As a kid, I wanted to be a soldier. Like a lot of boys, I think — shooting games, toy guns, playing out gunfights with my friends in the yard. It was messy and loud in my imagination, but somewhere in there was also the idea of being the one who brings peace. That was the dream.
Then in grade 3, I had an accident and injured my legs. It took years to recover — the injury stayed with me all the way through high school. Somewhere in that recovery, I understood the army was never going to happen for me. I couldn't move the way that life would need. What I still had were my hands, my arms, my fingers.
In my first year of high school — grade 7, now — one of my teachers noticed I could draw. He's the one who pushed me toward it: poster-making competitions, on-the-spot painting, slogan contests, and my favorite, being the editorial cartoonist for our school paper. All through high school, drawing — and a handful of art materials I probably couldn't really afford — were the one constant thing I had.
I was also the kind of kid who'd rather stay in his room than go outside. An introvert, I guess, though I'd come out sometimes. And like anyone, I fell for someone. I just had no idea how to actually talk to her. I didn't know how to start a conversation, let alone have one that meant something.
Then one random day I was watching a movie — nothing to do with art — and there's a scene where the main character draws the person he loves. That was it. That was the idea. Why not try drawing her?
It wasn't as easy as I thought it would be. But I didn't give up — I watched tutorials on YouTube, practiced every day, and bought art supplies that were, frankly, more than I could really spend, because I was inspired, right? Eventually I could actually draw a portrait that looked like something.
I drew her. I showed it to her. She took it, took a photo of it, and posted it — tagged me, with the caption: "Thanks for having me this!"
We had an interaction. A real one, finally.
I didn't know yet that it would be the only kind of interaction we'd ever really have. So I kept drawing her, piece after piece, and it kept hurting a little more each time — even while I told myself it was fine, because I loved making the work anyway. By the time we graduated, we were back to zero. No conversation, no contact, nothing.
I never got good at saying what I meant out loud. I still don't think I am. But somewhere between a leg injury that ended one dream and a girl who never knew what to say back, I found the thing that actually spoke for me. It didn't get me the ending I wanted. It gave me something that's lasted a lot longer than she did — a way of saying things that words never let me say. That's still what every piece I make is doing, one way or another. It's also, in a roundabout way, why this store exists at all.