This thing I believe in, it is everywhere, and it can be simple or magnificent. This thing is a part of my soul; it keeps me going in certain aspects. It is beautiful if you have the right eye.
This thing I believe in is Art. Art can be found in obscure places; Art can come in many forms. The satisfaction you get from your art is unforgettable. Knowing that you wrought it, knowing you forged the clay and colors together are what make it so beautiful.
Art is amazing; it allows me to release the tension in my mind. Coal or paste, it does not matter, I paint with what I have. I leave my emotions out on the canvas, although I know I shouldn’t hold hate, sometimes it just builds up and so I release it in the streaks of blood colored paint. Yet I use other colors that signify the good things in life, for me those colors are green or blue. These colors make me feel calm and bright.
Art can also be admired rather than created. I could stare at a painting for hours or even days. I try to reflect on the colors and streaks in the painting. As selfish as this sounds, I try to find an anchor somewhere in the painting for me. I try to make a personal connection because art is something I never want to take for granted.
I can’t really remember how I began to love art; it was like a smooth transition. I do recall that as a child I would get these white sheets of blank paper and color freely on them. I never liked coloring books; the lines of the images made me feel confined. The first pieces of art that I drew were of birds. I would draw a bird looking ahead, not majestically, but peacefully. The thing is I only drew birds, just birds. I continuously asked myself “why birds?” I tried to draw other things but they felt rustic, as if they didn’t belong; except for the birds. Those did belong.
This is when the cold hard truth hit me; the reason I drew these birds was to let the essence of my grandmother to continue to live through my art. I remember when we sat together in her room, we would eat red grapes together and I would peel the skin off of the red grapes because she thought it was too bitter. She was a stern but courteous woman, but she then got Alzheimer’s and she died of old age. Those years of my childhood were quite dreadful; the agony of knowing that this precious person in your life only knew you as a stranger. We wouldn’t have the same conversations ever again after that. It was horrifying. After she died, I sat at her funeral, somberly. I remember staring at one of the cards that they were handing out to everyone. It had this white dove painted on it and the dove looked as if it were flying somewhere; flying to a more peaceful place. And so I began to draw birds, I had finally found reasoning to my madness. This thing I believe in is Art.
Internally, I felt that if I drew enough birds then maybe, just maybe I’d still have this special connection with my grandmother, although she is at rest, the memory of her is forever engraved in my heart. This is why I must believe in art, it allows me to hold on to precious moments and create magnificent things. And this, I will definitely believe forever.