Dedicated to the artistic intricacies in our world.

From as early as I can remember, my household echoed with the quiet hum of appreciation for art. It was not just in the hung paintings or whispered conversations about renowned artists. While names like Gustav Klimt or Eugène Delacroix were yet to become a part of my artistic lexicon, there was another artist, closer to home, who deeply influenced my understanding of art: my mother.

Her canvas was not the traditional kind, nor were her tools the brushes and palettes most would recognize. Instead, she expressed herself through intricate embroideries, transforming simple fabrics into intricate tapestries of emotion and memory. Each stitch was an emblem of her patience, dedication and undying passion. Lacking the confidence to sketch from her imagination, my mother would often rely on carbon paper to trace existing designs and prints. Yet, this reliance on replication did not diminish her art’s authenticity.

Through the years, I watched, often mesmerized, as she’d immerse herself in her artistry. It was as if she could press pause on the world around her and lose herself in the threads and colors of her creation. This sight alone, of her hands moving rhythmically, was a masterpiece for us to behold. But, as the sands of time slipped through our fingers, she began to retreat from this world of creation, leaving a void in our home, and depriving us of the joy of watching her hands dance gracefully over her fabric.

Despite this artistic hiatus, she never truly ceased being an artist. She had an uncanny ability to focus on the ordinary, the mundane, and discover the beauty hidden within its folds. Her unique perspective often puzzled me. There were moments when I’d find her deep in thought, her gaze piercing through seemingly trivial things, extracting from them details that many would overlook. This distinct worldview sometimes made me question her mental state, perhaps unfairly attributing it to her health conditions.

Then came a period of subtle, yet profound change. As her engagement with embroidery waned, a palpable silence took over our home. The loss of her hearing seemed to heighten her other senses, shifting her focus from tactile creations to the visual ones. While I had never shared her raw enthusiasm for creating art, I did possess a budding penchant for doodling and sketching. Sensing this shift in me, she began to guide and mentor, channeling her once tangible passion into nurturing mine. Her lack of hearing became inconsequential as she communicated through emotions, aiding me in refining my sketches.

Her creations were not just physical objects; they were the embodiment of a worldview where the ordinary transformed into the extraordinary. To her, art wasn’t just about the act of creating, but a means of seeing the world with childlike wonder and boundless curiosity. Her perspective, uniquely her own, taught me that the essence of art lies not just in the final piece but in the profound act of observing. Through her eyes, I learned that there’s artistry in every corner of our world. It beckons to those willing to pause, to appreciate, and most importantly, to truly see.

Header animation by Mei Harter