I was sure of three things growing up: that I adored my parents, that I respected all parents, and that I never wanted to be like my parents. I wanted my legacy to be less genetic. I knew all along that I had chosen a different path. I believed this path could result in living in seclusion. But I also knew that this path could prevent me from becoming yet another painting of flowers on the foreground, and shiny houses in the background.

Taffy, a confidant of mine, is an essentialist. She believes that joy and pleasure are sensory matters -where it’s highly important where things come from. Essentialism is the idea that there is more to an object than its actual structure. For instance the physical features of a painting may be its color and its shape and its size, but the essence of the painting is its invisible history that gave rise to it.

The problem with essentialism is that it exchanges the importance of a story with rigid historical attributes. The color, shape, and size of a painting are just a bunch of disjointed characteristics. What distinguishes a painting remains to be the story that gave birth to it.

Taffy isn’t necessarily wrong -but she lets the depth of her eyes lie to her. Taffy dismisses the brush of her imagination, the colors of her heart, and the canvas of possibilities … Taffy needs to paint.