These days, whenever I have a bit of free time, I find myself slipping out of the house almost without thinking—wandering by the sea, drifting through museums, exhibitions, weekend markets… anywhere that gives me a momentary sense of escape. There’s something comforting about moving through spaces where no one expects anything from me. I walk, I look, I breathe a little deeper. And somehow, I always come home with a camera full of photos and a quiet sense of satisfaction, as if collecting these small fragments of the city helps me piece together my own rhythm again.
I don’t necessarily understand every art show I walk into. Some pieces speak to me, some don’t, and some I simply stand in front of because the light feels nice. But maybe that’s the beauty of it—there’s no pressure to “get it.” I just enjoy being there, surrounded by colours, textures, and ideas that aren’t mine. It’s a gentle reminder that the world is bigger than my daily routines.
Getting from where I live to M+ is still a bit of a trek—longer, hotter, and more tiring than I’d prefer. The journey always feels like the most difficult part. Maybe that’s why I’ve never been a big fan of traveling. I don’t enjoy the transit, the waiting, the in-between. If I could teleport straight to the destination, I probably would. I like arriving; I just don’t like getting there.
Still, I go. Not often, but often enough to feel like I’m keeping a small promise to myself: to stay curious, to keep looking, to let the city surprise me once in a while.
There are plenty of photos this time—more than usual, actually—so I’ll keep the words short from here. Just take them in, the way I did: slowly, quietly, without needing to explain too much.
