NOW & THEN #19- ARTWORK

Chapter X: My First Steps into Art

In 2012, I bought my first iPad Mini 4. At the time, it was just another gadget, a tool for emails, browsing, and reading. But unexpectedly, it became something more—it became my first canvas. With a simple drawing app and nothing more than my forefinger, I began to sketch. At first, they were only doodles: circles, shapes, outlines of things that caught my attention. But in those small experiments, I discovered something I had never considered before—that art could be made anywhere, by anyone, using even the simplest of tools.

The iPad gave me the freedom to explore without fear. There was no wasted paper, no smudged ink, no piles of failed attempts. A single tap could undo a mistake. That freedom was intoxicating. I could draw in bed, on a flight, or while waiting in a café. It made me see that creativity was not confined to studios or sketchbooks; it could live in the palm of my hand.

One day, I met an artist in Johor who told me he made his living entirely from digital art. His buyers were from all over the world. He created, uploaded, and sold—all online. No frames, no shipping, no galleries. The market had gone global, and artists were finding new ways to thrive. I was impressed, even inspired. But deep down, I longed for something different.

Because while digital art was convenient, I missed the physical touch of creation—the texture, the mess, the unpredictability. Eventually, that longing pulled me toward watercolor. In January 2023, I bought my first set of paints and brushes. At first, I played it safe, sketching in pen before adding color. But by May 2024, I had found the courage to let go of the pen and trust the brush. That step changed everything.

Watercolor humbled me. Unlike digital art, there was no “undo” button. A single drop of water could spread too far, a stroke too dark, a color too muddy. But within that unpredictability lay its beauty. I began to embrace the accidents, to let the water guide the paint. And to my surprise, people began to respond. One of my wetland scenes—a loose, almost abstract experiment—was sold for RM500. That sale wasn’t about the money; it was about validation, a gentle whisper telling me: You are an artist now.

But if I think further back, perhaps the seeds of this journey were planted long before the iPad. More than twenty years ago, during my travels in Europe, I spent hours wandering the great art galleries of Paris, Amsterdam, and London. I didn’t know much about art then, but I was captivated. In Paris, I stood before the Impressionists, their brushstrokes alive with light and color. In Amsterdam, I admired the boldness of Van Gogh and the precision of the Dutch masters. In London, I saw how centuries of art told the story of a nation’s soul.

During those trips, I bought small, inexpensive prints and artworks from street artists—souvenirs of inspiration that I carried home. At the time, I saw myself only as a collector, not a creator. But something must have stirred within me, a quiet ember waiting to catch fire.

That ember flared to life years later—first through the playful sketches on my iPad Mini, and then more fully with the unpredictable beauty of watercolor. Now, as I begin to explore abstraction, I see a full circle forming. The galleries I wandered in Paris, Amsterdam, and London opened my eyes to what art could be. The iPad opened the door for me to try. Watercolor gave me the discipline to grow. And abstraction is where I now search for my own voice.

Now and Then, I realize that art has always been walking beside me—quietly, patiently—waiting for me to notice, and finally, to create.