Sitting in my room are two water lilies. They grace the surface of a lake, their delicate white petals unfurling to reveal the golden filaments sprouting from its center. Floating alongside them are a gathering of lily pads, their spring green shades in the midst of making way for the colors of autumn. Between the verdant hues lies the darkness of the water, perhaps hinting at something hidden within the mysterious depths. As if it were on cue, a dragonfly enters the scene to rest atop a petal. It’s a fleeting moment in nature, forever held onto by watercolors and a gold-colored frame.
My family never traveled much. Instead, many of my school breaks were spent visiting my grandparents in Calgary, Canada, staying in the house that my mother grew up in. As if it were my second home, I remembered nearly every inch of that place: the kitchen, and the designated cabinet for each dish; the loft, with its wide windows that let in too much light too early in the morning; and the basement. I had never been to any other basements in my life, but I still knew that they weren’t quite like this one.
The walls were lined with various paintings, paintings of flowers, landscapes, and faces. Sitting in the corner were stacks of even more paintings that I had never seen. The center of the room was occupied by several banged-up tables, dotted with scribbles and random words, where little kids would draw cartoon characters from a shelf full of picture books. Against the walls were where the older, more serious kids would sit: in front of an easel, a lamp, and a variety of inanimate objects. Here, an artist’s journey would begin with the basics of light, shadow, form, and the correct way to hold a pencil (which I could never get used to). The basement was the domain of my grandmother, my Popo, and in the most unconventional sense of the word, a classroom.
My family never traveled much. Instead, many of my school breaks were spent visiting my grandparents in Calgary, Canada, staying in the house that my mother grew up in. As if it were my second home, I remembered nearly every inch of that place: the kitchen, and the designated cabinet for each dish; the loft, with its wide windows that let in too much light too early in the morning; and the basement. I had never been to any other basements in my life, but I still knew that they weren’t quite like this one.
The walls were lined with various paintings, paintings of flowers, landscapes, and faces. Sitting in the corner were stacks of even more paintings that I had never seen. The center of the room was occupied by several banged-up tables, dotted with scribbles and random words, where little kids would draw cartoon characters from a shelf full of picture books. Against the walls were where the older, more serious kids would sit: in front of an easel, a lamp, and a variety of inanimate objects. Here, an artist’s journey would begin with the basics of light, shadow, form, and the correct way to hold a pencil (which I could never get used to). The basement was the domain of my grandmother, my Popo, and in the most unconventional sense of the word, a classroom.
"I had never been to any other basements in my life, but I still knew that they weren’t quite like this one."
Almost seventy years ago and over six thousand miles away, there was a young girl from a small village in southern China. It wasn’t exactly the best time and place to grow up in. Even so, there were still things worth reminiscing about. Growing up in such a poor community, she played not with toys in her house but with animals in the countryside, among the trees, flowers, and landscapes still undisturbed by humanity. She came to admire the beauty of nature, and wanted to learn how to capture that beauty on paper.
But for an impoverished girl who was struggling to keep her grades up, the opportunities to learn art were few and far in between. She didn’t dare ask her parents to let her take art lessons; she already knew how they would respond. “You want to become an artist? How are you ever going to make a living? Are you even taking your future seriously?” In an economy that her family was barely getting by in, learning art seemed to be nothing but a pipe dream.
Many years later, after having moved to a country across the ocean, getting married, and starting a family, her dream was still there, still waiting to be pursued. One day in 1979, there was an art show happening in Chinatown, where she met the person who would soon become her first teacher, whose pieces had reawakened the dream that had laid dormant for so long. For the first time in years an opportunity was standing right in front of her, and she didn’t hesitate to go for it.
I wanted to be an artist, too. I wanted to learn how to recreate the world on paper, how to realize the worlds in my imagination, in such a way that I could be proud of myself. I wanted something that I could show to others and tell them that I was the one who made it. In my most prominent memories of the basement, my Popo was guiding me on the path of an aspiring artist. Every time we visited, I sat in front of the easels and stared down the plaster geometric forms, studying their shadows and edges, trying with all my ability to render them onto the paper as faithfully as possible. But it seemed like using all my ability was still never enough. Rarely did I produce something that didn’t have at least one glaring flaw in it. The base of this cone was too wide, or the perspective of this cube was off, or the bottom shadow of the sphere wasn’t dark enough. What was I getting wrong? Even if I was actually improving, my drive was beginning to waver.
