For most of my life, I’ve had a profound and growing love for art. What started with winning colouring competitions evolved into excelling in high school and later developed into a four-year career as an art student.
Art is so much more than just decorations for a home or collections in a gallery; it is a language with immense nuance and beautiful, hidden meanings.
It’s hard to put into words what I feel when I look at art, whether it’s in a friend’s home or displayed in the world’s most famous galleries. Part of what I feel is a sense of familiarity—familiarity with the process an artist has gone through to complete something only they could envision. I’ve been through that process so many times that there’s an invisible bond most people don’t know how to experience.
Seeing some of my most treasured pieces in person brought me to tears. I was no longer experiencing the theory of studied artwork; I stood in a gallery with others, being transported to the artist’s studio to watch them work.
That’s one aspect of art I absolutely love. The other is the skill of using imagery to tell stories. Art has been used for decades to convey poignant messages, urging the world to listen. Some of the loudest protests are captured in art pieces.
What I say on my own canvas’ will never translate into simple words. There will always be two conversations happening: the one I am having with the world around me and the one between the viewer and themselves when they stand before one of my paintings.
As I approach 35, I’m choosing to trust that these conversations—both spoken and silent, both mine and theirs—are worth having.
The fear that my art won’t matter pales in comparison to the love I have for this language, which has shaped me since childhood.
