Drawn from Memory: The Fragile Beauty of Where’s My Home

What does “home” look like when memory starts to fray like an old sweater? Sean Viprakasit’s short film Where’s My Home answers this with a kaleidoscope of colored-pencil sketches—raw, imperfect, and achingly human. Forget polished 3D worlds or algorithm-perfect gradients; this is art that proudly wears its fingerprints.

The premise sounds simple: a man leaves his dull home for what he thinks is greener pasture, only to return later, grasping for familiarity. But the story unravels like a whispered riddle. Is home a place, a feeling, or a myth we keep drawing in our heads? Viprakasit doesn’t spoon-feed answers; he scrawls them in wavering lines and muted hues, like a memory half-saved and half-lost.

The film leans heavily on sound to anchor its dreamlike visuals, often feeling more installation art than traditional animation. Each frame seems hand-cut from nostalgia, yet the pacing drifts like a cloud caught between two winds. You might wish for tighter clarity, a sharper point—but then again, isn’t that the point? That our roots are always a little tangled?

This is no Pixar gloss-fest. It’s a one-man odyssey rendered on paper—fifty pages, one month, and a modest budget of 12 NZD. That alone deserves a slow clap. The imperfections? They’re charming scars. Sure, the narrative feels vague, and yes, the rhythm occasionally snoozes—but when stars appear, shaped like tiny houses, something clicks: this isn’t just an animation. It’s a diary entry masquerading as modern art.

In a world obsessed with speed and spectacle, Viprakasit has drawn—quite literally—a gentle rebellion. Where’s My Home may be a whisper in a hurricane, but it’s a whisper that lingers. Somehow, against all odds, this scrappy, sensitive experiment feels… precious.