When Art Is Mistaken for Trash - A True and Sad Story!

Image: A framed copper relief artwork hanging on a light gray wall.

Inside a black frame with a white mat is a square sheet of copper-colored metal that looks slightly wrinkled and embossed. The raised design shows a large bird in flight (wings spread, head and beak visible) swooping down toward a small bunny-like animal in the lower right, which appears to be running. Along the bottom edge there’s a textured band suggesting grass or ground.

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Late September, 2025.

Somewhere between hotel rooms, exhibition halls, and long bus rides across Canada.

Desi and I were touring as part of the Canada–Korea Cultural Exchange Art Program, traveling with an incredible group of disabled Korean and Canadian artists. It was one of those rare, exhausting, beautiful experiences where art, accessibility, and human connection all blur together.

Our Korean artist friends were unbelievably generous—thoughtful gifts, given with warmth and sincerity. The Canadian side, meanwhile, didn’t really have anything comparable ready to give back. That imbalance gnawed at me.

Image: fridge magnet, one of the Korean gifts. The magnet shows a Korean-style pavilion, colorful fish, turtles, cranes, lotus flowers, and lily pads on a light blue background, creating a peaceful and vibrant scene .

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So I did what I know how to do.

I decided to create custom tactile artworks, one for each of them—handmade pieces meant to be felt as much as seen. Personal. Intentional. A thank-you you could touch.

And then… the universe chose chaos.

Image: A brown-and-white promotional poster laid out in columns, with photos and event details.

Top left: the word CANMORE above a small strip of photos; a QR code beneath.
Left side vertical headline (partly legible): Korea x Canada x Disability Arts; Expanded Boundaries; Artist Tour; dates shown as September 23 – October 3, 2023 (some small text is hard to read).
Center area: three square images of copper-toned embossed artworks, each with a date caption (only partly readable), including “Sept 25 – ‘My Inner Child’”, “Sept 29 – ‘Pieces …’”, and “Oct 1 – ‘Rooster …’”.
Right side: city headings TORONTO and OTTAWA with small photos beside/under each.
Bottom: several group photos and a couple of portraits with short captions (too small/blurry to read fully).

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Twelve Pieces. Two Days. Zero Remaining.

I had twelve artworks to complete before Thursday.

Over two days, I went full goblin mode—nearly ten hours of work—cranking out six tactile pieces. That morning, I photographed them carefully and laid them out on the hotel room table.

Image: Tactile embossed metal artwork featuring a butterfly, cocoon, and caterpillar. Intricate textures and braille invite both visual and tactile exploration for an immersive artistic experience.

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I was late for an exhibition.

I panicked.

I ran.

When I came back?

Nothing.

The table was spotless.

Too spotless.

Housekeeping had come in and—quite reasonably, from their perspective—thrown every single piece away.

I don’t get angry easily.

But oh my god.

This was see-red, teeth-grinding, internal screaming levels of fury. The kind where you briefly consider flipping furniture like you’re auditioning for professional wrestling. Two solid days of focused, meticulous work—gone. Vanished. Yeeted into the void.

“How am I supposed to remake all of this before Thursday?”

“Who do I scream at?”

“Do tables deserve to live?”

Image: Embossed metal sheet of a sea turtle with tactile details and several lines of Braille. Mounted on cardboard, designed for tactile and visual accessibility.

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The event organizer offered to pursue it formally. Complaints. Accountability. Consequences.

I very nearly said yes.

A Memory That Hit the Brakes

Right as I was gearing up to unleash righteous fury upon the world, an old memory surfaced—one I hadn’t thought about in years.

Back in grade eight, I was already an art kid. My mediums back then were clay, wood, and soapstone—long before metal etching and tactile composites entered my life. I once spent three full weeks crafting a nearly two-foot-tall clay statue. Something that size takes time. It dries slowly. It demands respect and very gentle handling.

Image: Embossed metal sheet features a coiled snake with defined scales, a stylized plant, and Braille text, combining visual and tactile elements for inclusive artistic expression.

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One morning, I walked into art class and found it in pieces.

I lost my damn mind.

I demanded answers. The teacher explained that the cleaning lady had tried to move the statue so she could wipe down the shelf. She didn’t realize how brittle it still was. When I found her, I exploded—yelling, swearing, the full dramatic teenage artist meltdown. She apologized over and over. It wasn’t enough. I kept going.

Image: Embossed foil art shows a figure resembling Totoro with large ears and round body, mounted on cardboard, bordered with masking tape, and featuring Braille dots.

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Later, my art teacher pulled me aside.

He said, “I know how angry you are. That was a beautiful statue.”

Then he followed it with something that shut me up real fast.

“But you shouldn’t have lashed out at her. You’re privileged to be here—safe, supported, learning how to make beautiful things. Many of the people who clean these spaces never had that education. They don’t know not to move a drying clay sculpture—not because they’re careless or malicious, but because they were never given the chance you were.”

