An Artistic War
Story by Sophia Hernandez

 

Imaginary friends, Nintendo or Barbie's were never a part of my childhood. Don't get me wrong; I mean they were around, but before I could even speak I was introduced to something even better. It's my friend. Its exhilarating. Its whatever I want it to be. It's art.

As a kid I grew up listening to my cousin scratching to the Beastie Boys and other records in the garage. He was all about the hip hop scene. It was all he would do. Well, either that or draw in his black book. All I did was sit and watch him annihilate the page with each line he drew. I loved being around someone so creative. Bugging him made him finally realize my immense interest and the day came where he told me where we going to the train tracks.

Once we arrived I felt a sense of happiness and comfort – two things I had never experience before. The rocks beneath my feet, the breeze, the silence – everything so vivid, my pupils dilated. There were colors, characters, letters, styles and layers of paint that concealed the walls underneath. Interrupting the silence, my cousin suggested, “Here, take a picture.” He handed me his Polaroid camera and I snapped away. I wanted to seize the moment of the serenity, brilliance, and amenity I couldn't find anywhere else to make it last me a lifetime. At the mere age of five, I figured that if life couldn't give me what I want and deserved, a photograph that could do it for me. That day I had embarked on something that would take over my entire sense of being.

As I got older, nothing ever seemed to brighten up. I was departed from my cousin, my parents divorced and it just seemed as though with each day I lived everything got worse. By the time I was ten, I had more stories of knowledge and experience than most 30-year olds. Stories that I would never be able to repeat, no matter how bad the situation was. My sketchbook and numerous disposable cameras were my tool to sufficiently let everything go.

The years went by and I was finally in high school. At this point I lost track of how many schools I attended. Moving from house to house, alternating from one parent to the other and back, making new friends only to find out that I was moving again, and everything else in between made me feel lonely. Under the control and abuse I suffered, I controlled and abused my camera. Art always won.

Although I've gotten away from the tyranny, I've still moved from place to place, seen a lot of heavy sights, and dealt with the heart-attack causing stress all the time. To cope with it all. I still do the same I go out on the street as though I am at war. My environment is my battleground and the shutter is my sniper. I let down my aggression with each picture I take, capturing the same ambivalence or the emotions I wish I could feel.

I cant explain how many times art saved my life. I'm talking about from drugs, alcohol, homeless and suicide. If it wasn't for that single day that I was taken to the train tracks, I wouldn't be here today to talk about the importance of recognizing all surrounding and details.

The smallest line in a drawing, the slightest tint in a painting, or even the most acute angle taken in a photograph can depict beauty that cannot be found anywhere else. It just brings me back to my favorite quote by Charles Bukowski:

“The difference between life and art is that art is more bearable.”