My life centers around the ability to create and prosper. Spurring with creativity as a child, I was a catalyst for hands-on creations. Like Victor Frankenstein, I craved to be riddled with power, like that of which comes with the thrill of inventing. As a young, whimsical spirit, I was a prism. I absorbed everything in my life, and I reflected colors. I took in my experiences and made it coruscate. As my mind transformed into an eruption of vibrant colors, I became a floating organic bundle of inspiration. I quickly gathered all the art supplies I could find and drew what lied in my imagination. I envisioned Romero Brito’s spiral hair like my own, mimicking his designs and dotted masterpieces. I grabbed crayons, pastels and even my mother’s bright red lipstick to bring them to life.
At five years old, I painted on my sister’s unbelievably battered posters, unaware that I was creating the award-winning piece that sparked my artistic journey. In my eyes, I had made a masterpiece — the David to my Michelangelo — that belonged in a museum. My mother did not think the same, indignant, as she thought I had made quite the mess. I was one with the mess, covered in it. I felt like a piece of my work, painted head to toe in vibrant colors. That mess only inspired me more and primed me for the future ahead that I had not yet envisioned.
As I aged, I looked at my reflection and became mindful of my appearance. I had grown into a young woman and seemed to only fixate on flaws I had never noticed before, transforming into a wooden shape-sorting cube that I once played with as a child. I felt society had imposed this ideal of what they expected of women, regardless of age. Wanting to adapt, I pounded my mother’s foundation into my skin, only to find it was weakening the foundation within me. I felt out of touch in that my creations were now unworthy — the creations being mine.
I soon noticed I could create whatever facial reality I wanted in the same way that I stared at that blank poster as a child. My relationship with creativity strengthened, and it was no longer a silly activity. It was a necessity. I had moved onto a bigger canvas, a portrait that I could present to the world. Like Alice in the rabbit hole, I began to dig into my mother’s makeup bag once more to make new discoveries. I found that these products represented my profound connection with them. I concealed my feelings, I broadened my brows and I enhanced my features. I wore Drew Barry’s bright red lipstick and RuPaul’s colorful eyeshadow; I was many beings in one. I was the art piece to be gazed upon at the museum. Seeing myself in this light, I began to reflect on how my talents could lead to my own personal growth.
I began to use this creativity into something more profound. I was Katie Bouman imagining the first black hole and Diana Ross producing songs. Society forced itself onto me, thrusting and enforcing dark details into my head. I knew with this anger, I could turn it into something greater. Similarly to how my mother scolded me for making a mess, the mess hoisted power. I was certain about making this feeling known to other women around the world, in which being empowered is whimsical, and women are able to create with no limits. Society has implemented women’s creations to a pause, to not make a mess and to not succeed. By creating something with makeup, I transformed and refracted this patronizing energy into energy that empowers women. In the pursuit of education, embedded with the creativity I offer, I can host the art museum I wanted to be in when I was five years old.