Before art became a discipline, it began as an impulse. A hand pressed against stone, An animal drawn from memory. We cannot know everything those marks meant, but something compelled a person to make them. That primordial instinct is still with us: the urge to give form to what we encounter, what unsettles us, what we cannot quite put into words. Art owes no debt to technical progress or innovation. It does not have to move without friction or return seamlessly to its beginning. A broken rhythm, a crude shape, a movement that stutters can belong to the work as much as anything polished. To make something because an experience has left a mark on me, and I feel the urge to leave one in return.