London

In 1998, I moved to London to study Art History and Art Business at Christie’s Auction House. I’m not going to lie—it was fabulous. I had been teaching English in Japan and wasn’t sure what to do next when a friend recommended this program. And, without much thought, I applied, then got accepted and booked a plane flight. I had no idea what living in England would be like. My life had been a series of impulsive decisions, each one an attempt to find a purpose that resonated. London had its own lessons to teach, starting with how to survive the staggering cost of living. To make ends meet, I quickly found a job working under the table as a waitress in a private members club in Soho.

I discovered my true self in London. I realized that I wasn’t just someone who wanted to learn about what makes art relevant, I wanted to make art. I’d always been a creative person, but it wasn’t until I stood in front of Manet’s, A Bar at the Folies-Bergère, seeing the young bartender’s weary expression mirror my own inner questioning, that I knew I had more to say. I was growing up during this unexpected adventure of self discovery in a thrilling city. I started making small art pieces and even began sewing again in between studying with renowned art historians and pouring drinks for London’s elite until 2am in the morning.

One oddly warm and sunny afternoon, I was walking to work surrounded by people who had spilled out of pubs onto the street to enjoy the weather. I was disappointed I couldn’t join the smiles and beers as I rushed into work, almost late for my shift. When the door closed behind me, I realized I had forgotten my work clothes and a sense of dread settled in—I could hear in my head the sharp reprimands coming from the Scottish manager confusing me because I always mistook her rise in pitch as a question. I hurried toward the staff changing room, hoping to find a solution. And then, a bomb exploded. It was Friday, April 30, 1999. Three people were killed, and about 70 were injured. It was a nail bomb that sent sharp thin pieces of metal in every direction.

I was in shock. The first thing I did was run to the window mesmerized by the same people I’d seen laughing now lying on the sidewalk, covered in blood. A coworker screamed at me to move and pulled me behind the bar where we crouched down. She told me she was from South Africa, and learned that you never stand by the window.

I won’t go into all the details of that night—it stirs up feelings I prefer to keep buried. (Even now, thinking about that moment brings me to tears—not only for the lives lost and those injured, but also because I still don’t understand why I cheated death.) My world suddenly became bigger, filled with a complex understanding of fear and the fragility of life. Chaos reigned on the other side of thin glass, yet the club members were still asking for cocktail refills, ignoring the enormity of what had just happened.

We were stuck in the building for hours but I couldn’t tell you exactly how long because I lost sense of time. At the end, we were moved to the cellar with rumors of another explosion. When we were finally released onto the street, the police yelled at us to run. Run, run!, they screamed. So, I ran—all the way to the tube station. I boarded a train home and held on tight to a pole to keep me steady.

I returned to London this summer for the first time since before the pandemic. I was staying with a good friend who randomly brought up that his friend had been near a bomb and was experiencing trauma. I have too, I said surprised he’d forgotten about Soho. He apologized and reminded me it was the 25th year anniversary of the bombing. All those feelings came rushing back. The man responsible had ultimately set 3 separate bombs in different places, aiming his hate at BIPOC and the LGBTQ+ community. But one of his nails hit a baby that day in Soho. Less than a week ago, before I returned home from my trip, 2 school children were murdered and misinformation about the nationality of the killer spurred riots and violence in the UK.

I’m writing this here because on my Instagram, I’ll post the amazing exhibits I saw and talk about how inspired I felt, and how much fun I had in a city I truly love. But I hesitate to share on social media how affected I am by all the hurt I see and the hurt I carry. While my art aims to bring joy, it’s the undercurrent of pain that gives it depth. Even in our happiest moments, we carry the weight of our experiences. I just find the pain part truly unbearable sometimes and do my best to hide it.

My paintings depict playful human interactions through childhood games. In my art, I strive to weave threads of connection (quite literally), reminding us all that in our shared existence, compassion must be our guide. In every piece, I aim to reflect the belief that if we can tap into our true humanity—one of wonder, awe, and love—that we don’t have to hate. I hope you believe it too.