Hom3 aims to unravel the feeling of belonging to a particular space. The act of creating Home, resurfaces boundless labels of identity and aids in the self-discovery of a complex identity. This disruption is achieved by recreating spaces of feelings/sensations where the participants are “at home”/at peace with themselves” Movers participate in worldbuilding, where they recollect and gather sensations and memories from the past to create a space where we/they/I belong. Hom3 is shown through different dance structures and relationships such as solos and groups. This work represents a sense of individuality yet connects to the common feeling of un-belonging and community migration.

So what is Home?

Home: A place of residence (physical). Comfortable place to be truly myself. Release of any tension in my mind (mentally).

家：最温暖最安全的地方。可以肆无忌惮。没有规矩。

Home: a place where one lives and shares space—a place to construct and deconstruct.

Home is god, bitterness, confusion, history.

Other Artist Trying to Find Their Way Home

Making Art to Find a Sense of Belonging

Liu’s work traces back to her childhood. “Because we were an immigrant family and I am first-generation, I always had this imbalance of belonging,” she explained. “I think at first it was the language barrier, not speaking English, but then it started becoming about how I look.” Art, she explained, became a way to reflect on her younger self. “I think that art helps evaluate some of the psychology of yourself as a child, and to illuminate some things you may never have understood”…

Cultural Identity

“There are and have been and will be an infinite number of things on earth. Individuals, all different, all wanting different things, all looking different. Everything that has been on earth has been different from every other thing. That is what I love: the differences, the uniqueness of all things and the importance of life… I see something that seems wonderful; I see the divineness in ordinary things.

Rene -Residente

Since I was little I wanted to be a baseball player, I didn't make it

So I learned to strike hits over a track

I started drinking alcohol in my office again

I write good when I'm sober, but I write better when drunk

When I fall into depression, I tell my problems to the plane's window

Stress has got me sick, I haven't slept in ten years

The IRS is still investigating me

And I'm going through divorce, but it doesn't matter, I'm still rhyming

I make mistakes, but I do the best I can

I learned to land without any wheels, and

Despite that people recognize me in the streets, not even my friends know me any more.

I'm sad and I laugh

The concert is sold out, but I'm empty

In the music industry, everything's a lie

My son's got to eat, so I'm still touring

I'm just left with what I've got, I don't know where I'm going, but I know where I come from

I grew up with Christopher, my friend

We threw stones together and broke a pair of windows

We used to run shirtless in the streets in the neighborhood of Trujillo, while riding a bike downhill

The bike over the mud, with a plastic cup in the wheel's rim so it sounded like a car

We used to get refueled with Indian Malt 2 and garlic bread, nobody would stop us

We were inseparable until one day he was killed by four cops

My joy is still broken, the lights went out in the ballpark

There's almost no one left here

Sometimes I don't want to be here

I feel alone here

In the middle of the party, I want to be where nobody bothers me

To Burn my notebook, let go of my backpacks

I want to dial the 7-5-5-0-8-2-2, just to see who answers

The fights with my stepfather, when he lost control

I used to solve them watching a baseball game together with him

He invited me to fistfights a couple of times

I sneaked out of home a couple of times

But the food was never absent, he defended us with music, singing in weddings

Sometimes baked, sometimes canned and microwaved

We used to share it all, the table was round

Middle-to-lower class, we never were owners

The bank loans robbed all our dreams

The savings account was empty, but mom would brighten our days by dancing flamenco

She stopped acting just to take care of us four

And we became her stage play

She walked in our boots, and her life was made of our achievements and defeats,

My stepfather left, with other people

We moved out of the 13th street

I left home to search any luck in haystack, and I packed my whole life in a box

I received a scholarship in the Arts University

Half of my friends were killed

I started to rap again, started to believe again

I came back, released an album, ate the world in one bite

In Puerto Rico they fired employees, I insulted the governor and it came out on TV

They censored four years of my calendar

Grandma died, she didn't see me play in the stadium

I said everything I felt, they love me more outside than inside my own country

But even if my songs are sung by a german guy

I want to be buried in my old San Juan

I may hide my sorrow, but I'm made of rice and pigeon peas 3

And it hurts, it doesn't matter if the morning rum consoles me

And from deep inside me, if I ever fucked up, I dedicate four floors 4 of apologies to my country.

There's almost no one left here

Sometimes I don't want to be here

I feel alone here

In the middle of the party, I want to be where nobody bothers me

To Burn my notebook, let go of my backpacks

I want to dial the 7-5-5-0-8-2-2, just to see who answers

And if they answer me, I want to tell them that I want to come back

That I want to get out of this hotel and disappear

And if they answer me, I want to tell them that I want to pull the curtains

And that sometimes my blood pressure rises, and I'm scared that my plane falls down

That I don't care about the tours, the albums, the Grammys

And that I want to see the Halley comet again with mommy on the 11th Street

I want to go back to when my windows were sunny, and the warmness would wake me up

To when they called me out to play, to when I rapped without getting paid

I want to get the baseball cards out of the box, go back to steal second base again

In the summer and christmas, to clean the house with my brothers while listening to Rubén Blades

I want to return, go to the cinema in the weekdays and get to Art School next morning

I want to stay there, I don't want to get out of there

I want to go back to when they wouldn't let me in because I was badly dressed

I want to feel again, when I didn't have to pretend

I... want to be Me again

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