I painted this Puerto Rican landscape for my roommate. It is now hanging up on the wall in our room. One would think that I would be proud of this painting considering this was the first painting I made using oil paints, but, as terrible as it sounds, I do not think I would be sad at all if it somehow was destroyed. This, at first, was a very unsettling discovery. So, I began to think about why I felt this way. This is when I realized that the only time I loved this painting was when it was not finished yet. I would spend hours upon hours trying to figure out how the oil paints worked. It was something so new to me, something I have never experienced before. I was fascinated and completely distracted. I lost track of time, hours felt like minutes. I had a mix of emotions during these experiences. I felt wonder when I mixed two colors together to create another. Frustration when I could not get the color just right. It was a surreal experience. It was as if I was there in the landscape. I could hear the ocean roar. I could see its blue’s and green’s. I could see the sun spread its colors across the clouds. I knew what I had to do, because I was there. I spent so much time studying the colors and morphing them together to create one image. I lost and found myself in the process. I would deteriorate into the landscape, and then I would rebuild myself as I painted the image I saw. I loved the process, not the final product. Figuring out how to paint gave me purpose. I found meaning while I was creating the painting, not when I stare at it while it’s hanging on the wall.