“Wow.”

What a simple remark, yet it’s so flattering to hear.

It’s compliments like these that give my name a ring – that alliteration of ability and aptitude. It’s what keeps me driven. And confident. When others hear my name, they think, artistic. But when I hear my name, I don’t think anything. Instead, I visualize it. That’s who I am: an artist.

To some, art is a painting in the museum getting endless attention. To others, it is a meticulous masterpiece – floral landscapes painted with flawless strokes and perfect precision. But to me, art is the way the busted bindings of books stick out on a library shelf just waiting to be read. It’s the way a snowflake cascades and then lands, slowly melting its one-of-a-kind design into a miniscule pool of water on a toddler’s tongue. I can find the art in anything. I guess that’s just me. An artist.

I’ve been fascinated with art since the moment I held that pink Crayola marker in my hand at four. It’s almost as if art is within me…within my soul. My heart pumps paints of eclectic colors. I walk with bones made of fine ceramics. My eyes see through spheres of radiant, blown glass. My brain holds a canvas of inspiration. I inhale the world, and exhale my perception of it. It’s what I do, as an artist.

This isn’t just a hobby or some leisure pursuit. Art is my passion. And today, my name isn’t more than scattered “wow’s.” But someday, a few “wow’s” will become a few million, echoing in and subsiding on the plain white walls in renowned galleries. People will know me for my work and what I do best. My name will not just be remembered, it will be visualized.