Art, and the Talent Within

When I was in seventh grade, my English teacher Mrs. Simmons had our Fridays very carefully planned. It was the day that we would have our spelling and vocabulary tests, which I was always horrible with. But that Monday, as we got our study guides with our words for the week, she would give us the chance to get bonus points on our test. Every week, she would pick an art piece for the week. If we learned the name and who the artist was, it was easy points. Once the test was over, she would play classical music and while we wrote in journals, she would pass around a huge can of candy, where I would always rummage through until I found my favorite, a sour lemonhead.

That year provided influence over me that would go with me a lifetime. Along with my fondness for sour candy, but a love for writing and art. My love for writing, because it was a way for me to pour out my deepest, innermost feelings. I could say things that I had trouble saying out loud. I could think of all of these possible scenarios, some happy, some sad, some hysterically funny, all me.

But it was this introduction to art, that really opened my eyes. Each week, I would see this new art piece, which may be a painting, or a drawing, or a sculpture. It may have people, or buildings, or fruit, or a beautiful sky. As I would look at it, I would feel myself becoming almost hypnotized by it. In that moment, I found myself inside of a whole new world, it was magical.

Once, my grandma bought me an illustrated book of dreams. It was a book that had all these different topics, and it would tell you what it meant if you dreamed about each. It had all of these beautiful paintings in it. Late at night after everyone had gone to sleep, I would stay up. With my favorite music on, I would look through these paintings. There was something about the combination of the music and the art, it struck a chord within me. As I looked through each page, carefully examining every brushstroke, every detail, every object, it was magical. In that moment, It was me with my dreams. No matter how badly I may be feeling, right then, anything was possible.

While I have had a true love and appreciation for the arts, there has one thing that has remained true, I am not artistically inclined. I bought myself art sets and would practice painting and drawing, never really coming up with anything incredible. Although I was quite proud of my houses and stick people. Unfortunately, as of today, houses and stick people are still my specialty. Still, it can be fun getting a paint brushes and a few pieces of paper and just adding color to it. Each color symbolizing what I'm feeling at the time, reminding myself that it doesn't have to be a masterpiece to be meaningful.

I will never be a Van Gogh, though I'm sure there's one deep inside. But then again, I think that's what art really is, it's what's inside of us. Its the expression of our emotions, the joys, the dreams, the frustrations, the fears, the pain. It's being able to take a pencil or a paintbrush and paper and screaming as loudly as you can without ever opening your mouth. It's the attention of the small things in life, each star, each flower, every waterfall and sunset, and seeing the true beauty and magic in it. It's being happy to just be alive, and to have the ability to dream. It is that appreciation that I will always carry within me, and for that, I will always be thankful.