Sefik Huseyin was born and raised in London, and later moved to his parents’ home country of Northern Cyprus where he earned his BA and MA in English & Mediterranean Studies from EMU (Famagusta). He subsequently moved back to London where he earned his MA in Cultural Studies from SOAS (London). As of 2013 he’ll be undertaking a research degree in London.
He is currently an independent scholar and writer residing in London. His creative work can be found in publications such as Fringe, Scythe and Straylight, and his criticism is forthcoming in Radical Critique.
The Six-Year-Old Artist
My artwork appeared in a cheap graffiti-littered window shop during Christmastime when I was six. Indeed, I had the gift, no question or debate about that here. I was set to be my mother’s star: kisses and hugs, endless praise of my wondrous hand to my aunties—who in turn despised me, and my mother, too—and gifts of paints, thick quality Hallmark paper and expensive Faber-Castell stationary. It’s just one of those instances in life: you know you’re exceeding in your craft successfully when you’re receiving commodities. I walked the corruptly brick-laden streets in bouncing motion, proud of my unique ability with imaginary bodyguards at my side: evil eyes to retract my enemies. Secretly, I never showed my real talent; I just waited ’til I could be established, because I knew my work was a Monet’s childish fluent stroke, or, even better, a Picasso’s cubed-arithmetic. My work stood unnoticed amongst the others, though, and, for some reason, I never saw it again. But the praises and despises were enough to convince me that I could never paint anything better, and so I never lifted a brush to paint an equation again.
This poem has previously appeared in Straylight Vol.5 No.1, p.14. The piece was written with a Cypriot memory in mind.
Text in this post: © Sefik Huseyin
Published with the permission of Sefik Huseyin
