The impermanence of art

What happens when you lose what you have created?

In the past few days, I have been cleaning and organizing my room, taking out items that I do not want anymore and adding in items that were still stored in the garage from when I moved back home after living in an apartment on my own. While looking through the garage yesterday, which my father had decided to reorganize over the holidays without involving any of the rest of us, I realized that my box of hospital artwork was missing.

Last February, when I was hospitalized for three weeks due to a manic episode, I created over 170 pieces of visual artwork to pass the time during insomniac nights and make use of my huge outpouring of creative energy. The hospital staff gave me a paper box, which was originally the manufacturer’s packaging for printer paper, to store my artwork when I went home. Initially I left the box on a table in my parents’ house, but eventually, someone moved it to the garage. I had a vague intention to look through the artwork after cleaning up my room so that I could perhaps hang up some pieces, but I procrastinated on this task for months. So the box stayed in the garage.

I was really upset when I couldn’t find the box. I searched everywhere in the garage for it, as I had no idea what system my father used to organize everything. This was actually the second time that someone likely threw away a box of items that I wanted to keep; years ago, my mother had me put my childhood writings and other treasured items into a box for safekeeping, but later, the box was missing. So I became increasingly upset and agitated.

I asked my mother if she remembered seeing the box. She said no and seemed unaware of there ever having been a box of artwork, so then I texted and called my father, who didn’t initially respond. When my father finally called me back, I was sobbing. I asked him if he remembered seeing a printer paper box that contained artwork. He said that he did not remember seeing it or throwing it away, but he thought it was possible that he did throw it away when he organized the garage. I explained that I felt really upset about this and that if he had seen the box, he should have checked its contents before even considering throwing it away, and seeing that it was artwork (or even if it was something not as deeply personal), he should have asked whose it was and should it be kept.

My father responded by repeatedly telling me that whatever happened was past and that all we could do was try searching more for the box. He also said that I should have placed the box elsewhere and not in the garage, which definitely would have been wiser in hindsight, but the garage stores plenty of things that we want to keep, and I didn’t keep the box in my room because my room had been so messy and full of too many things. Ultimately, I just didn’t imagine that someone would believe that it was trash and throw it away without permission. Even though my father gave a brief “I am sorry,” his response felt dismissive of my feelings, which frustrated me even more.

I then went to my mother again to explain what my father said and that he had made me more upset. My mother tried to console me by saying that she and I could make more art together. She asked me if the artwork in the box was coloring sheets, which were a popular activity in the hospital. I think she was wondering if perhaps my father thought that coloring sheets were probably not so sentimental and thus easier to throw away. I explained that no, the vast majority of the artwork was my original creation. There were even some oversized papers that didn’t completely fit in the box, that were paintings that I made during therapy groups, so those should have clearly been artwork that I would likely want to keep.

I could definitely make more artwork with my mother; although my mother does not usually engage her creativity, she does seem to be more comfortable making visual art than say, writing a poem. But that box of manic artwork was really meaningful to me. The artworks were not necessarily any good in a technical sense, as I have never received training in visual art beyond elementary and middle school art class, but they were expressions of a time of combined euphoria and struggle that has shaped who I am now.

There is still a chance that the box wasn’t thrown away and is just hiding somewhere, either in the garage or elsewhere in the house. If it was thrown away, I think it is most likely that my father did it, as he reorganized the garage and has a tendency to be inconsiderate of what others might want. But for now, I have to accept that the 170-plus artworks may be completely lost. All I have now from that hospitalization are some journals, which I keep in my desk.

I am still crying over all this. I’ll probably continue to search for the box in the next few days, but I really doubt that I will find it. Throughout my life, I have repeatedly lost items that I wanted to archive, partly because of other people throwing them away, but also because of my own disorganization. When I tried to transfer my college Google Drive files into a different Google account, the transfer process halted because the destination account didn’t have enough space. I tried again with a new account, but again there wasn’t enough space. I gave up, believing that most of the items were transferred. But later, I tried looking for some of my college essays and could not find them. I got angry at myself for not being more persistent and diligent with the transfer. Another time when I lost items was at the end of eighth grade, when all students had to make a portfolio of their work from all their classes. For some reason, I did not take home the portfolio, though I wanted it. Later I asked if they still had it, but it was thrown away.

I think of people in Los Angeles who have lost most of their possessions. I read about artists there who have lost their artworks, their studios, their livelihood. I’m lucky to have never suffered such a comprehensive and devastating loss. But the world is increasingly in multilayered crisis, and someday I may end up losing everything.

Yet life goes on, and what I lose materially, I carry in spirit. All that I have written and created in my life has shaped the person I have been and am becoming. Though it is painful to lose these material reminders of meaning and beauty, every loss trains us to accept that the circumstance of life are ever-changing; nothing and no one is permanent. I think of Tibetan Buddhists who create gorgeous mandalas with colored sand and then intentionally destroy them. Materials erode, and memories fade, but the sands of time flow on, like a river in the wind.

So yes, I can create more art. Naturally I will want to cling to everything I make. But nothing is permanent. And perhaps it is not the purpose of life to create what lives beyond you, but rather the purpose of creation to give life to a fleeting moment.