Disclaimer: I am not a child prodigy artist. I didn’t waltz out of the womb producing Picassoesque pieces or manipulating acrylics in ways unknown to man.
Much like every other Kindergartner, I grew up with a box of 24 Crayola crayons and hands with a mind of their own. I went through all the regular phases: triangular noses, no noses, lopsided potatoes for heads. It didn’t matter if the paper was black or white or the only scrap of construction paper I could find, the skies were always cerulean blue and the grass always green. Skin could be one of three colors: brown, peach or yellow, and lips were typically carnation pink; however, red violet was brought out for extravagant occasions.
But, unlike every other kid who attacked his or her manila paper with every color in the box and no thought in his or her mind, I was always meticulous. Always mesmerized.
Mounted on top of my knees, hands buzzing to pick the next color, mind scurrying to unveil the picture’s final identity, eyes devoted to the crayon and its tortuous path - to me, art was magic.
A decade later, even though I’ve read all the Harry Potters, seen all the corny card tricks, and been reaffirmed over a million times that “magic” is yet another façade of the entertainment industry, art is still magic.
With art, I can transform a mere feeling – a completely abstract thought – into something tangible within minutes. I can time travel to lost crevices of the world, discover faces and personalities yet to be conceived, speak volumes on a subject trapped in centuries of silence and oblivion. With art, I can conjure tears and laughter and a head full of thoughts. To me, that's magic.
Of course, when I was five, my magical powers were constrained to propelling half-smiles with a geometric rendition of my family portrait and confused expressions when I claimed the pink and purple blob was in fact an enchanted unicorn.
Since then, I’ve picked up a few tricks, learned some new mediums, and discovered a self-expression encompassing more than mythical creatures, cute animals and what I can now accept as abstract art.
Yet, like before, my mother still lectures me when I come home with more paint on my clothes than on my canvas. The dining room table remains the colorful, but blank, slate to new markers, old oils, and my mother’s personal favorite – caked pastels. Instead of logic puzzles, my Calculus homework is now the beneficiary of my graphite doodles. And like always, I go to sleep with a 101 ideas bustling in my head, waiting till tomorrow to leap out and begin their long-awaited trek.
I've seen the way watercolors make Zelia's eyes glow. The way a graphite portrait of my mother and brother ushers countless memories and stories of a rambunctious past. The way colored pencils photograph the mischief of a seven-year old. The way oil paint and wood never fail to understand me. The way a portrait of a blind man opens people's minds and hearts to an emotion they've yet to see.
If anything, now more than ever, I know - art is magic.
Much like every other Kindergartner, I grew up with a box of 24 Crayola crayons and hands with a mind of their own. I went through all the regular phases: triangular noses, no noses, lopsided potatoes for heads. It didn’t matter if the paper was black or white or the only scrap of construction paper I could find, the skies were always cerulean blue and the grass always green. Skin could be one of three colors: brown, peach or yellow, and lips were typically carnation pink; however, red violet was brought out for extravagant occasions.
But, unlike every other kid who attacked his or her manila paper with every color in the box and no thought in his or her mind, I was always meticulous. Always mesmerized.
Mounted on top of my knees, hands buzzing to pick the next color, mind scurrying to unveil the picture’s final identity, eyes devoted to the crayon and its tortuous path - to me, art was magic.
A decade later, even though I’ve read all the Harry Potters, seen all the corny card tricks, and been reaffirmed over a million times that “magic” is yet another façade of the entertainment industry, art is still magic.
With art, I can transform a mere feeling – a completely abstract thought – into something tangible within minutes. I can time travel to lost crevices of the world, discover faces and personalities yet to be conceived, speak volumes on a subject trapped in centuries of silence and oblivion. With art, I can conjure tears and laughter and a head full of thoughts. To me, that's magic.
Of course, when I was five, my magical powers were constrained to propelling half-smiles with a geometric rendition of my family portrait and confused expressions when I claimed the pink and purple blob was in fact an enchanted unicorn.
Since then, I’ve picked up a few tricks, learned some new mediums, and discovered a self-expression encompassing more than mythical creatures, cute animals and what I can now accept as abstract art.
Yet, like before, my mother still lectures me when I come home with more paint on my clothes than on my canvas. The dining room table remains the colorful, but blank, slate to new markers, old oils, and my mother’s personal favorite – caked pastels. Instead of logic puzzles, my Calculus homework is now the beneficiary of my graphite doodles. And like always, I go to sleep with a 101 ideas bustling in my head, waiting till tomorrow to leap out and begin their long-awaited trek.
I've seen the way watercolors make Zelia's eyes glow. The way a graphite portrait of my mother and brother ushers countless memories and stories of a rambunctious past. The way colored pencils photograph the mischief of a seven-year old. The way oil paint and wood never fail to understand me. The way a portrait of a blind man opens people's minds and hearts to an emotion they've yet to see.
If anything, now more than ever, I know - art is magic.