Ten Years Ago…

I Thought I Had It All Figured Out.

A decade ago, I got back into painting, after years of putting my art aside for other dreams and plans. It happened gradually, but when it did I felt something spark. My abstract expressionist landscapes — full of texture, stained layers, smeared emotion — felt powerful to me. I poured everything into them. Months of work, soul, and intuition. I thought I had found it — my voice, my thing, my future.

But when I shared them, the silence was deafening.

Friends and family said they were “nice.” Kind words, but nothing deeper. No real response. No excitement. No sales. And certainly no breakthroughs. It was heartbreaking. I believed in those paintings — believed they were worth something — and yet, nothing happened.

Still, I kept going. I thought, maybe it just takes time. Maybe they’ll come around. Maybe if I just keep painting, keep posting, keep applying…

But nothing came easy. I heard stories from other artists — “I just posted it and people started buying” or “it all happened so organically.” I hated those stories. Not because I wished them harm — but because they made me feel like I was doing something wrong. Because for me, it wasn’t organic. It wasn’t easy.

It was years of rejection. Of invisibility. Of questioning whether I was even meant to do this.

And then in 2020, something broke open.

I made a digital piece called *Aragatz Aypupen* in response to what was happening in Armenia. It hit incredibly close to home — not just politically, but personally. For the first time, I created something that came directly from my identity, from grief, from a place I had kept tucked away. It was raw, and I wasn’t trying to impress anyone. I was just trying to express something I couldn’t contain.

That piece changed everything for me.

I started asking bigger questions: Who am I, really? What do I care about? What do I want my art to say?

And the answer came easily: I am a mother.

Before anything else, I identify as a mother. I love being a mother. My children are my greatest masterpiece.

From that realization, my work began to shift. I started painting small portraits of my children — moments caught between other moments. Quiet gestures, fleeting expressions. At first, these were just small portraits — side pieces, made in quiet moments between the larger abstract works. They haven’t become *the work* entirely, not yet. But something in me started to shift. My abstract paintings began to change. The textures were still there, but the palette evolved — warmer, brighter, more tender. Influenced by joy. By presence. By the quiet beauty of my everyday life as a mother.

I started noticing the kinds of moments I never wanted to forget: A soft cuddle in the evening. A make-believe game with a nightlight. A melting scoop of ice cream on the last day of school.

So I began painting them. Not for validation. Not for approval. But because they mattered to *me*. Because they were sacred. Because this is how I hold on.

These pieces feel deeply personal — maybe even too personal. And even now, in this culture of sharing, I still hesitate to post them. I still feel exposed.

But this is my truth.

This is the art I was always meant to create.

And while I’m still exploring, still evolving — I’m realizing that I’ve finally found the art I *need* to make.

and it does not matter where it takes me.