And can anyone tell me can an essay be used twice.
The silence which follows the strokes of a pencil over paper is my hideaway; time falls to its knees before creativity and the seeds of ideas take off for foreign expeditions. For me, sketching isn't just a hobby; it's an addiction I happily give into. Wherever I may find myself, whether in the classroom, wandering through the urban streets, or nestled in a corner café, always within arm's reach, you will discover my trusty sketchbook and drawing pencils, faithful companions accompanying me on every excursion and adventure. It takes me into another world in which I cut all ties with reality. This is a place where time becomes an abstract concept, and my pencil and paper become everything.
These creative travels are not just a way of having fun. Rather, the doorways to the eternal world of abstraction and to lines that escape here and now. Every piece acknowledges its deficiency of form, as it strives to penetrate into something material and immaterial at once. Having entered this realm, I have understood that drawing without being under time pressure is not a little diversion; it is complete absorption. It's right in the middle of time and space itself.
This attraction of turning ideas into sketches and visions into creations seized me. My ideas and drawings were rhythmically related. Every pen stroke gave life to my sketches. Every turn and twist became a particular intention so that paper became an extension of myself outside. Mistakes became a helpful part of the process, turning them into possibilities for improvement.
It's the dialogue with the fleeting: A communion with those ethereal whispers that don't show themselves until you step between lines. It's an alchemical transformation from the mundane to the amazing, a still life come to life. Each stroke is thus a fragment of the intangible moment, a feeling, or an impression. It's a voyage into the unknown, beyond lands inhabited by the imagination.
In response to the cries of thirst for knowledge, I don't restrict my attendance to textbooks-I also go out on the streets where it is dangerous. The works that this daring half-dozen had time or courage are all here. The vigor is in the hum of town banks and fuming, slurring words. But even stories as well, not just lines. Their endless types of tales are just waiting to be revealed in the carvings others do. The arts, the streets of the city, and their symphony of architecture become my teachers. Every sketch calls me to learn, seek further and again succumb beneath the superior life of creation.
I learn more by looking at the artwork of great artists who have made a big impact in art history. Leonardo Da Vinci's drawings, the building ideas of Frank Lloyd Wright and city sketches made by a famous storyteller about cities all go with my search for understanding. Every mark in their works is a lesson, showing how to balance light and dark or make sketches last forever. It shows the fine art of putting it all together nicely.
But my best teacher is, in fact, the act of sketching itself. It is an eternally open door to curiosity, an endless exploration. Shading exercises, playing with actual lighting on surfaces, over-painted work in perspective-every stroke is one step up this endless learning ladder. Drawing took me to new areas of art; it showed me the mysteries of a single white paper.
The beautiful dance of graphite and paper keeps me fascinated forever. It feels like an eternal dance where I'm under its spell. Each brush move I make goes against time rules not trying to escape it but as a way for it to be part of it. This art method turns into a trip, for my soul. Every mark is waiting to be explored and put on the white canvas of life forever.
The silence which follows the strokes of a pencil over paper is my hideaway; time falls to its knees before creativity and the seeds of ideas take off for foreign expeditions. For me, sketching isn't just a hobby; it's an addiction I happily give into. Wherever I may find myself, whether in the classroom, wandering through the urban streets, or nestled in a corner café, always within arm's reach, you will discover my trusty sketchbook and drawing pencils, faithful companions accompanying me on every excursion and adventure. It takes me into another world in which I cut all ties with reality. This is a place where time becomes an abstract concept, and my pencil and paper become everything.
These creative travels are not just a way of having fun. Rather, the doorways to the eternal world of abstraction and to lines that escape here and now. Every piece acknowledges its deficiency of form, as it strives to penetrate into something material and immaterial at once. Having entered this realm, I have understood that drawing without being under time pressure is not a little diversion; it is complete absorption. It's right in the middle of time and space itself.
This attraction of turning ideas into sketches and visions into creations seized me. My ideas and drawings were rhythmically related. Every pen stroke gave life to my sketches. Every turn and twist became a particular intention so that paper became an extension of myself outside. Mistakes became a helpful part of the process, turning them into possibilities for improvement.
It's the dialogue with the fleeting: A communion with those ethereal whispers that don't show themselves until you step between lines. It's an alchemical transformation from the mundane to the amazing, a still life come to life. Each stroke is thus a fragment of the intangible moment, a feeling, or an impression. It's a voyage into the unknown, beyond lands inhabited by the imagination.
In response to the cries of thirst for knowledge, I don't restrict my attendance to textbooks-I also go out on the streets where it is dangerous. The works that this daring half-dozen had time or courage are all here. The vigor is in the hum of town banks and fuming, slurring words. But even stories as well, not just lines. Their endless types of tales are just waiting to be revealed in the carvings others do. The arts, the streets of the city, and their symphony of architecture become my teachers. Every sketch calls me to learn, seek further and again succumb beneath the superior life of creation.
I learn more by looking at the artwork of great artists who have made a big impact in art history. Leonardo Da Vinci's drawings, the building ideas of Frank Lloyd Wright and city sketches made by a famous storyteller about cities all go with my search for understanding. Every mark in their works is a lesson, showing how to balance light and dark or make sketches last forever. It shows the fine art of putting it all together nicely.
But my best teacher is, in fact, the act of sketching itself. It is an eternally open door to curiosity, an endless exploration. Shading exercises, playing with actual lighting on surfaces, over-painted work in perspective-every stroke is one step up this endless learning ladder. Drawing took me to new areas of art; it showed me the mysteries of a single white paper.
The beautiful dance of graphite and paper keeps me fascinated forever. It feels like an eternal dance where I'm under its spell. Each brush move I make goes against time rules not trying to escape it but as a way for it to be part of it. This art method turns into a trip, for my soul. Every mark is waiting to be explored and put on the white canvas of life forever.
