I am a painter. By definition, I am someone who loves and has a passion for art. I may not be a Picasso, or even a Donatello. I cannot give you every date and history of every creation ever created, but perhaps my personal experience and thoughts. I spend my days putting my emotions, thoughts, and work on paper. My years, on masterpieces. Art is my voice, and I use it all the time. From childhood, till this moment.
I first started noticing my interest in art when I was about five years old. It all happened when my parents first split; I picked up the nearest crayon, and started drawing on the wall. Part of my intention was wrath and the other half was sorrow, whatever it was, I was soon on the path of creativity. Years passed by and my days of felicity and grief were soon written in a tiny book, given to me by a dear friend. The book was pink it had flirty letters spelling out diary, there was a small gold lock to the side, with the lock came a pair of keys. The keys then rusted as birthdays came and went, and soon even a diary was not able to hold my thoughts.
As my creativity grew, I began to paint. My first painting, I admit, even a kindergartener could do. I never spent hours practicing; it was more of a hobby for me. Nevertheless, as my feelings mixed in with the urge to create, my paintings became stronger. I think that the first person to aid me in secrecy is my mom. Though my mother may have not known, she played a large role in this hobby of mine. My mother had raised us as a single parent; she always pushed us past our limits to do well. “If you don’t do well, this community will laugh because you children have no father,”my mother always said. Although my father was alive and well and saw me every week, he seemed somewhat dead in mother’s world. My mother always seemed concerned with what the Bengali community would think of us as well, she thought about everything from our marriage to our death.