The Artists Who Paint My World

Who are your favorite artists?

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There’s something magical about the way an artist’s work can slip quietly into your life and never leave. For me, art isn’t confined to canvases—it lives in melodies, words, and moments that make my heart pause.

When I was a teenager, my first favorite artist wasn’t a painter—it was a musician. A. R. Rahman. His songs were the soundtrack to my evenings, whispering dreams into my headphones while I stared out the window, pretending life was a movie. There was something about the way he blended tradition with modern rhythm that made me feel seen—as if my tangled emotions had finally found a melody.

Later, I discovered Vincent van Gogh. Not through art history books, but through a print of “Starry Night” in a café. I stood there, latte in hand, completely lost in those swirling skies. It wasn’t just paint; it was pain and beauty fighting for space on the same canvas. I think that’s when I realized that true art doesn’t need to be understood—it just needs to be felt.

Then came Rupi Kaur, with her minimal words that somehow carried entire lifetimes. Her poetry reminded me that simplicity can be powerful—that healing doesn’t have to rhyme, and vulnerability can be brave.

Each of these artists—Rahman with his music, Van Gogh with his madness, Rupi with her words—became chapters in the story of my own creativity. They taught me that art isn’t about perfection; it’s about honesty.

Maybe that’s why I write today—not to impress, but to express. Because somewhere, someone might read my words and feel the same quiet connection I once felt with theirs.

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