In the days following the event I returned to School of Visual Arts for a mandatory lecture. We were told that day that it was our “moral obligation” to create work about the hours of 9/11, that we were “lucky” to witness such a historical piece of an event and that we had no choice but to keep this in mind every time our brush kissed our canvas. Being an already extremely empathetic human these words actually crushed what little warmth I had in my heart at that time.  I was completely unable to consider such a task.

When the north tower was hit, I had just exited the N/R train to attend my first day of art school, my second year of college. I was 19. The building exploded and burned in deep oranges and reds in contrast to the crisp, clear blue sky that morning. As I peered around the streets at that instance, time and all motion stood still.

Everyone was stagnant but bobbing and flowing, like a field of flowers blowing in the wind. Radios from cars were turned up and blaring, “The pentagon has been hit, were under a world attack, 11 more planes are on their way!” There was another plane and more explosions. But everything just became a blur.

And then suddenly at the flash of an eleven second blinking eye the void in the horizon was created. Run. Millions of humans who once walked the streets with purpose that morning transformed to a herd of stampeding buffalo like creatures that now ran for their lives. Run. Like a catharsis of emotional energy, the blast of hands, legs bodies and arms flew about the horizon with a backdrop of screaming, crushing, exploding, and sparkling matter, and then a charge of black clouds came to follow. Run. Then mostly and suddenly everything went quiet and I could only hear the beating of my own heart and my breath. Everything moved in slow motion. Someone fell and pulled me down by my hair. I thought of my mother. Where was my sister? Was she alive?

Upon getting home about twelve hours later to my Queens apartment, I came to find a celebration was being had on my roof. A celebration by my neighbors that whatever had just happened was considered a success. I was alone listening to this trying to understand. Eventually I woke up in my locked bedroom to hustling sounds from the hallways of my building. Later there was a knock at my door, it was the police. I was told that the men who had the party the evening before were arrested in accordance with the Taliban and that they and their families were taken away. As the officer spoke I stared at the floor of the hallway finding all that was left of them, a little girl’s pink shoe with a butterfly buckle, “Size 2” as it read. 

The journey began. These paintings are an exploration of the many demons of imagery, thoughts, sounds and smells that occurred at that time but as I remember and can finally recall, now 10 years later. And that even somehow there remained beauty and vivaciousness. And now that I have healed through my art, yes, I believe it is my moral obligation to share.