The Day I Met My Bestfriend

Throughout my early teen years, I was exposed to different mediums of art and discovered that I could express myself through more channels than just paper. Although Barry found comfort in her 11 x 17 newsprint and some paint, I was able to focus my energy on making music and taking photographs. Without my art teachers, I wouldn’t have the expressive outlet I do today. My childhood was not filled with unhappiness as Lynda Barry’s was, but from both backgrounds, we found a warmth from the exposure of art that the educational system gave to us.

I could make this essay as cliché as they come and talk about how being a single mother is so challenging, about how boot camp was so hard, or how a bad divorce changed my views on everything in my life… but instead, I’ll appreciate all of those things, and grasp my goals from a different challenge. That challenge is: loss. Some of my biggest goals were awknowledged through the death of my best friend, which in turn led me to this road at Paul Mitchell St. Louis. All of the above mentioned have shaped me, and for that I am grateful, however, the person who helped me realize my dreams of pursing art

Feeling thwarted in every effort to set circumstances right, in my life - not between us, becomes intense with patterns and connections. Illuminating my mind, emulating the strings from ballistics in a crime scene, or worse, a schizophrenic’s garage, complete with wall covered newspaper clippings and red marker lines that model no reality but chaos. My connections are evidence based, empirically proven models of physical systems; my subjective realizations were at least based on such arrangements and configurations, architectures and harmonies. Between the visits to the women trying to help me I have assignments. The next two weeks include writing my strengths, progress in the past year, and compliments. One of those is your supportive, wonderful email that doling out strokes for learning proper grammar. That felt

4. “ You're in college?..Yes, i'm studying art. I want to paint… Oh how sad, she said and her smile sank into a gray line”. (Page

The pencil liberates my stresses and sorrows. Bare and unimpeded, my mind is able to isolate itself from anything that was happening in my life. At my art table, which is merely an escape from reality, my curiosity is able to wander. Within this room, five blank canvas's look in on me as I become a mold of my imagination. A step inside my world develops into a sea of color and exploration. The vibrancy of the walls resonates throughout. Over the years, my room has served as my oasis. It’s my escape from monotonous and mundane routines. It’s my exploration of another side of me. I observe such works of art almost as much as I create. Taking notice of my classmates’ innovations and inspired by their creativity, my paintbrush begins to alleviate stress. I strive to produce pieces others will appreciate, but often find myself to be the true admirer. My pride, in this world, is driven simply by my own curiosity to express myself. I credit this side of me as the “passion” that supplements my insane drive for success. This passion has sparked critical thinking in me as well as how I see failure. Life is a blank canvas and you can truly draw whatever you want, and if you fail, you start over and don’t make that same mistake again! Hard work takes ideas quite far, but true success is derived from ingenuity and the generation of

It’s hard to believe that we are actually sitting here in the auditorium for the last time as students of Kheradmand High. But we are! We made it through four years of high school. Now we are teetering on the edge of the rest of our lives, having to grow up and head out into the “real” world. That thought might scare some people, but we are ready. After all, if you decide that you don’t want to be a part of the real world, maybe, you can always come back to Kheradmand High and maybe they will let you be a teacher.

I’m sitting at my computer, ignoring pages of economics homework and mugs of cold tea now strewn about my desk, as I search for a direction to go with my life. Such was was my predicament several months ago. It’s undeniable that I’m an artist, hard and true, for a pencil found its way into my hand as a child, and no desire of mine nor of the universe ever tempted it to pry away. Throughout my earliest years and memories, I maneuvered with graphite, paint, and crayon every adventure that I ever dreamt of pursuing. Oh, I was a resilient child, as well, who refused to take part in any art class at school or as an extracurricular for an abundance of years, as I was invariably convinced that I could learn all I wished on my own accord! Consequently,

From my room,I had smelt and sensed that rain was about to  arrive and had scurried outside before the drops commenced.Sweet anticipation formed inside as I awaited the blissful raindrops to pelt me on my face and body.The wind rose higher and grew frighteningly violent,swirling throwing rocks and gravel into the air.The thin

Since I was a little girl art has been a part of my life, whether it has been painting my favorite celebrity, knitting a blanket, or drawing Time Square. I’ve always found joy when creating something others will admire. With my love of art came a decision every teenager has to make,“ what will you do for the rest of your life”. With lots of questioning and deliberation, I made the conclusion to further my passion into a career by going to art school in Chicago.