"I wanted to learn how to recreate the world on paper, how to realize the worlds in my imagination, in such a way that I could be proud of myself."
I felt the culture I grew up in trying to tell me something, the same thing that my Popo heard from her parents decades ago. How could I ever make a living as an artist? Nearly everyone I knew was planning to pursue a career in STEM, a career that was stable and practical. My aspirations were high, but the cost of living was higher.
I was losing my way. I felt as if the world itself wanted to cast down my hopes. But sitting in my room, there was a message waiting for me. It came in the form of a watercolor painting, given to me by my Popo. Once again, I saw the same scene: two white water lilies, surrounded by autumn leaves, shrouding the mysterious depths of the lake. However, amidst all of my despair, I realized what was hiding underneath the surface of the water. The scene had changed. I no longer saw the watercolor foliage, but instead the village my Popo grew up in. I saw all the hardship she went through before finally escaping poverty. I saw her finally get the chance to rekindle the flames of her dream. I saw her taking art classes, improving her abilities, and then reaching a level where she could teach classes herself.
And then I saw myself. I was young, energetic, eager to learn how to draw. I was sitting at the easel, focusing on the plaster white shapes. I saw my drawing pencils, charcoal, and erasers. I saw my years-old, unfinished sketchbooks, as well as the drawing tablet that I had never gotten used to using.
For a long time, I didn’t think much of this painting. It was just something for me to decorate my walls with. I didn’t even think it could represent anything else other than flowers and leaves. I had thought wrong. It was a representation of my Popo’s journey, as well as a reminder of my own. She went through much more than I did, and even though it was later in life, she still found a way to pursue what she wanted.
A famous Renaissance painter once said that “art is never finished, only abandoned.” Even now, my Popo still paints everyday, always honing the skills that she painstakingly worked for. Knowing that her decades-long journey continues on, I realized that it was too early for me to give up on my own. The canvas of my dreams wasn’t finished, but it wasn’t going to be abandoned.
I was losing my way. I felt as if the world itself wanted to cast down my hopes. But sitting in my room, there was a message waiting for me. It came in the form of a watercolor painting, given to me by my Popo. Once again, I saw the same scene: two white water lilies, surrounded by autumn leaves, shrouding the mysterious depths of the lake. However, amidst all of my despair, I realized what was hiding underneath the surface of the water. The scene had changed. I no longer saw the watercolor foliage, but instead the village my Popo grew up in. I saw all the hardship she went through before finally escaping poverty. I saw her finally get the chance to rekindle the flames of her dream. I saw her taking art classes, improving her abilities, and then reaching a level where she could teach classes herself.
And then I saw myself. I was young, energetic, eager to learn how to draw. I was sitting at the easel, focusing on the plaster white shapes. I saw my drawing pencils, charcoal, and erasers. I saw my years-old, unfinished sketchbooks, as well as the drawing tablet that I had never gotten used to using.
For a long time, I didn’t think much of this painting. It was just something for me to decorate my walls with. I didn’t even think it could represent anything else other than flowers and leaves. I had thought wrong. It was a representation of my Popo’s journey, as well as a reminder of my own. She went through much more than I did, and even though it was later in life, she still found a way to pursue what she wanted.
A famous Renaissance painter once said that “art is never finished, only abandoned.” Even now, my Popo still paints everyday, always honing the skills that she painstakingly worked for. Knowing that her decades-long journey continues on, I realized that it was too early for me to give up on my own. The canvas of my dreams wasn’t finished, but it wasn’t going to be abandoned.
Photo by Tiberius Lai
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About the Author
Tiberius Lai is a first-year student majoring in computer science. This essay was written for his English 104 class with Professor Casper, the assignment being a "Letter of Recommendation" for something unusual and special to the author. A few creative liberties may have been taken. |