Last night my fiancé and myself visited an art gallery. The Louvre was the only other gallery I had every been to before this and it was, well, a radically different experience to say the least. As we wandered the nearly-vacant halls and pondered the many bizarre and obscure pieces, I found myself contemplating less the artwork itself or even the message it was (maybe?) trying to portray, but rather the artist behind each piece. What life experience did this person face that they would spend hundreds of hours building that wooden helicopter-thing populated by little white people? What mental state was this artist in when she stapled torn fabric to a frame and gave it a name?
I believe that all art has a purpose. Whether it is to transmit a particular message, answer some deep existential question, or simply to be appreciated for its beauty, true art is unique from a plastic doohickey pumped out of a factory because it has a little bit of the human who made it in its composition—and we all have something to say.
I have been an artist all my life. Even when I was colouring title pages for my science binder in grade three, I took it as an opportunity for me to create something beautiful. Graphic design has since become my medium and also my job, but I still approach each new project like my grade three title pages—each is an opportunity for me to inspire, captivate, fascinate.
My websites will never be put on display in a gallery and the business cards and brochures I’ve designed will probably be forgotten at the bottom of purses and junk drawers, but the purpose of everything I’ve created remains the same: I hope that this world will experience a little more beauty because of it.