The Place of Art in My Heart

Growing up, home was rarely the definition it’s touted to be. From first to fifth grade, I lived in a constant state of fear, anxiety, and stress. As an eight year old, I had trouble sleeping soundly. I frequently found myself awakened in a stupor by the voices that reverberated through my bedroom walls. Although my room was a ways apart, the warning cues of my parents disintegrating marriage always managed to travel down the hallway and make their way towards me.

This is not a sob story. On the contrary, this is a love story.

I don’t know when my first encounter with art was but I do remember my first accomplishment. It was an extensive scene of characters hanging out around the pier done in oil pastel. Ladies tanning under beach umbrellas, children playing with beachballs, building sand castles, fishermen patiently awaiting… I even remember feeling so smug for illustrating a particular fisherman’s catch of the day, a shoe! (Bonnie humor, circa 1997). Unlike traditional accolades, this one was not adorned with trophies or medals. My own satisfaction was enough. Having completed my first masterpiece, I was absolutely brimming.

Recently, while flipping through Art of the 20th Century, I read, “It was no coincidence that a photographer was among the few people who realized the artistic rank of these [Impressionist] painters and their new approach to reality.”

“Their new approach to reality.” That’s it. Art is my approach to reality.

Rosy isn’t the way I would describe my childhood. I never thought anyone was missing out with my lack of words. The other kids could talk for me. There wasn’t much that hadn’t already been said. The other kids could talk instead of me. I’d rather be heads down tracing shapes with my fingers on my desk anyway. It was in between those quiet moments where I learned to escape to art. It had a transformative quality that allowed itself to be whatever, whenever I needed. Meditative, depressive, creative, expressive…

When my spirit was drifting, art gave me a place to stay.
When my insecurities clouded me, art held an umbrella up for me.
When uncertainty plagued me, art was my rock.

As soap suds brimmed past my palms when I washed my hands this morning, I saw art.
As I gathered, mixed and folded ingredients while cooking last night, I saw art.
As my boss exposed a vulnerable side of himself the other day, I saw the greatest form of art — the art of the human spirit.

As I continue to find my path, art will serve as my compass.
As I continue to build myself as a person, art will provide the blueprint.
As I move into the future, art will graduate into an expression of reality rather than an escape.

Growing up, art promised me a better tomorrow.
As a grown up, tomorrows are reserved for art, tomorrows of blank canvases waiting to be painted by my actions.
As for today, art is my love.
This is the place of art in my heart.