Pain as fuel—metaphorically… maybe

© Jose Penm Heron on Islet and heron flying

No connections. No language. Just pain and art.

Selling yourself without the words is brutal. You pitch with broken sentences. You read faces instead of phrases.

You build everything from scratch: the trust, the context, the small doors that open when you “fit.”

And still, that pressure can be clean. It strips the noise. It leaves only what matters.

Inspiration rarely comes from comfort. Or happiness. Or tranquility.

The inspiring muse, when it arrives, often comes alongside pain, fear, and grief. With days that weigh on us. With nights that keep us awake.

From the moment you realize you can’t hide.

Do you remember a time you needed to explode?

How did it show?

In your hands—tight, restless, searching for an edge.
In your voice—too sharp, too quiet, suddenly exact.
In your gestures—cutting the air, refusing stillness.

And if you’re an artist, did it enter the work? Did it change the line. The rhythm. The light. Did it leave a mark you can still feel?

I think it does. Not as drama. As evidence.

That’s how Photo-Fundamental Plane began.

A farewell to my country. I had almost nothing. But I didn’t feel lacking.

Then a welcome into a country that seems perfect. Orderly. Elegant. Confident.

And I realized I was missing everything.

It wasn’t about security anymore. Or comfort. It was language. Context. Belonging.

The invisible vocabulary of being understood. The tiny permissions that life grants when you’re already inside.

When those permissions disappear, the wall becomes a field of force.

You press against it. You listen for a seam. You learn.

You let art contain what you cannot yet express. You find light as matter: something you believe you can cut, stretch, and sharpen.

Strength arises from powerlessness. The urge to scream arises from the work. You break the silence by creating something that, while it may seem inexplicable, you can't explain.

But you can contemplate it,

and finally... you fit in.

All of this was captured in this piece:

Want to see it? Drawing with Light on Heron and Islet.

“Out of the quarrel with ourselves we make poetry.” — W. B. Yeats

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