That lesson stuck.

Image: Embossed metallic sheet showing a moose’s head and antlers with Braille text underneath, designed for tactile reading by individuals with visual impairments, resting on brown backing.

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Standing in that hotel room years later—six tactile artworks gone, my blood pressure trying to set new world records—I suddenly got it.

Different city.

Different medium.

Same moment.

And yes, I was still pissed. Spectacularly pissed. But even then, there was a layer of “this is so absurd it’s almost funny” creeping in. Like… of course this happened. Of course it did.

Image: Embossed metallic sheet with a raised crane standing on one leg, elegant neck curved. Two lines of Braille text are present at the bottom.

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Why It Hit So Hard

Looking back now, I can also admit something else.

Part of why I was that angry—why the rage came on so fast and so hard—was because it felt deeply personal. On some level, it felt like someone had looked at my work and decided it was trash.

Trash?

I’ve taken my artwork across Canada.

I’ve brought it to Korea.

Each piece I make routinely sells for over $600.

Image: A gallery wall with three small, square, mixed-media artworks featuring shiny silver embossed foil panels, each hung by a cord.

Top center: a square foil relief mounted on a light wood backing, with a row of small brown stones or bark pieces attached along the bottom edge. A small label sits just below it (text too small to read).

Bottom left: a foil relief in a frame decorated with mossy green material, small leaves in the top corners, and a few little white daisy-like flowers at the bottom. Beneath it is a larger printed description card and a small label; the text is not readable at this distance.

Bottom right: a foil relief bordered by many small seashells and bits of colorful stones. A small label is beneath it (also unreadable).

On the far left edge, parts of two black-framed artworks are visible, and on the far right edge, part of a larger framed piece is visible.

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And here it was—hours of labor, intention, and care—thrown away like a half-eaten sandwich and a used napkin.

That stung. Bad.

Not just because of the time lost, but because artists live with that quiet fear all the time: What if this thing I poured myself into doesn’t matter? What if it’s disposable?

So yeah. I was angry. I was offended. I was ready to breathe fire.

Image: Embossed metal artwork of a cat lies on cardboard. The cat’s features are raised, with Braille text below, making it accessible for touch reading.

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What I Want My Art to Be

But another thought settled in alongside that anger.

I’ve always wanted my music, my artwork, my teaching to be good for the world—to do some small amount of good for the people around me. My work is meant to inspire, to carry humor, to make people feel seen or even just a little bit happier than they were before.

I did not want my artwork to become the reason someone lost their job.

Or had their pay docked.

Or carried fear home with them after a long shift.

That’s not what my work is for.

Image: Embossed metal sheet shows a rooster with wings spread. Braille text runs beneath the image. The sheet is taped at the corners and placed on a dark surface.

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Art, at its best, should be comforting, not damaging. It should leave people more human, not more afraid.

That realization didn’t erase the anger—but it gave it somewhere to land.

So I told the organizer to let it go.

Image: A tactile image on metal shows vertical, segmented lines resembling bamboo stalks, with Braille text at the bottom, mounted on cardboard for supportive handling and reading.

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Choosing Not to Break Someone Else

Housekeeping staff work brutal jobs. Long hours. Low pay. No context for tactile art. No way of knowing that what sat on that table wasn’t trash.

They didn’t do it out of spite.

They didn’t do it out of carelessness.

They just didn’t know.

And I wasn’t about to let my anger cost someone their livelihood.

I wasn’t calm.

I wasn’t zen.

But I chose not to pass the damage downhill.

Sometimes my own restraint still surprises me.

Image: A metallic tactile sheet displays a raised, coiled snake shape with textured details. Braille text at the bottom provides information, making it accessible for visually impaired users.

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The Actual Ending (Yes, There Is One)

Here’s the part that matters.

Over the next two days, I remade every single piece.

Hands aching.

Sleep sacrificed.

Deadline breathing down my neck.

Image: Embossed metal sheet showing an abstract Statue of Liberty with raised arm and crown rays. Braille text at the bottom, placed on a dark wooden surface.

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At our farewell dinner, I finally presented those tactile artworks to our Korean friends.

They loved them.

They felt seen.

They felt appreciated.

Everyone was happy.

Image: A tactile drawing on metallic sheet features a turtle with its shell, head, and legs. Raised braille text is below, all mounted on brown cardboard.

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And now, looking back? Was it maddening? Absolutely.

But it was also such a monumental, cosmic WTF that I can laugh about it.

Art breaks.

Art disappears.

But the reasons we make it don’t get thrown away so easily.

Image: Twelve people, wearing casual outfits like hoodies, jackets, and patterned sweaters, pose together indoors. Their expressions are mostly friendly and relaxed, with some smiling gently, creating a warm, approachable group atmosphere.

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If you’d like to see more of my tactile work or the accessibility-focused projects I’m involved in, you can find me here:

johnnytiger.com

tigertactile.com

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#DisabilityArts

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