When Light Hurts and Color Sings

Behind the Image

This piece is a kind of self-portrait — not in the traditional sense, but in how I process the world when my senses are on high alert. It’s called When Light Hurts and Color Sings, and it’s rooted in how I experience migraine, synesthesia, and everything that comes with them.

Migraine isn’t just a headache for me. Sometimes the pain never even shows up — instead, I get what’s called an aura. I’ll smell smoke that isn’t there. It’s like someone lit a cigarette in the next room, or I walked through an old casino. I’ll feel vertigo. Light gets sharp and painful. Patterns ripple. My body feels unplugged. And right in the middle of all that? That’s when I create.

Strangely, these are some of my most prolific times. Something kicks in during those moments — maybe it’s survival, perhaps it’s focus — but art becomes how I process it. The image shows that. There’s distortion, doubling, warped perception, and color that doesn’t sit still. That’s not just visual styling — it’s what these episodes feel like from the inside.

I also have synesthesia, where senses overlap. I might hear color or feel sound. That’s woven into this too. The background pulses. The colors don’t behave. My face splits like time and thought are trying to sync up but can’t. The hands at the bottom are steady—bracing. Art keeps me anchored when everything else is misfiring.

When Light Hurts and Color Sings isn’t just about one thing. It’s about how migraine, sensory distortion, and creative processes all collide. And it’s how I turn that chaos into something I can see — and maybe help others see too.