“Is she mute?”or “Can she talk?”, are just some of the too frequently asked questions that have had the pleasure of gracing my ears for as long as I can remember. A comment on my quietness never failed as the first word out of my teacher’s mouth during each parent-teacher conferences throughout middle-school. The next thing usually referred to my superb artistic abilities in which my blundering portrait of a person looked less like a blob than those of my classmates. I was, “that quiet girl who is a good artist”. This was my title and what defined me.
Up until around ten years old I found talking to most people the equivalent of facing off with the specter that I had convinced myself haunted my room. Never was I one to shout out an answer …show more content…
That method was art. For just as long as there were comments about my quietness, there is also the memory of some form of artistic gadget in my hand, be it a piece of chalk or a paint brush. My most salient memories include scribbling away in a coloring book or molding some magnificent creature out of Playdoh. I still recall my kindergarten teacher gazing at my artist’s rendition of a bear proudly, declaring that I would someday become a famous artist. Right before lunch every Thursday I would meander down the hallway to Mrs. R.P.’s room, the school counselor. I suppose the purpose of going here was to help me with my antisocial attitude. Plopping down in a chair, the colored pencils and markers were placed in front of me. She had quickly discovered that asking questions and expecting in depth answers was not probable with me. Instead she would ask a question and I would draw an answer.
Looking back on the memory I realize that art became a way to express myself in a way that words could not do for me. My pencil never let me down. It never failed to accept the challenge of portraying my emotions. Life is seen in terms of art even now. I often find myself with the urge to draw in times of high emotion. My pencil transfers emotions onto paper. Anger turns to a brush stroke across the canvas. Sadness turns to
Up until around ten years old I found talking to most people the equivalent of facing off with the specter that I had convinced myself haunted my room. Never was I one to shout out an answer …show more content…
That method was art. For just as long as there were comments about my quietness, there is also the memory of some form of artistic gadget in my hand, be it a piece of chalk or a paint brush. My most salient memories include scribbling away in a coloring book or molding some magnificent creature out of Playdoh. I still recall my kindergarten teacher gazing at my artist’s rendition of a bear proudly, declaring that I would someday become a famous artist. Right before lunch every Thursday I would meander down the hallway to Mrs. R.P.’s room, the school counselor. I suppose the purpose of going here was to help me with my antisocial attitude. Plopping down in a chair, the colored pencils and markers were placed in front of me. She had quickly discovered that asking questions and expecting in depth answers was not probable with me. Instead she would ask a question and I would draw an answer.
Looking back on the memory I realize that art became a way to express myself in a way that words could not do for me. My pencil never let me down. It never failed to accept the challenge of portraying my emotions. Life is seen in terms of art even now. I often find myself with the urge to draw in times of high emotion. My pencil transfers emotions onto paper. Anger turns to a brush stroke across the canvas. Sadness turns to