The Power of Art

I believe in creative force. In my Grade 10 year, my grandfather was spending his usual afternoon in my family diner, perched in the corner booth. While my parents were overwhelmed during the rush hour, Goongoon, having lost his consciousness to dementia for a brief minute, decided to take a stroll. He left with no trace. Later, a call from the hospital was how we learned where he ended up. 

 

In the hospital, he was treated for a head injury he sustained during the stroll, and later he incurred a positive COVID-19 test result. Over time, he became limp in bed and was barely able to speak. Seeing the amount of metal penetrating his frail skin stung me. Meanwhile, I was in and out of the hospital, and my parents were unsure whether Goongoon would be able to continue his life outside the crammed hospital room.

 

One day, my father had an idea. He brought Goongoon a pen and paper. He told him to draw. The simple doodles of daisies and sunflowers scratched into the printer paper brought a glimpse of hope. This was sufficient reassurance for us.

 

My father made art a speciality. 

 

During his childhood, being raised Catholic, he was given a drawing tutorial book by a nun. After her passing, it became a prized-possession to him. He would tell my sister and I, "When you guys are older, I will pass it on to you."

 

Dad’s linocut prints of Led Zeppelin album covers he made in high school also proved to me how cool art is. He treated these real ancient artifacts with delicacy. Seeing his treatment towards the arts in his life and his aesthetic prints and sketches, art naturally became a high-valued thing to me.

 

I would be lying if I told you that I magically learned to draw by myself after being inspired by my father's art. In truth, I started as an impostor. I traced my sister's sketches. But in all reality, she forced me… sitting me down for “mandatory” drawing time. Looking up to my sister, I followed. I thought it was a cool thing, and it even got praise from my parents. A win!

 

Not only was art a cool thing, it was a way to get reassurance. Creating art became a gateway to connecting with family members during holidays. The rewards were cheerful… smiles and engulfing hugs – priceless to a child. My grandparents continue to cherish my Crayola-coloured and sparkle-filled cards, displaying them on top of their fireplace. 

 

Later, when the spread of COVID-19 began, I was forced to construct my art with the restricted supplies I had at home. Patching together miscellaneous materials, I found myself creating abstract pieces which symbolized my array of scattered thoughts. Glueing together beads, recycled cardboard, fabric scraps, and painting with nail polishes, I enjoyed the process of releasing my accumulated stress.

 

This method aided my AP Art studies, where I would venture out to my father’s man cave and rummage through his electronic materials. Seeing resistors and electrical wires brought me back to my grandfather’s passing. A man who immigrated to Canada and was forced to abide by Western culture… the time when we worried he might forget the English language completely and not be able to communicate with his nurses… his old age restricting him from travelling back to his home to connect with his heritage. Art allowed me to continue his story. Studying my heritage and family history for my pieces such as, “Nationalities at Play” and “Electric Youth,” reconnected me.

 

I believe in the power of art.