The first moment I was able to hold a marker, my grandma placed a pad of paper under my hand. To her, art was expression, happiness, and therapy; it was something she needed to share with her two granddaughters. As a kid, scribbling on paper and the covers of my notebooks was mindless but entertaining. There wasn’t any pressure to create.
My perspective on art changed in high school. Starting the morning with 90 minutes of art class sounds great in theory, but as I started to run behind on deadlines or grow frustrated with a piece, art became a chore. My assignments were time-consuming and stressful, and I didn’t feel proud of my finished products.
But I began to uncover my own unique style and gradually refine my skills. I kept going. I enrolled in an AP course on 2-D art and spent one year making 24 pieces, 12 of which were a collection I’d grown intensely fond of. I sat at my desk, brainstorming for hours on what I wanted to create until finally landing on my theme. It was centered on the idea of wordless communication, something inspired by my experiences, my interests, and my identity. It had more of “me” than anything I’d ever created, and I submitted my portfolio to the College Board, proud of my accomplishment.
A few months later, my results came back. I got a 2. Not even a passing grade. It wasn’t just a denial of my work, but a denial of my very personhood.
My first year of college, art was completely out of the picture: no classes, no scribbles on notebooks, no products to display. I was busy, I said, and I had other passions to dedicate myself to.
Then came the pandemic. Days blended into each other, and at first, weeks were spent with little to show for them. I had lost a vital connection to my university and my friends, leaving me with solely schoolwork and sleep. Quarantine was a terrible, mind-numbing experience, but for all of the grief it caused me, it gave me the time and patience to create again.
It was only out of complete boredom that I picked up a pencil. I sketched once, then again, and again until I ended the months with a notebook filled with graphite. I picked up beads and wire on a whim and began making earrings. I looked down at my work, plugged my earbuds in, and when I looked up again the sun had set. It was a mindless progression, but looking back at the day’s product made me feel like I had done something with my day. If things didn’t look good, it didn’t matter. Once again, art had become entertaining and therapeutic.
Now in my dorm, with watercolor paint brushes freshly dry, I’ve gone back to the same child-like relationship I once had, and art has never been more freeing.