V. H. King's Ink

I’ve always loved a good smell, a nice scented something. Evocative. Visceral. A whiff of something can transport you to memories unlocked, to imagined realities, to a taste of a lifetime. Bazaar’s items are seemingly opposite to such lively engagement, given their scents like Overgrown Cemetery and Abandoned Hospital. But see—these were exactly the kinds of candles I wanted on my altar.

As someone quite familiar with a certain taste of death, loss, grief, and forgotten spaces, these candles made perfect sense to me. They felt like (re)creating a home for a very central part of myself and my practice. Although I didn’t have words for it then (and I probably still don’t, now) I knew these scents gave room for the core part of me to exist, to breathe.

In one trip, I acquired nearly every scent Bazaar offered. (A bold move, considering I’d condensed my week-long travel items into a single carry-on.) What I didn’t buy then, I quickly ordered after I got back home—allowing for a few pay-periods to go by, of course, after all the excitement of travel treats.

I often find myself drawn to things before I know how or when I’ll use them, and these candles were no exception. Namely, I realized when I got home that I had neither matches nor a lighter. Oh well! The candles were pretty to look at, right?

In late 2025, I found myself weary and frustrated by a sense of disconnect. I hadn’t drawn cards in months. I was pouring my everything into art-pieces but I still felt hungry for some kind of nourishment, something to balance the energy and emotion bubbling up out of me. So I started using my candles as a grounding technique. My mom had gotten me a candle warmer a few holiday seasons prior, and it came with a timer feature. I could pick a candle, set it for two hours, and get to work.

My tolerance for being upright is iffy at best, but I generally have a 90minute limit. By the time I get my materials settled—whether that’s paints and palette, watercolor pencils and scratch paper, laptop and notebook—I have about that long to get some work in before I need to take a break. I hate taking breaks. I would much rather lose myself in a playlist and work for hours at a time—but I can’t do that anymore without severe repercussions.

If I want to be able to keep writing and making art at all, I have to change how I do it. Even though I’ve known that for years, I still struggle with what that looks like on a day to day. How do I listen to my body? What am I listening for? How can I be gentle with myself when I have competing access needs?

The physical demand for rest and the cognitive-emotional need for completion rarely are in sync. It takes frequent reminders, both from myself and from others, that I don’t have to do it all at once, that I can come back to work on something later, that I haven’t failed if I leave something unfinished.

These reminders were especially hard to stomach as 2026 dawned: urgent, dire, critical. Funding slashes forced harsh realities and fraught horizons. State violence surged, not that it had ever slept in the first place. The social need for something to symbolize hope, to inspire courage, to reignite efforts of resistance—all of that fell to artists. Navigating that responsibility is a separate post in and of itself, but the fact remained that I had gifts, skills, and perspectives, that were in high demand.

I was constantly bombarded with the pressure to do more, yet I had spent the last year absolutely empty and exhausted. The candles became my way of stepping back from the ledge and reeling myself back in.  I had to relearn my limits, and in honoring my boundaries, a door opened up for me.

Something shifted, and that disconnect started to melt away. At first it was just the feeling, to be able to trust again that what I had done for the day was enough. Even if it was “just” feeding myself one small plate of solid food, it was enough. Slowly, through weary weeks and unexpected opportunities and disorienting dazes, there would be words.

An image, or a thought, or a something.

I’ve come to think of many aspects of my practice as a kind of listening, translated into color and words and shapes and lines. The candles were speaking to me, and I made room for what needed to be said. And since it seemed to keep happening, I thought I might as well collect those rambles and musings on a little corner of the internet.

I don’t burn a candle every day, and I don’t always have a lot to say—but when the words come, I let them. Although it hasn’t doubled (I don’t think?) I have recently expanded my candle collection. The same friend I visited Bazaar with on that Baltimore trip years ago bought me four candles from Burke & Hare—and, well, I think they knew exactly what they were doing. I’m grateful to them, of course. Now I have even more opportunities to listen closely: to my spirit, to my body, to my calling.