You will usually find my own artwork on this blog. Today is an exception. The watercolor you see actually belongs to my mother, Amy.
It happened one crispy fall day in 2012 as I was tutoring. I opened up a dusty pad of paper that had been thrown into a large box of art supplies. When I peeled away the yellow protective cover from the crisp white sheets, I was taken aback by this piece of art staring at me. I hadn’t painted it. On the lower righthand corner was the signature “Amy ’99”.
After my heartbeats normalized, I inhaled the poignant flavor of this moment: rich and sweet and slightly bitter in its aftertaste. It has been almost five years since she passed away that hot and sticky July. Life has moved forward with full force since then, engulfing many of us in highs and lows and major life changes. Most memories of my mother are stored in a secure chamber of my heart. Now and then though, tangible objects tug on those little strings.
This particular moment touched me in an earthshaking and pure way. Seeing her handwriting sent a rush of emotion through my body; a waterfall of sensation moved about my veins but no tears accompanied this visceral reaction. I studied her handwriting and brush strokes–her choice of color and light. After gazing into the mystic, I felt connected to her memory. The simple spring watercolor was so…my mother.
As an angsty teen I was focused on MY art and MY expression (this is evident upon looking at photographs of my morphing hairstyle and hair color). Luckily my understanding mom didn’t take it personally. I however do not feel like I spent enough time studying and honoring her talent. After she was gone, her art came to life because I wanted to keep her alive. She was a natural–an absolute Renaissance Woman. I can still imagine the sound of her fingers pressing the ivory-white piano keys in our living room. The melody traveled through our house and filled the open space with light and beauty. I took that for granted. Little things like that are the most precious. That sound is gone, but her handwriting is here. I can touch it, smell it, keep it and imagine her hand upon the paper.
My mom devoted a lot of time (when she was a bit older) to her artistic pursuits. I believe that everyone is a creative soul with a wealth of talent waiting to explode. It does take cultivation and nurturing. As we know, time is of the essence; we get into our routines and another obligation blocks us from carefree actions like creating or following our passions or allowing ourselves to fall in love. I however noticed a sense of urgency when life surprised me with hardship. The sky opened up and pretty much screamed at me,”There is not enough time to wait!”
Although not everyone is inclined to pick up a paintbrush, I do find an urge to share some sentiments. Take them or leave them. I will not be offended.
I’ve often struggled with the concept of being an artist. I always just created because it felt good or necessary at the least. I couldn’t explain it when I was younger, and still I often have no reasons behind my artwork. I can’t defend it. Anyhow, in the past sometimes my need to create actually isolated me from the important people in my life. I needed to feel every emotion and let it explode into art, so naturally I got deeply into my own head and feelings. I struggled (and still do) with questions like: Why do we make art? Is it selfish? What is thisall about? Should I follow my passion? These are common life questions, to which many might relate. These notions especially haunted me after times of reclusion into a world of journals, painting and all-consuming creative periods, often accompanied by emotion and urgency. When I saw my mother’s painting however, it made sense to me why art is so important in the world and perhaps why those stages of extreme and uttermost concentration are alright.
Here comes my point (I think): art documents the human experience in a way that nothing else can, leaving behind traces of existence and reality. It records the soul’s wisdom, naïveté and innermost desire. It proves that we—emotional, social, talented and invigorated beings—are here, were here and have an ineffable current of energy inside our flesh and bones. We are in essence creating history and representing our unique experience in this world and era. Witnessing the form of ink on paper in a love letter or poem, or pigment on canvas from elegant brush strokes, or the song of a voice carrying through a space can transform a moment in time making it last eternally, though it may seem fleeting in its nature. Life’s finality is exactly what makes art important and beautiful.
As for the questions above like: Why is art important? Well, I think the answers will continue to reveal themselves in an ongoing journey. Like a good painting, the layers will build with every bump and celebration along the way. I hope that this curiosity will never stop. If you don’t relate to art, maybe this is simply following your passion, whatever that may be.
In an artwork, traces of that person are forever embedded within the color and motion. I am grateful that my mom left behind this imprint of love and that she dedicated time to enjoying her senses through art. Today, this simple painting reminds me that she is still here.
