The Day I Felt Seen: How a Childhood Painting Shaped My Life

Growing up in Paris, my childhood wasn’t what you might imagine. While the city itself was vibrant and full of life, my own world often felt lonely. As immigrants, my parents were consumed by the challenges of building a new life—learning the culture, mastering the language, and navigating unfamiliar social circles. I craved their attention but knew their focus needed to be elsewhere.

At school, I was shy and did not have a close-knit group of friends, which only deepened my longing for connection. One bright spot in my routine, however, was art class. It was there, during one particular assignment, that I had an experience that would forever shape me. Our teacher asked us to choose an artist we admired and attempt to recreate one of their works. Without hesitation, I gravitated toward Picasso. I didn’t know much about art history at 12 years old, but his Blue Period spoke to me on a level I couldn’t quite explain. The melancholy and solitude in his work felt familiar, almost like a mirror to my own feelings.

When I told my teacher I’d chosen one of Picasso’s pieces, her reaction was immediate: “No. That’s too difficult. Pick something easier.” But I refused to back down. There was something about this particular painting that I couldn’t let go of. Reluctantly, she gave in—perhaps hoping I’d give up.

I convinced my parents to buy me oil paints and a canvas, and I set up in a small "chambre de bonne", a tiny attic space they had turned into a quiet retreat for me. It was there, alone with my easel and brushes, that I truly discovered myself. The smell of the paint, the textures, the freedom to create without rules—it was exhilarating. I poured everything I had into that painting. Without formal training, I simply followed my instincts, letting the colors and shapes guide me.

When I finally presented my work, the reaction was unforgettable. My teacher’s skepticism melted into genuine astonishment. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. For the first time, I saw in her eyes what respect meant. That moment wasn’t just about the painting; it was about being seen and recognized for something I had created entirely on my own.

That feeling—of awe, respect, and connection—stayed with me. It’s the same feeling I strive to recreate in my work today. When someone walks into my store and discovers my jewelry, I want them to feel what my teacher felt when she saw my painting: surprise, admiration, and an unspoken connection to something meaningful.

I am sure that my childhood loneliness gave me the space to explore my creativity. I still love Picasso and his rebellious side, teaching me the power of evoking emotion through art. Every piece I create is born out of the same passion and intuition I felt in that little attic room—an expression of my own story, waiting to resonate with someone else’s.