The Digital Brushstrokes of Lyssa’s Mind
In the vast gallery of life, where every soul has a portrait, mine is an abstract. I’m Lyssa, and art… art is my sanctuary, my voice. The world often feels like a cacophony, a sensory symphony that’s too loud, too close. But within the silent strokes of my imagination, I find peace.
I remember the day I met Van Gogh through the eyes of my kindergarten teacher—his “Starry Night” sprawled across the blackboard. Everyone else was captivated by the swirls, the whimsy. But to me, those whirls felt like a storm, a turbulent sea of blue that was somehow too deep, too sad. I stood apart, wondering why I was the only one drowning in the painting’s sorrow.
My fascination isn’t with the artists of old, their canvases are foreign countries where I don’t speak the language. No, my fascination is with the canvas of the now—the computer screen. I remember my tiny hands grappling with the keyboard, each key a stepping stone to a world where I could control the chaos. The keys were like piano notes, and I learned to play them with the same dexterity as a maestro, despite the challenge.
They told me, “We are the pioneers, the first children of the silicon age.” I took that declaration as a talisman, a beacon to guide me through the overstimulating world. The hum of the computer was a lullaby, the flicker of the screen was a campfire telling stories. I learned to communicate with clicks and drags, to express with pixels and code, finding my voice in the one place where the swirls of color made sense.
Art, for me, doesn’t hang on a museum wall; it lives in the circuits and wires. My art is interactive; it responds to me as I pour my vision into it. This digital easel is my confidante, my steadfast companion, where I am no longer the odd one out but the creator of worlds.
In this all-consuming environment, I am not lost. I am exploring. I am learning—always learning—because here, in the glow of the monitor, I am understood.