And just like a sunflower, I’ll always turn towards the sun 🌻
It was 2019, I’ve *just* graduated, and I was excited, yet very very desperate for the future. I already had a job as a Marketing and Design Assistant, but it wasn’t ‘it’. Whilst studying for my architecture degree through sweat and tears (literally, by the way), I have always worked. Sometimes two jobs at the same time, sometimes 25+ hours per week. But I did sweat and cry. It felt like that’s all I ever did for four years during my degree. No wonder my lips were so freaking dry from all the dehydration.
So, I’ve graduated. My dad refused to see me as an Architect until I actually worked in the architecture firm. Fair enough. Although junior architects are making as much money as the bus drivers here in UK. True fact here. Who is going to be paying for all my bills, my student finance debt, and my expensive taste in French cheeses? That was completely disregarded. My mum looked at me as a money-making machine, since I’m the only child who decided to actually get a degree, yet all the hope in her eyes was soon to be lost as the words “I want to be an artist” came out of my mouth. I’ve mentioned these words twice to my parents. Once, when I was 17, and I’ve just had my pancreatic tumour removed. After waking up from my anaesthesia from a second surgery, I had a sudden epiphany to stop holding myself back from living my own life the way I want to, and that I need to make drastic changes very soon. It was super dramatic. The second time was when I already had a few glasses of prosecco in me after my graduation ceremony, and I celebrated four years of torture with my parents in my own studio flat. That experience alone felt like a great reason to resume my therapist sessions.
Few bad things happened in my life. Pancreatic tumour is not even one of them. Throughout all these 26 years of my life, I’ve always looked for hope, a bit of faith, a bit of ‘sun.’ Although my parents believed I shouldn’t pursue the career of an artist, they did invest. Especially dad. Dad lived in Uzbekistan, away from me since I was 11 years old. Every time I visited, dad would find me a tutor to teach me watercolours, acrylics, techniques. In fact, it’s my dad who contributed the most to my vision. He is the one, who looked at my GCSE coursework (completely trespassing as per usual), whilst stroking his belly on a hot Uzbek summer day and said – “What do you see, when you draw this? Can you draw God? Can you draw love? Can you draw anger?” It’s thanks to dad when I started using my paintbrush as my communication tool. My bridge. My therapy, at times. It was understandable why my parents didn’t want me to pursue the artist career. We were from an Uzbek working class family.
Anyway, when I graduated, it was a sunflower season. All the euphoria from graduating already left my system. I wasn’t losing hope though. That’s when all the sunflowers in me blossomed. Cringe, I know. I drew non-stop with hope that someday I will have enough courage to make something out of it. And here I am. Two years later. Still juggling two jobs, except one is my passion and beloved dream.
