years of my own
soul-searching, understanding, growth, and vulnerability, these works and stories are but snapshots of fleeting moments
that are now frozen in time.
A Day In Savoca
colored pencil on canvas | 48x48 in | 2022
You could hear a pin drop, but soon I heard footsteps: In the quiet village of Savoca, even footsteps sounded like a stampede. He turned the corner, clutching a bag in his hand, and headed towards a bend in the road that led deep into the village, to an unknown which my eyes simply couldn’t see. I had no idea where he came from, and I had no idea where he was going, but as the villagers closed the doors to their homes, and the few shop owners in the neighborhood turned out their lights, he blazed on through the street. Everyone folded one by one, yet he pushed on, creating echoes that bounced off the walls of the town with every step he took. I saw a shadow of myself in him. But there I was, watching idly, standing still. I was nearly twice his size and more than three times his age. He was a shadow of myself that I once knew. When he faded into the distance, those footsteps somehow grew louder and louder, screaming at me. And before I knew it, I was walking again, too, deep into the village where my eyes couldn’t see. Thanks for saving me, me. It was just A(nother) Day In Savoca.
The Flowers That Sell Themselves
colored pencil on canvas | 48x48 in | 2022
This man sells beautiful flowers, full of color and life. Yet, he doesn’t pick his head up, let alone, let it hang high. His eyes, never escape the concrete. His body, glued down to the crate. I stand behind him for a moment, waiting for a nod or a wave. As the people start coming, marching through, one by one. They begin to pick his flowers, and he has not a care in the world. I think about his story, as well as the one of him that I wove. I never see his eyes, my whole vision of him is my own blur: The flower man has some life, but I don’t think he has a dream. Maybe it’s all in my head, it can’t be as bad as it seems. The Flowers That Sell Themselves.
Dream Bigger, Reach Higher
colored pencil on canvas | 48x48 in | 2022
I heard the shouts from a few blocks away, and I followed them all the way to the open gates of the neighborhood schoolyard. I thought I’d walk in and find a crowd, as from afar, I heard the voices of many, but when I arrived, there were only two. They were brothers, dressed nearly identical, with but a few years in age and inches in height setting them apart. As I sat on the ground, toeing the baseline on the other side of the court, I quietly watched as they ran imaginary plays, commentating their every move. They were playing a game of basketball, but there was no ball in sight. After a few minutes of running around, laughing, and screaming some more, the younger of the two abruptly hurled up a shot and yelled out to his brother as he circled the court victoriously. They were celebrating a victory the world would never know about. Winning a game that never truly took place. And without a word or a gesture, the brothers made their way to the middle of the foul line, interlocking their fingers with one hand, while shooting the other straight to the sky, pointing up at something that only they could see. As they stood there, with their feet planted, exchanging whispers I couldn’t hear, I slowly got up, turned around, and made my way back out of the schoolyard and into the busy streets of Yafo. Like the two brothers, I’ve been playing a game that I don’t have the ball to, either. They seemed to have found a reason to celebrate, though, and perhaps it’s time I do the same. Dream Bigger, Reach Higher.
The Unplugged Keyboard
colored pencil on canvas | 48x48 in | 2022
He tapped, and tapped, and tapped. Tapping away on the keys of a keyboard with no sound. He was putting on a show for an audience of none, and over time, I learned that he couldn’t care less about who was listening. Lost in a sea of old toys, kitchenware, clothing, and everything in between, the flea market salesman kept one hand hovering over the keyboard, while the other wrapped around the strap of a bag sitting at his feet. For a few days straight, I visited the same market, wondering if his performance was a one-off show that I was just lucky enough to witness. Each day, though, he was there. He sat in the exact same spot I left him at last, tapping away at those same keys of the keyboard with no sound. At first, I kept my distance. But each day, my curiosity grew, and I inched closer and closer, until one morning I finally found myself right in front of his table: “How much for the keyboard?” I mustered up the courage to ask, inquiring about an instrument that I was certain was broken, about an instrument which I didn’t even know how to play. He barely acknowledged my presence, let alone my question, but as I started to retreat, I heard his faint whisper and turned right back around. For the first time in days, his fingers stopped tapping on the keys, and he motioned for me to come closer. In broken English, he said, “Today, the keyboard isn’t for sale, but maybe tomorrow. I’m finishing my performance, and I still don’t know when it will end.” I smiled at him, and in his native Hebrew, I replied, “I’ll be back tomorrow,” although I knew that I’d never step foot in the market again. His concert of none, was now a concert of one. Who am I to take away the keys? The Unplugged Keyboard.
The Only Way Is Through
colored pencil on canvas | 48x48 in | 2022
The older one buried his head in a book, while the younger one walked the city streets with curiosity. Where one found familiar comfort, the other journeyed on. The minutes passed, but neither of them changed their course: the reader read, and the explorer explored. Just as the reader turned to the final page in his book, he glanced over at the clock hanging on the school building across the street, and his face suddenly flooded to white. Not a second later, he let the book that he was holding up between his hands slip right through his fingers. And in an instant, he was gone. The reader was sprinting down the street but a few blocks away when he blazed past the explorer, who was entirely unphased. The explorer maintained the same slow and steady pace that I saw him walking along with just before. While the reader may have gotten ahead, he was really just catching up from behind. In my time, I have been both the reader and the explorer: The reader in me fears the day when I put down my book and realize just how far the world has moved along without me, while the explorer in me moves along with the world. There’s a balance to be found between the two, but for now, these kids made it quite clear: The world never stops moving when we do, does it? The reader never even got to finish the last page of his book. The Only Way Is Through.
Traversing A Foreign Land
colored pencil on canvas | 48x48 in | 2022
They placed themselves so strategically, as if they were manning a ship. The captain stood tall in the front, barking orders to the team behind him that was pushing their vessel along. The smallest of the crew held on tightly to one side, trying his best to steer the ship’s direction, adjusting course quickly each time the captain ordered him to. In the back, stood the anchors. They dug their feet into the concrete with all their might, and while they worked the hardest, they laughed the loudest, too. There were seven of them in all, seven kids from Jerusalem. They were dressed in their best Friday clothes, venturing through unchartered territory along the streets of Manhattan’s Chinatown, alone. They had no interest in familiarity, willingly turning corners leading them to backstreets of endless unknowns. Intrigued, I rode the waves of their ship, following along from a distance as they waded through the New York City streets that I knew so well. In an instant, though, I became one of them: A stranger, Traversing A Foreign Land.
Chasing Sunset
colored pencil on canvas | 48x48 in | 2022
As the sun sank lower and lower into the horizon, the traffic in the city only flowed one way; Everyone was moving in that same direction, except for him. He was dressed to impress — donning his long-sleeved, religious garb that featured far too many layers for the weather that he was trekking through. I stood in place, watching as he walked along. He closely followed a crack in the sidewalk that ran parallel to the long, main street for as far as I could see. The further he traveled on, the smaller he appeared. He was fading away into the city, just as the sun was fading down through the clouds, disappearing into the Earth. It was Friday afternoon, and the Sabbath was quickly approaching. As the daylight dimmed to darkness, I eventually lost sight of him, and I realized that I was the only person left on the street. I had nowhere to go, and nowhere to be. So, I pushed against the current, too, following the path he paved, Chasing Sunset.