Evaluate a significant experience, achievement, risk you have taken, or ethical dilemma you have faced and its impact on you. (500 word limit)
Around the cafeteria stood twenty black-veiled panels, in each sat a representative from an art institution, a student whose portfolio was being critiqued, and a striking portrait of the student's thoughts on paper, canvas, or aluminum. Gathered in clumps near the panels, students cradled their portfolios, each eager for a turn to be criticized, ripped apart as an artist, and reconstructed as a better one in a brief, snipping 10 minute session. This was an art portfolio review night laden with constructive criticism, reassurance, and tears and I had my feet planted on the chopping block.
My first few portfolio critiques went efficiently, each representative offering basic bites of advice such as, "Be sure to spray fixative over your chalk pieces!" and "Always draw from real life. It enhances your perception of light." I remained intact and my spirit resolute, though disappointed at such harmless tips. After three critiques, I lined up for my final critique at a booth where a Chicago representatives sat, hoping for something gratifying. The session moved as protocol, and tips were drawn out at every 1.27 minute interval, as though it was rehearsed clockwork. As it drew to a close, the art reviewer punctuated the monotonous critique with a concluding, deafening line: "I think an artist's work should reflect his or her purpose. So I ask you: why? What is the purpose of your art?"
Caught off guard, the air left my lungs, startled at the compacted question. I awkwardly avoided eye contact and then met her gaze. At that point, she understood I had no answer and I swept my art pieces back into my portfolio, murmured a "Thank you, good bye," and left.
I collected my thoughts: what was the purpose of (my) art? Why would I pursue it? What was my message? I felt ashamed, desecrated, hollowed out by the reality of my own art. Following the critique, I could not draw for weeks. Quaking in my lack of purpose, I invested much time in rebuilding myself not only as an artist but as an individual from the scaffolding of what was left. Piece by piece, I questioned, reasoned, and reconstructed. Gradually, I regained my ambition to draw, but I never defined a narrowed purpose. After so many contemplative, sleepless nights and exposure to a variety of artists among my peers, my family, and art history, I reasoned that perhaps, like the multifaceted quality of art, the purpose of expression is not static. It is morphing, changing, yielding to impulse. If I were to initially define a single motive to pursue art, I would also cut myself off from the sheer possibilities outside of that distinct direction. To not have a purpose is to allow oneself to be lost. However, being lost in itself is crucial to allowing the blossoming of potentialities. For now, I content myself knowing that my drive to create is not necessarily absent, but rather fluctuating, capricious. "Why?" you might ask. "For the possibilities," I will answer.
I feel like I could definitely elaborate more about its impact on me, but I don't know which part of the intro to trim. Initially, the essay had 650 characters, so this is the "abridged" version and consequently the bare bones version.
Could someone please address my pairing of quotation marks and commas? I've forgotten the rules altogether :P
Around the cafeteria stood twenty black-veiled panels, in each sat a representative from an art institution, a student whose portfolio was being critiqued, and a striking portrait of the student's thoughts on paper, canvas, or aluminum. Gathered in clumps near the panels, students cradled their portfolios, each eager for a turn to be criticized, ripped apart as an artist, and reconstructed as a better one in a brief, snipping 10 minute session. This was an art portfolio review night laden with constructive criticism, reassurance, and tears and I had my feet planted on the chopping block.
My first few portfolio critiques went efficiently, each representative offering basic bites of advice such as, "Be sure to spray fixative over your chalk pieces!" and "Always draw from real life. It enhances your perception of light." I remained intact and my spirit resolute, though disappointed at such harmless tips. After three critiques, I lined up for my final critique at a booth where a Chicago representatives sat, hoping for something gratifying. The session moved as protocol, and tips were drawn out at every 1.27 minute interval, as though it was rehearsed clockwork. As it drew to a close, the art reviewer punctuated the monotonous critique with a concluding, deafening line: "I think an artist's work should reflect his or her purpose. So I ask you: why? What is the purpose of your art?"
Caught off guard, the air left my lungs, startled at the compacted question. I awkwardly avoided eye contact and then met her gaze. At that point, she understood I had no answer and I swept my art pieces back into my portfolio, murmured a "Thank you, good bye," and left.
I collected my thoughts: what was the purpose of (my) art? Why would I pursue it? What was my message? I felt ashamed, desecrated, hollowed out by the reality of my own art. Following the critique, I could not draw for weeks. Quaking in my lack of purpose, I invested much time in rebuilding myself not only as an artist but as an individual from the scaffolding of what was left. Piece by piece, I questioned, reasoned, and reconstructed. Gradually, I regained my ambition to draw, but I never defined a narrowed purpose. After so many contemplative, sleepless nights and exposure to a variety of artists among my peers, my family, and art history, I reasoned that perhaps, like the multifaceted quality of art, the purpose of expression is not static. It is morphing, changing, yielding to impulse. If I were to initially define a single motive to pursue art, I would also cut myself off from the sheer possibilities outside of that distinct direction. To not have a purpose is to allow oneself to be lost. However, being lost in itself is crucial to allowing the blossoming of potentialities. For now, I content myself knowing that my drive to create is not necessarily absent, but rather fluctuating, capricious. "Why?" you might ask. "For the possibilities," I will answer.
I feel like I could definitely elaborate more about its impact on me, but I don't know which part of the intro to trim. Initially, the essay had 650 characters, so this is the "abridged" version and consequently the bare bones version.
Could someone please address my pairing of quotation marks and commas? I've forgotten the rules altogether :P
