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I was 6. I was surrounded by strokes of ocean-blue and burning yellow and rose petal pink, as if I were standing at the heart of an illuminating sunset. I sat, enchanted, in my very first art class. Awestruck at the vibrant, colourful pieces of art propped up delicately on glass shelves and wooden tables, I smiled, eyes twinkling as I took in the picturesque dreamscape that seemed like something out of a storybook. Clumsily picking up the paintbrush in front of me, I pressed the bristles onto the smooth table in curiosity. An indescribable sort of bliss flowed through me, and I was content in that moment of swirling hues and soft murmurs and graceless strokes of paint.
I was 8. It was Chinese New Year, I recall. I’d wrapped up a painting I’d made in art class to surprise you. Koi of vibrant shades of crimson darted across the ultramarine canvas, 5 hours of acrylic bringing the calming scene to life. I dragged the large painting into the living room, struggling not to crumple the fragile paper gift wrap. My gleeful, innocent grin was met by your towering rage. You clutched my report card in your fists, and screamed at me for the blotch of red which flared brighter than the red on my painting ever would. My painting was tossed to the side and soon forgotten, but you would be happy to know that I never failed a test after that.
I was 11. I raced home at the speed of light, and barged through the front door with my first ever perfectly-scored exam. I felt your exhilaration as you delicately took the paper from my hands, saw your delight as you cleared space on the silver surface of the refrigerator to pin up this pride and joy, heard the bliss from the praise and approval that you showered me with. I was beaming too, until I took a step back, and saw you gazing at that lifeless sheet of paper with more happiness you’d ever had looking at me.
I was 15. You sat me down to discuss my future. I should aim for law school, you said. My academic excellence had paved the way for a profession as a solicitor, and I could earn an annual salary of up to a million. “But my art,” I remember protesting, my love for painting coming to mind. My world was filled with tints of ruby and sapphire and amber, yet you seemed to see through a lens of black and white, the need for success filtering out the colours that brought vibrancy to my life. “This will open doors for you,” you insisted. “Chasing rainbows with your