It was a cold, wintery night in Gdansk, Poland. Snow fell later that night. The cobbled stones shone a warm amber under foot, light from the lanterns catching in their damp.
I was 12 years old. Living briefly in this foreign place of my ancestors, I felt out of place and lonely, whilst belonging all at once.
It was on this night, I discovered the sanctuary of art and the enveloping presence of creative folk that wander the Earth. Drawn in by the yellow glow escaping from the window, I stepped off the street and into a toasty, colourful kind of cosy; easels, pastels and paints. Vibrant and welcoming art works, tea pots, plants and a cat. A woman smiling, sparkly eyed.
I felt like I'd come home.
I was 12 years old. Living briefly in this foreign place of my ancestors, I felt out of place and lonely, whilst belonging all at once.
It was on this night, I discovered the sanctuary of art and the enveloping presence of creative folk that wander the Earth. Drawn in by the yellow glow escaping from the window, I stepped off the street and into a toasty, colourful kind of cosy; easels, pastels and paints. Vibrant and welcoming art works, tea pots, plants and a cat. A woman smiling, sparkly eyed.
I felt like I'd come home.
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