In Pursuit of Home

Mario Moore’s In Pursuit of Home reshaped how I understand ownership—not just as a transaction, but as a condition of being. Before encountering his work, I questioned whether ownership truly mattered. I wondered if renting, borrowing, or simply moving through spaces could be enough—if permanence was even necessary in a world that feels increasingly fluid. Moore answered that uncertainty by revealing that ownership is not simply about possession, but about power, stability, and authorship over one’s life. His work exists in the tension between sanctuary and surveillance. The interiors he paints feel intimate yet unsettled, as if rest must always remain alert. This duality made me realize that space is never neutral. To “have” a home is not just to occupy it, but to exist without the constant condition of return—without the looming presence of a lender, a system, or a history that can revoke your place. When you borrow, you are always in relation to someone else’s authority. Ownership, even when imperfect, offers a different relationship: one where you can shape, hold, and define space on your own terms. Moore’s work also situates this question within a specifically Black American history, where ownership has been systematically obstructed—from redlining to predatory lending. This context reframed my thinking: the desire to own is not simply materialistic, but deeply tied to autonomy and generational continuity. It made me recognize that what might appear as a personal choice—rent or own—is often structured by forces far beyond the individual. As an artist, this shifted how I think about my own practice. I’ve become more attentive to the idea of “space” in my work—not just physical space, but emotional and relational space. Who gets to feel at ease? Who must remain aware, adaptive, or temporary? Creating work now feels like constructing a kind of home, one that holds meaning, identity, and agency. It is a space I do not have to return to at someone else’s discretion. Moore didn’t just answer my question about ownership—he complicated it in a necessary way. He showed me that ownership is not absolute, but it is still consequential. It is a negotiation between history, systems, and self. And in that negotiation, the act of claiming space—whether through property or through art—becomes an act of presence.