The unfortunate event began a completely new and terrifyingly dreadful life experience in which all my previous hard endeavors of securing the structurally sound habit of dedication, commitment, and studying I exercised extensively during my senior year, with the inner weapon of possessing powerful agency to absorb material with an extreme passion and letting my heart beat madly on long-distance runs whenever possible were indeed losing their color at a quickening pace. Suddenly I began to doubt my worth and the world’s lessons soon disappeared from my unawakened consciousness. The delicate networks of improvement and inner faith were becoming swept into a tide wayward, far out to sea where the light of my touch couldn’t embrace it.

We continued through the museum by this time we broke off into small groups of our peers and I walked those halls filled with all that great artwork snapping all the photos I could and taking in every piece. It is a beautiful experience to be surrounded by such artwork, brilliance, and mastery of craft. I felt like I travelled through time and countries with each piece was a different feeling but none would compare to the ballerina. Before this I saw artwork and didn’t understand it’s depth and nor did I want to but after I realized the talent, effort, and story behind some of the pieces I realized art is the most intimate storytelling and expression. After this trip I was determined to find my place in artwork and after a few failed attempts with many forms of media I found Graphic Design. It was one of the most challenging but rewarding things I’d ever done in my life. Many times I found myself frustrated with the programs and the even sometimes the outcome but I just worked harder and harder and in the end when I finally did get the results I wanted it was the most accomplished I’d ever

In my life I have failed at many things, but I have always been able to recover. When I was in the sixth grade I had convinced myself that I was the most accomplished artist in my entire school; I thought I could challenge an eighth grader in the school’s bi-annual art competition

I watched Emily run through the rain like it was the best thing that ever happened to her. She loved it. I however did not. Coming to get me I guessed as I heard her bound up the stairs. ¨I know you hate the rain hollie but you should come out.” She said. I was nine at the time and afraid of a lot of things. ¨No! I don't like the rain and I never will.” She then proceeded to pull me over her shoulders and carry me outside into the storm. Within a minute my flaming red curly hair was dark maroon wet and straight. ¨How do you know you won't like it if you won't even step of the steps when it does.¨ I cautiously stepped of the stem into the dirt at the bottom of the stone steps and felt the mud squish between my toes. It felt funny but I like it. I smelt the rain and looked around at the wet grass with the water on it. It was alluring. But before I could touch it I felt coldness all around me and looked up to see my sister with a bucket. We played outside for what felt like hours till Father came to get us. Then I loved the rain and every storm no matter what time it was my sister and I would go outside and play in the

It wasn’t until the morning of Saturday, May 21, 2016 that I realized what the true feeling of unconditional love was. The moment a parent looks into his or her child’s eyes there is just so much love it’s unbelievable. People think they know what love is when they love a significant other, family member, or a close friend; however, that love is nothing compared to the love a parent experiences the day his or her child is born. That is the love I felt the moment I placed my beautiful baby boy on my chest.

It was a bone chilling January night; my mom received a call at about 11:15 PM, a call that changed my life forever. My Aunt June was on the other line. She was crying so hard my mother could barely understand her. Through the sobbing my mom finally understood that Brian, my cousin, had been in a horrible accident and she didn’t know how bad it was. My mother jumped out of the bed after she hung up the phone. She screamed up the stairs at my sister and me; it was a nerve shrilling scream. I could hear fear in her voice. My mom was always yelling at us growing up if we forgot to do something. She would even get us out of bed to finish something that wasn’t done completely. This particular