I stood eight feet back from a giant blank canvas. I gripped a paintbrush in my fist - the kind of brush you would use to paint a house. Pennsylvania hadn't felt like home for many years. I submerged the brush in a bucket of paint, letting the gray primer cover the bristles, the handle, my hand just past the wrist. I pulled my hand out of the bucket and watched the paint dribble and stream to the floor. Then I pitched the brush forcefully at the canvas.