I was lucky enough to attend Art Basel in 2023 for work. We set up a beautiful gallery filled with works by NFT artists, and in between ensuring the panel sessions were going well, I stood in front of the works rotating through the digital screens.

I chased the ones I wanted to collect. The ones that were at the right price point, and which I wanted to look at long after I collected. The ones that would make me think when I pulled them up in my digital wallet.

Aside from the price point (which was a very relevant and very determining factor), I tried to spot why I liked what I liked. What made me want to collect something, and what made me feel indifferent or aversion?

I continued exploring this question during my only free day in Miami, where I visited Wynwood Walls and the actual Art Basel expo itself.

At Wynwood Walls, I ran into an exhibit by an artist I’d never heard of before: Peter Tunney, and his collection “Invincible Summer,” inspired by the words of Albert Camus:

“He said, “In the midst of hate, I found there was, within me, an invincible love. In the midst of tears, I found there was, within me, an invincible smile. In the midst of chaos, I found there was, within me, an invincible calm. I realized through it all, that in the midst of winter, I found, there was, within me, an invincible summer. And that makes me happy. For it says that no matter how hard the world pushes against me, within me, there’s something stronger, something better, pushing right back.”

The exhibit illustrated “Invincible Summer” with collages made of clippings and positive statements. Covering these collages were shades of red and cheerful summer blue that made you think of a pool or clear azure waters on a hot day.

Gut-punching, in a good way. “Invincible Summer” gave words and form to the feeling I wanted to emulate. The spirit of resilience in the face of it all.

This resonated. For me, art was something that inspired hope and defiance and in the face of life’s heaviness.

I walked into a different exhibit by another artist I’d never heard of: Kai. His works, depicting a sexless, ageless, nameless “imaginary friend,” illustrated dense and abstract concepts with the simplest of visuals.

The imaginary friend, trapped by a barcode. The most elegant, pithy depiction of consumerism I’ve seen yet.

The imaginary friend, rock-climbing a bag of money. Risking much to gain…what?

Two imaginary friends, side by side. One leaning confidently towards a giant leaf, all bravado. Underneath the thin line depicting the earth, the tiniest of carrots, connecting to the massive leaf above ground. All talk, no substance?

There is another imaginary friend standing besides the one with bravado. Eyes downcast, standing in shame next to his friend against the giant leaf. The friend who on the surface appears to be the superior, knowledgeable, confident one.

Not to my eyes though, you sad, ashamed one. I see that the tiny leaves next to your feet connect to the largest, densest carrot under the ground. If only you could see it, as well.

Perception, this depiction was titled*.* Once again, gut-wrenching. This is the depiction of not knowing your worth in a world that prizes loudness and smooth-talking.

Another depiction, this time the imaginary friend holding an umbrella over another figure. “You come first.”

I missed my fiance terribly. That’s how we always feel, when it rains.

Another facet of art. Something that hits you with the truths you think you know, that gives them shape, makes them easier to digest, easier to name, easier to know.

I saw a mural of a giant rabbit. I won’t judge the style or the composition or the colors or anything technical about the mural. This rabbit mattered to me because it linked back to a childhood memory, when my mom was still my mom and used to call me her rabbit. The giant rabbit was standing cheerful on that hot, bright summer day in Miami, yet it was the saddest thing I could see.

Art is something that surfaces your personal experiences. That makes you remember and relive things.

I saw murals by Dan Kitchener (another artist I didn’t know about before Wynwood Walls), who depicted cities in bright lights and dusk, sometimes in rain. I stood for a long time in front of a mural that depicted an Asian-looking city and a girl holding an umbrella in the rain. She stared straight at you while everyone else seemed to be rushing away, busy with their lives. The mural made me think of solitude, of the feeling I frequently experience living in cities, with their bright lights and charm and the inevitable sense of disappearing I sometimes experience in such a bright world.

But although the mural depicted solitude to me, it didn’t feel sad or hopeless. Instead, it felt alive with a story that was yet to unfold. And that’s when I suddenly realized that I’d always been drawn to paintings that depicted solitude, but with a story—as if that moment of solitude or isolation was a chapter in a bigger story. (My favorite painting of all time is Nighthawks.)

Solitude has always been central to how I experience the world, yet I never thought of it as a negative. It was just a way of being, a central theme to a story that had many chapters: some very intimately connected with people, some not.

Another element of what made art resonate with me: that it helped me pinpoint and understand things about myself and how I relate to the world.

Until Dan Kitchener’s murals, until I looked at that Asian-looking girl with the umbrella facing me, I never understood how central solitude was to me. Until I saw–or rather, felt–Peter Tunney’s Invincible Summer, I never realized how much I needed it. Until I saw the mural with the rabbit, I didn’t even dare realize how much I miss my mom as she had been.

