It’s the swipe of a brush, a sporadically strewn splotch of paint, it is randomized beauty because it is a piece of art. Society uses art to memorialize the moments that we love, hate, and want to forget. An artist claims their title by using their chosen method to express what is inexpressible. The time when their heart was inexplicably broken and they felt as if it would never mend. The feeling of being so loved that the world around them literally seems to shine brighter. Anyone can be an artist, and anyone can be a work of art; except in a way, we are more than the canvas hanging on the wall, the sculpture on display, and all of the other modes of presenting art because we are harder to recognize.

Why is it easier to find the beauty of an inanimate object than ourselves? Is it because the painting on the wall doesn’t care if it’s appreciated or not, or is it because the canvas is proud? Maybe it’s because once it is placed on the wall, that piece is complete. But people will never be complete. There will always be something more that we need, want, and deserve. Luckily, we’re humans instead of objects and are beautiful before the Artist says we are finished. It’s the “mistakes” that would be repainted on a masterpiece that make us truly lovely.

I will never be considered a masterpiece, perfect as one of Van Gogh’s works of art, and that thought makes me ecstatic because I know that I have more time: to stay up way too late, miss the train, and say the wrong thing. I may blush at the drop of a hat, creating the appearance of a tomato with eyes, but I will remember the smile that made the whole image all too accurate. A painting is beautiful, but that’s because the mistakes have been erased. Luckily, we have the heart-wrenching privilege of not having a redo. Yes, we get plastic surgery, apply make-up, and moisturize to diminish the scar, but it’s there. Always there, a reminder of what we have survived, the mistakes we made, and an award to the battle we won.

You are the unique splattered canvas that you made with your best friends, and probably painted yourselves more than the canvas. I am the painting that the art gallery declines. We are the pieces that the artist poured all of his being into. We are life. You are love. I am a shake of the head in remembrance of the “probably should not have done that” moments. We are the works that fill the gallery of God, a testament to Him and His love.