Haejin Park

Melting into watercolor, I feel complete. My joy comes from hearing a prickling flow of mustard green, pitch blue, forest purple, and flute tan.  I hold these bleeding colors by tightening a ribbon with water, waiting for her jeweled eyes to dry. The exaggerated eyes are the diaries of acceptance, hugging the edges of expression and the quiet dialogue. A glittering tear, heavy with shame, drips down her cheek to a mouthless angst. Ink scratches, nibbles, and bruises the paper, blinding its emptiness. My wet hands search for honesty—painting raw faces until I can trust the tender ghost hiding in slippage.