I was lucky enough to attend Art Basel in 2023 for work. We set up a beautiful gallery filled with works by NFT artists, and in between ensuring the panel sessions were going well, I stood in front of the works rotating through the digital screens.

I chased the ones I wanted to collect. The ones that were at the right price point, and which I wanted to look at long after I collected. The ones that would make me think when I pulled them up in my digital wallet.

Aside from the price point (which was a very relevant and very determining factor), I tried to spot why I liked what I liked. What made me want to collect something, and what made me feel indifferent or aversion?

I continued exploring this question during my only free day in Miami, where I visited Wynwood Walls and the actual Art Basel expo itself.

At Wynwood Walls, I ran into an exhibit by an artist I’d never heard of before: Peter Tunney, and his collection “Invincible Summer,” inspired by the words of Albert Camus:

“He said, “In the midst of hate, I found there was, within me, an invincible love. In the midst of tears, I found there was, within me, an invincible smile. In the midst of chaos, I found there was, within me, an invincible calm. I realized through it all, that in the midst of winter, I found, there was, within me, an invincible summer. And that makes me happy. For it says that no matter how hard the world pushes against me, within me, there’s something stronger, something better, pushing right back.”

The exhibit illustrated “Invincible Summer” with collages made of clippings and positive statements. Covering these collages were shades of red and cheerful summer blue that made you think of a pool or clear azure waters on a hot day.

Gut-punching, in a good way. “Invincible Summer” gave words and form to the feeling I wanted to emulate. The spirit of resilience in the face of it all.

This resonated. For me, art was something that inspired hope and defiance and in the face of life’s heaviness.

I walked into a different exhibit by another artist I’d never heard of: Kai. His works, depicting a sexless, ageless, nameless “imaginary friend,” illustrated dense and abstract concepts with the simplest of visuals.

The imaginary friend, trapped by a barcode. The most elegant, pithy depiction of consumerism I’ve seen yet.

The imaginary friend, rock-climbing a bag of money. Risking much to gain…what?

Two imaginary friends, side by side. One leaning confidently towards a giant leaf, all bravado. Underneath the thin line depicting the earth, the tiniest of carrots, connecting to the massive leaf above ground. All talk, no substance?

There is another imaginary friend standing besides the one with bravado. Eyes downcast, standing in shame next to his friend against the giant leaf. The friend who on the surface appears to be the superior, knowledgeable, confident one.

Not to my eyes though, you sad, ashamed one. I see that the tiny leaves next to your feet connect to the largest, densest carrot under the ground. If only you could see it, as well.

Perception, this depiction was titled*.* Once again, gut-wrenching. This is the depiction of not knowing your worth in a world that prizes loudness and smooth-talking.

Another depiction, this time the imaginary friend holding an umbrella over another figure. “You come first.”

I missed my fiance terribly. That’s how we always feel, when it rains.

Another facet of art. Something that hits you with the truths you think you know, that gives them shape, makes them easier to digest, easier to name, easier to know.

I saw a mural of a giant rabbit. I won’t judge the style or the composition or the colors or anything technical about the mural. This rabbit mattered to me because it linked back to a childhood memory, when my mom was still my mom and used to call me her rabbit. The giant rabbit was standing cheerful on that hot, bright summer day in Miami, yet it was the saddest thing I could see.

Art is something that surfaces your personal experiences. That makes you remember and relive things.

I saw murals by Dan Kitchener (another artist I didn’t know about before Wynwood Walls), who depicted cities in bright lights and dusk, sometimes in rain. I stood for a long time in front of a mural that depicted an Asian-looking city and a girl holding an umbrella in the rain. She stared straight at you while everyone else seemed to be rushing away, busy with their lives. The mural made me think of solitude, of the feeling I frequently experience living in cities, with their bright lights and charm and the inevitable sense of disappearing I sometimes experience in such a bright world.

But although the mural depicted solitude to me, it didn’t feel sad or hopeless. Instead, it felt alive with a story that was yet to unfold. And that’s when I suddenly realized that I’d always been drawn to paintings that depicted solitude, but with a story—as if that moment of solitude or isolation was a chapter in a bigger story. (My favorite painting of all time is Nighthawks.)

Solitude has always been central to how I experience the world, yet I never thought of it as a negative. It was just a way of being, a central theme to a story that had many chapters: some very intimately connected with people, some not.

Another element of what made art resonate with me: that it helped me pinpoint and understand things about myself and how I relate to the world.

Until Dan Kitchener’s murals, until I looked at that Asian-looking girl with the umbrella facing me, I never understood how central solitude was to me. Until I saw–or rather, felt–Peter Tunney’s Invincible Summer, I never realized how much I needed it. Until I saw the mural with the rabbit, I didn’t even dare realize how much I miss my mom as she had been.