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Working in my new studio is such a wonderful experience. I feel so at home here, it is my little queendom.

This is one of my favorite paintings I’ve ever done (“That girl in The Piano movie just wet her pants between takes, 1993”) – I will base my new collection of works on the style of it.

 My sunshine. Precious and wild. Sacred. You can’t steal it, buy it, denounce it, ignore it, degrade it, distort it, hide it, judge it, ban it, claim it, shame it, destroy it, punish it, expel it, stain it, fuck it, hate it, reduce it, ridicule it, condemn it.

It is mine.

It is me.

Photograph by me from my modern Marilyn Golden Dreams session with my muse Domenique in 2009.

Undressed but dressed from head to toe.

Spending the day in Stockholm with Nanci – my best girlfriend since 20 years.

I am sitting on a bus on my way to Stockholm to see a friend. I haven’t gone back all by myself since the break up and the moving out of his house last summer. I feel conflicted inside. Am I going away or returning home? I look at the shifting landscapes outside the windows of the bus, like I’m rewinding life or speeding it up, somewhere between my hometown and Stockholm. Where is home anyway? Perhaps it’s wherever I am at the time, inside myself – but isn’t that just a cliché? I don’t feel at home in every place I visit just because I am present inside myself. Perhaps home is in the love from my American lover, but that makes home a risky place, if he would leave, he would take my home with him. Can you really put your home in someone else’s hands? Maybe we are building an invisible home together, from each side of the world, and one day we can move in there, wherever it might be. I just have to wait and see.

Perhaps home is my apartment. Or my studio. A place of familiar things and routines. A place where I can rule and reign like a queen. I don’t have a lot of friends, I’m kind of a loner, so right now my apartment could be anywhere, in any city or on any planet.

I close my eyes and I feel the vibrations of the bus and its soothing noise from the engine. When I really think about it, when I go deeper inside, I know home is in my creativity, in my art and in every creative expression I put out there for the world to see. Home is the Universe I can create with my imagination and my talent. Home is in the truth I find in the unleashing, in the limitless explorations of my inner self. In the place where reality and magic meet and mesh. In the blurred out boundaries between life and dreams.

But that makes my home a place of fantasies. Where things are more real inside myself than outside my own head. Where is the line between the imagination of an artist, and simple madness?

And if that’s my true home, then I won’t ever find it anywhere else on this planet.

Well, except for the invisible home I’m slowly building together with another dreamer.