A Story About Art: Pursuing My Passion

Like most, my love for art started at a very young age; I remember contentedly scribbling on every piece of blank paper I could find in the house, being scolded by my mother for the endless trail of paper scraps I’d leave in my wake. I was most at peace when drawing or indulging my imagination – or sometimes recreating laughable versions of Neil Buchanan’s ‘Big Art Attacks’ with my brothers, the floor covered in a puzzling arrangement of clothes. Shortly after, I became obsessed with watercolour palettes – those tin ones with the chalk-like pans – and I spent enough time dousing sheets of paper in glorious watery hues of colour. I was in my element.

As I grew older, I grew more and more intrigued by the design and architecture of the Islamic world. Mosques, tiles, courtyards and gardens all bejeweled with intricate designs created entirely by hand, from the Taj Mahal to Al Aqsa Mosque, dripping in rich vibrant colour. The more intricate the design, the more intrigued I was. And I was obsessed.

Come secondary school, it was of course an obvious choice that I’d opt for art as a GCSE subject. This is where I was introduced to the limitations of our educational system with regards to art. School trips were to museums full of art I didn’t connect with, and assignments were based on the life and style of artists I could not relate to. The lack – or non-existence – of diversity and variety was shocking. Furthermore, very little was taught about the artist themselves, rendering art studies completely impersonal, and instead pages of information were rammed down our throats about the impact these artists had on the art scene as a whole. That means nothing to a 15 year old who wants to be inspired.

Tell me more about the artist.

This period at school for me triggered a state of confusion; I knew I loved creating, but my passion was stifled by what I felt was ‘expected’ by the curriculum. Is my art supposed to look so abstract (and in some cases, so bizarre)? Maybe I don’t understand how art should be? Maybe I’m just not cut out for it..

Art at school was taught with little meaning, expression or personality. This was art class yet nothing inspired me. The artists we learnt about lived in a completely different socio-economic class, and I felt as blank about the art as I did about the artists.

Soon after, mostly as a result of the school grading system, I didn’t get the grades I needed to pursue art in college. I’d thought outside the box and, for my final GCSE piece, created a life-size figure from wire and plaster, and used it as the foundation for my culture-related piece. The others had opted to paint canvases much like the ones we’d worked on in class earlier that year. My work didn’t fit the box..

In my second year of college, I decided to try again to enroll into the art course since I wasn’t able to get in the first year. After some struggle, one of the teachers was courteous enough to fight my corner, saying ‘If she’s passionate, and she obviously is, I don’t see why she shouldn’t be given the opportunity!” With that, the art teacher reluctantly scribbled my name down and I was in.

Or so I thought. On the first day at art class, about half hour into the lesson, we were armed with charcoal in hand and easels displaying sheets of paper covered in black circular sketches. And in that moment, my name was called out – in front of everyone – and I was told that ‘there was no space’ on this course for me as there were others in need of it who were priority. It was a gutting moment, a cruel one, the point where I’d realised I’d never be able to study art in university, and I silently packed my things and left without a word.

It was another 4/5 years before I even thought about art again. I was so scarred by my experience that I simply gave up, forced myself to recognise that it would never work out and packed away all of my art supplies. Art felt like an exclusive club that was open only to a select few. Eventually however, a sense of restlessness came over me, and with it, a sense of clarity; why should you ever give up something pure which gives you peace? And why should it matter whether or not society – or even academia – validates how you create? Create anyway.

I started to dabble with paints again, reacquainting myself with an old friend. But I didn’t know what to create. I wanted to try my hand at absolutely everything, it was overwhelming – and I was trying to learn it all off the internet. Eventually, I saved enough to attend various courses and spend time in the presence of teachers – and what a world of difference it makes.

Finally, after months of staring at their Open Programme listings, I bit the bullet and enrolled with PSTA on their short courses. Though not inexpensive by any means, this pretty much changed everything for me. Finally, here was an institution which taught the arts and ancient skills which no other place had even acknowledged. A place where everything I’d loved about art had been seriously preserved and treasured to an extraordinary degree. It was magical. The teachers were all masters at their craft, often flown in from other parts of the world, to impart wisdom and fine-tuned practical advice. It was an absolute privilege.

My time at PSTA taught me to channel my creativity into discipline and focus. I learnt how to properly make use of resources and tools, how to use invaluable transferable skills and the various techniques of different teachers. And finally, I learnt about the incredible patience, skill and determination of people who mastered these fields with extensive years of practise under a teacher – error after error, correction after correction – whether it be geometry, illumination (tezhip) or calligraphy.

This short period of time inspired me more than all my years in school, and opened to me a world I’d never known but had always yearned for.

“As you start to walk on the way, the way appears.” – Rumi رحمه الله