We are all artists

The beauty comes after realization. But if you think about it, when we realize beauty, it is human perception that plays a crucial role.

When we see a piece of paper covered in colors, and we view it through our own lens and realize how beautiful the drawings are, or perhaps how intricate the patterns, we now call that paper a piece of art.

But this leads to another question. 

"Is art defined by the object itself, or by the way we perceive and interpret it?"

Well, the piece of paper itself does not define the art; rather, it depends on how we perceive it. The Mona Lisa by Leonardo da Vinci could be seen as nothing more than a piece of paper with multiple colors. Fundamentally, there is no difference between a drawing that a five-year-old scribbles on a wall and something Banksy paints on one. It’s the meaning and our perception. They are what define art.

"Then, if anything carries a deep meaning, can we call it art?"

We often assume the artist is the one who assigns meaning to their work. But I believe it is we, the viewers, who assign meaning.

"Ok, let me ask a different question. Can anything be art, as long as someone perceives meaning in it?"

What if I look at a rock and see the tear of a young girl, her sorrow frozen in time, should we all agree the rock is art?

That’s where it becomes complicated.

Art is nearly impossible to define objectively, because it is, by nature, subjective. It depends entirely on the viewer.

So let me answer the real question: What is art, to me?

I believe art is the reflection of an individual's whole life.

From how they draw a line on paper, we can sense their story.

From how they move their hips to music, we glimpse their personality.

I still remember how my dad used to draw a car for me.

He wasn’t an artist. Not in the traditional sense. But every time I asked, “Can you draw a car?” he said yes, without hesitation.

It was always the same car. A round top, like a bubble, and two wheels like perfect circles he somehow traced freehand. He'd add windows with blue crayon, a little puff of smoke trailing behind from the exhaust pipe, and sometimes, even when he was tired from work, he’d color in the entire background: a road, a stop sign, and a sun with a smiley face in the corner.

At the time, I didn’t realize what it meant. I just thought he was drawing because I asked. But now, when I think back, I now believe what he drew was more than just a car. It was his responsibility to make me happy, his constant love, his personality and his life. He was showing up. He was present. And in those quiet minutes when the world was just me, my dad, and a piece of paper, he gave me a piece of his heart.

And now, years later, I can’t help but call that moment art.

Not because it belonged in a museum, but because it carried the weight of love.

It held something no brush or camera could recreate. A memory. A bond. A story passed silently between two people. Rendered not with training, but with intention.

I still have one of those drawings. It's a little crumpled, and the colors have faded, but when I hold it, I can almost hear my dad’s voice saying, “Look! I made the wheels extra big this time.” I can feel the warmth of that evening light. I can smell the cheap markers.

Art is my life. It is also your life. The moment we call something art, it connects us and creates a bond between us. In that way, we begin to understand each other’s lives more deeply. And together, we make the world brighter.