It was during the darkness of the pandemic when I picked up a brush. The outside world was filled with chaos, uncertainty and death. A new virus had swept the planet. In my city, located in Eastern-Europe, life continued as if nothing has happened. People believed that if you ignore this new thing, perhaps it would just go away.
But that didn’t happen. Suddenly, hospitals were full of our loved ones who couldn’t breathe. I was scared to see anyone in case I would infect them.
My flat became my shelter. I was living on the thirteenth floor and I could watch the world safely from that height.
I needed to distract myself. I couldn’t spend another minute thinking about my Aunt Lyuda. She was about to leave the hospital after a routine operation when a nurse checked her temperature. It was higher than usual. Aunt Lyuda didn’t leave that day. She had Covid.
I had been to see her a few days prior. We met for a few minutes in a pale hospital corridor. We both wore masks, but Aunt Lyuda was desperate for me to leave as soon as possible. She was scared I would catch something.
I wasn’t worried about myself. I was young and relatively healthy. But how would Aunt Lyuda do? She was in her seventies and still weak from the operation. Would she die alone, surrounded by strangers with no way for any of us to reach her?
I saw some old paints left from the times that we were kids. I grabbed some paper and started painting. I had no idea what I was doing or why. Soon, abstract shapes emerged.
And I felt something new: an accomplishment. My feelings were forever imprinted on a piece of paper.
So I started painting more often. I bought some pencils, paints and sketch pads. The world stopped being a scary place; it swiftly turned into a world of hope and possibility.
I left my workplace and became a painter. Aunt Lyuda survived. Every time I hear her contagious laugh, I feel grateful for the past, because I saw a new light within me during those dark days. And I still have it in me today.