Shaping Happiness

I grew up wanting to become an artist.

Perhaps it was growing up in my grandmother’s house when I first developed this affinity. Every morning I walked down the pink-painted hall adorned with paintings; some framed, some exposing the carefully painted edge of the canvas. They were all mounted center to the adjacent piece to form a line, almost as if done with the same care you would see in a gallery. In this house, not a single wall was bare. If not decorated with framed and embroidered verses, or butterflies preserved in shadow boxes, the walls were made known with patterned wallpaper in retro orange and greens. Everyday I walked down the hall that stretched from the front entry to my grandfather’s study, and I would look up at the paintings.

One depicted the portrait of a girl in a white sunhat and an ice cream cone in her hand, balloons behind her in a mirage of legs. She had her straight hair tucked into the elastic under her chin, as if to secure it from the wind that might carry away her balloons. I had always imagined it first as a photograph, as a candid moment captured on a day that happened only once a year.

A true, treasured moment.

In another, I still remember the raised texture created by the layered strokes painted to define rocks in the foreground and carve movement in the water beyond. It was a picturesque scene of a man standing by the river’s edge draped in a white blouse. His beige trousers were tucked into boots that rose past his ankles. In his right hand he held loosely onto his horse’s reins. Under his brown hat he stood and looked fondly at his majestic friend.

I was in awe when I was old enough to understand that they were painted by my father.

It all seemed tangible. A life full of art—and even if I could not bask in new awe, I could create my own.

I could create my happiness.

Years passed, and the tangibility faded.

I fed the longing to create and channeled that desire through different avenues. Suddenly I saw Science posters, English assignments, and all scholastic work as art projects, a reason to break out my scissors and pencil crayons. It was a means to rediscover the awe I once knew through something real in that moment.

Years passed, and I lost myself in work.

I lost those moments.

Despite working in a creative industry, I found myself longing for an outlet outside of the professional realm, outside of timesheets, scheduled meetings, and designing to a stranger’s ideal. Something other than checking off boxes on a list – something other than what fell under the routine I had established.

At work we had always celebrated birthdays, a reason to break off from the typical workday, get up from our desks and contribute to casual banter. Earlier one day—and in the tradition of office birthdays—we discretely signed and passed around a card for the birthday gal. I opened the card.

‘On your Special Day...’

She was my friend, and I began to think of all the things that came across my mind when I thought of her. The cake graphic and accompanying text on the card did little to speak to who she was, making no mention of her talent, her compassion, her interests. When I thought of her, I was reminded of her traits, our shared moments, and the things that held meaning between us.

I illustrated a character that resembled her and drew icons and objects that showcased the very things she enjoyed. The very things that told me, who she was. With these elements I created artwork to replace the neutral birthday cards and on the reverse side, paired them with sweet words from our peers.

As I cut and traced the edge of the printed illustration with the blade of my scissors and its orange handles, I realized I was shaping the card and yet, a little piece of my own joy.

The pieces began to add.

I recall my grandmother fondly and immediately my heart and mind are flooded with visuals of the pink hall, the vintage wallpaper, the framed butterflies, my father’s paintings, and her beloved scissors. Her tools and treasures that shaped who she was.

On a sunny day I pictured her with her oversized shears trimming the leaves by the windowsill, occasionally looking up to count the cars that drove past the street. I hear the ‘snip-snip’ of the pair she used to dice small cubes of ham for her signature broth. The ones she used to trim my bangs when they grew just a finger below my eyebrows.

I think about the time and the planning she poured into her little gallery.

I think of her meticulous nature and how she must have spent an afternoon measuring the space between the pieces proudly displayed in her hallway.

I think of how she shaped her happiness.