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My Passion For Art

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I remember from the mere age of three, I would sit next to my mother in the living room corner as she painted. Several of my mother’s finished paintings decorated the walls of our apartment and paint bottles were scattered around the ground, as if hastily tossed aside while my mother was in search for the right color. The long, thin frame of the wooden easel matched my mother’s slender figure, as her arm moved gracefully across the blank white canvas, filling in patches with color. I stared at the movements of my mother’s paintbrush in wonder, in awe of the beauty such a seemingly insignificant bristle could create. My mother seemed so happy, so filled with life. After watching my mother in a world of her own, I would eagerly pull out the sketchbook my parents had bought me and attempt to create my own “masterpiece” of scribbles and circles and lines. As I grew up, and I could finally touch the top of the refrigerator without jumping, my interest in art bloomed into a newfound passion. But as my passion for art grew, so did my perfectionism. Perhaps my endeavor to become better and better in my talent led to implementing higher, unreachable standards. Especially through my middle school years, my art projects seemed to become more and more demanding. I was hesitant to even begin my work in fear of failure. Whenever I approached a new piece of work, I would sit down at my desk, grip my number two pencil tightly in my hand, and focus my eyes inches away from the

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