When I was only three years old, my mother loves to tell me, I tugged her hand hurriedly along the hallways of a nursing home, my eyes filled with wonder. I had been in complete awe of the works of art displayed on the walls. I reached my hands up to the copies printed behind the glass frames and spoke extensively of the way the light hit the water. “How did they do it?” I asked, lost in the brush strokes. Now I know I had been looking at a Monet. And that was the first time I fell in love.
I truly believe that without art I would be lost. Without colors and shapes, without these things I might be hollow. Art is whatever I want it to be, it’s whatever the artist wants it to be. It’s our desires, our fears. It’s our memories, our most unattainable wishes. It’s a moment in time, its reality, or fantasy. Art is anger or joy, peace or chaos. It can be horribly terrifying, or hauntingly beautiful. I encourage anyone to pursue it. I once believed I had minimal skill, and I hated my art. I am 18 years old and now I am inspired by my family, my friends, and by Mrs. Donovan to make it my life.
I truly believe that without art I would be lost. Without colors and shapes, without these things I might be hollow. Art is whatever I want it to be, it’s whatever the artist wants it to be. It’s our desires, our fears. It’s our memories, our most unattainable wishes. It’s a moment in time, its reality, or fantasy. Art is anger or joy, peace or chaos. It can be horribly terrifying, or hauntingly beautiful. I encourage anyone to pursue it. I once believed I had minimal skill, and I hated my art. I am 18 years old and now I am inspired by my family, my friends, and by Mrs. Donovan to make it my life.