Lens of Couleur
A person once told me, “I love war,” and someone else replied, “A person who loves war has never seen war.” I remembered learning about the Vietnam War in high school U.S. History class. The topic wasn’t explored in depth; however, because I immigrated from Vietnam to the U.S., I was eager to learn how Americans understood the war. I attended elementary school in Vietnam, so I already knew that history is taught differently depending on the country. Personally, I do not love war, but I do understand that, in some circumstances, war can be justified.
I once attended an opera where a single line stayed with me: that artists make the worst soldiers. I didn’t fully understand it until recently. In his 1903 play Man and Superman, the Irish dramatist and critic George Bernard Shaw wrote: The true artist will let his wife starve, his children go barefoot, his mother drudge for his living at seventy, sooner than work at anything but his art. This quote reflects the single-minded dedication of an artist, which may make them unsuited for the discipline and self-sacrifice required of a soldier. Ironically, the evolution of artistry itself is anything but single-minded—it is a vibrant spectrum of open-minded revolutionists, of creativity and invention, of cherishing both the old and the new, and of bringing soul into the beauty of being human. I agree with Shaw’s sentiment, but with a gentler heart. Perhaps an artist, of any kind, makes the worst soldier because a true artist can find beauty in the ugliest things, a muse in the dark, a spark of color in the grey lines of the world.
It has been almost a year now. Last winter, I visited the Minneapolis Institute of Art in Minnesota, where an exhibit of modern artworks featured paintings that portrayed contemporary social issues in vivid colors. As a person of color, my lens is considered more privileged compared to others—not because I have faced less racism or discrimination, but because, as a self-declared artist and a diagnosed schizophrenic, I sometimes sense that my perspective is brighter and more colorful than reality, which can be dangerous in today’s carnivorous world. There are moments when I’m reminded of the truths that exist, and those reminders make me appreciate what I have: not living in a war zone, having a roof over my head, food on the table, a stable job, and the privilege of living in a country where I can learn freely, be creative, and pursue my dreams.
Each of us has an inner world that forms part of our identity. In that inner world, we are the main character. Maslow’s hierarchy of needs is a psychological theory that proposes that human motivation is structured around five tiers of needs, each building on the last. In the short term, I am not yet where I want to be in life. When I compare myself to other women in their 30s, I feel I lack many things. Out of the five levels of Maslow’s hierarchy, the only ones I truly have are physiological needs and self-actualization. In my real world, I work approximately 60 hours a week to pay my bills and tuition. In my inner world, I learn new things, write, watch movies, and express my creativity through various media. My brain survives on dopamine after completing a goal or project, and that dopamine masks the emptiness of being alone—without love and belonging, without safety needs, without esteem needs. At this point, it feels too late for me. I have been alone for so long that solitude has simply become my normal.
Despite my shortcomings, I still see colors—brilliant, unruly colors—and I hold on to a kind of positivity I cannot fully explain. It is not the naïve sort, nor the kind born from a lack of understanding. Rather, it is the stubborn, lingering hope of someone who has seen enough darkness to recognize the value of even the faintest light. I do not place my hope in the idea of not being alone someday; that longing has quieted into something gentler, something less urgent. Instead, my hope lives in the way I continue to see the world, even when my circumstances feel stagnant or heavy.
I find hope in witnessing light in other people—watching them laugh with their families, seeing friends lean on each other, observing strangers crack smiles in grocery lines or on crowded sidewalks. These small moments remind me that goodness exists not only in grand gestures but also in the threads of everyday human life. And witnessing these threads is, in its own way, a kind of belonging. I am comforted by the idea that even if I am not part of someone’s inner circle, I can still appreciate the warmth radiating from theirs.
There is hope, too, in knowing that my perspective—shaped by creativity, resilience, and a mind that sees the world in shifting palettes—allows me to interpret things through a lens that is softer, more forgiving. Even when life feels unbalanced, even when I lack certain tiers of Maslow’s neatly arranged hierarchy, I still manage to find meaning, humor, and beauty in the chaos. Perhaps that is its own form of survival. Perhaps that is its own form of love. And yes, maybe one day a miracle might come for me too. In the lens of a colorful person, even the shadows learn how to glow.
