My fondest childhood memories are from, like many kids' memories, summer. Mine, however, were less about the poolside and more about being indoors. Alongside my cousin and sisters, we sat at our grandma’s kitchen table with pads of paper and colored pencils. I remember the tranquility of these hours: the smell of grandma’s “spanakopita,” the still air saturated with humidity, the sweat that would inevitably make it difficult to hold my pencil and the complete silence as children transformed into artists. As the hours went by, completed works were taped to the refrigerator until the stainless steel was no longer visible. I also remember the disproportional amount of eraser shavings in front of me as compared to the others. I also remember looking up at the gallery turned refrigerator, and admiring my other playmates’ art while scowling at my own. From a young age, I discovered my love for art but also my lack of personal talent.

As we grew older, our summer drawing sessions became shorter and then dissipated altogether. My sister Joanne, however, continued to pursue art. From comic strips to watercolor landscapes she could do it all. The gallery of my sister’s art changed from grandma’s kitchen to published children’s books. My other sisters struggle with autism. But when they were unable to speak, they communicated through their drawing. As they have gotten older, they have improved in leaps and bounds, as has their art; they both even aspire to be cartoonists.

Even though my life has been endlessly colored by art, I myself fail at coloring. I find it difficult to even draw stick figures, but I can’t help loving art. Behind every painting lives an artist. Although we are utter strangers, they are able to understand parts of me and truths about the world that I can’t even begin to comprehend. They somehow manage to deftly and harmoniously place those feelings and thoughts on a canvas for all the world to see.

Art tries to make sense of a universe that is infinitely complex and infinitely confusing. Art reminds us that on any given day, a “regular” person can become immortalized with a single brushstroke. Art strives to make the world more beautiful. Art is what makes life worth living.

When people say, “find your happy place,” I go to the impressionist wing at the Met. Renoir, Manet, Cezanne and Degas are some of my dearest friends. My heart can’t help but race when I see the perfect juxtaposition of yellow and purple in Van Gogh’s irises. I can spend hours getting lost in the galleries — somehow going from the neoclassical era all the way to modern times.

Perhaps my obsession comes from the effect art has had on my own family; perhaps it comes from the deep-rooted fear of my own shortcomings. But maybe, that is the driving force for all artists and admirers alike. Maybe that is even the driving force of everything under the sun. What is it that makes us love the things we do? Is it a choice, or does it just happen to us? All I know is that although I am no artist, art has saved me in every way that a person can be saved.