An answer to one of the prompts on the Common App! The full prompt is as follows: Describe a character in fiction, a historical figure, or a creative work (as in art, music, science, etc.) that has had an influence on you, and explain that influence.
This is my very first post here, haha. I would greatly appreciate any feedback whatsoever concerning my response: things I should leave out, things I should rephrase, things that should be elaborated on, etc. I'm aware this is well over 500 words, but I'm not sure where the chopping should be done.
Thank you very much in advance!
I find my escape in dark rooms, the kind with one large eye of dancing images and a reel puttering softly at the back from behind a window. In these rooms, a tear can roll down the cheek of a young woman; a row of whites bares itself in a side corner; knuckles whiten as fingers grip seats. For the most part, the rooms are blanketed in darkness, but in the brief glows of illumination from the big screen, I like to turn around and take it all in: the secret tears, the hidden smile, someone inadvertently leaning back in their seat.
Having seen a good film, you walk out of the theater in a daze with echoes of laughter and soundtrack milling around in your head.
I like a certain kind of movie in particular, the kind where the actors are only voices, breathing life into characters that only exist on screen. However, my deep appreciation for CGI-animated films has only come about recently. When I was five, I howled in enjoyment with my kindergarten classmates at Woody and Buzz Lightyear's toy escapades. I fell in love at age eleven with Nemo, Marlin, Dory, and their underwater world along with everyone else. When I was twelve, I finished watching The Incredibles wishing I had super powers. At sixteen, I marveled at the colors of Paradise Falls, "aww"-ing at the adventures of an old man, a little boy, and a rainbow bird.
2010 brought something different. I walked into a movie by DreamWorks expecting some more fun nonsense like that of the studio's previous works involving talking animals and a Scottish ogre. Instead, I found myself enraptured by the tale of a young Viking named Hiccup going beyond his village's traditional hatred of dragons and befriending one.
Childish? The plot, perhaps.
But in a scene where Hiccup's father is speaking with a friend, his words faded as I stared at the separate hairs of his fur vest, shifting with his movements in the sunlight streaming in, as naturally as if watching real footage. From there, I noted the rusted details of the characters' metal hats, the carefully carved faces of rock cliffs, the actions of bodies painstakingly plotted to mimic real-life kinetics.
The simple act of Elastigirl pushing her daughter's hair back in The Incredibles in 2004 was a monumental feat in CGI animators. Long, flowing hairs had not been rendered at that level before. To experience the great achievements of the animation world all together on that screen was to return to the ground from the back of a dragon with a feeling of inspiration never felt before.
I began making crayon scribbles at age two. In elementary and middle school, I doodled habitually as a hobby. As I entered high school and got to know other artists, I acquired the typical fire to improve, drawing more and more. The act was like breathing, but as breaths the drawings crystallized fast and fell.
They were flat. They lie inert in forgotten pages of school handouts and sketchbooks. Did they have somewhere to stride towards, a final destination where their feelings and actions could reach out and touch audiences? Did they have something to become? The pages of Pixar's various art books display messy sketches of its cartoon residents, scratchy and faded like the monochromatic photographs of ancestors. I looked at these nascent stages of illustration and felt a sense of beginning. I was an amateur artist with nowhere to go and nowhere particular in mind. Movies were merely entertainment.
I yearned for my artwork to be able to dance one day as well, but knew not how to achieve this.
DreamWorks' How to Train Your Dragon exposed me to the wondrous possibilities of its medium and all those involved in production. Now, when I place my pencil to paper, I think in three dimensions. I remember the small chest heave of a character - little idiosyncrasies that connect them to us. When I place my pencil to paper, I think with respect of the years of work that stand invisible to viewers behind a film's surface: years of concept art, writing, and digital editing.
When I begin to draw, I remember the rush of emotions that emerges privately in the darkness of a theater, the artists that evoke it, and think:
I want to be a part of that.
This is my very first post here, haha. I would greatly appreciate any feedback whatsoever concerning my response: things I should leave out, things I should rephrase, things that should be elaborated on, etc. I'm aware this is well over 500 words, but I'm not sure where the chopping should be done.
Thank you very much in advance!
I find my escape in dark rooms, the kind with one large eye of dancing images and a reel puttering softly at the back from behind a window. In these rooms, a tear can roll down the cheek of a young woman; a row of whites bares itself in a side corner; knuckles whiten as fingers grip seats. For the most part, the rooms are blanketed in darkness, but in the brief glows of illumination from the big screen, I like to turn around and take it all in: the secret tears, the hidden smile, someone inadvertently leaning back in their seat.
Having seen a good film, you walk out of the theater in a daze with echoes of laughter and soundtrack milling around in your head.
I like a certain kind of movie in particular, the kind where the actors are only voices, breathing life into characters that only exist on screen. However, my deep appreciation for CGI-animated films has only come about recently. When I was five, I howled in enjoyment with my kindergarten classmates at Woody and Buzz Lightyear's toy escapades. I fell in love at age eleven with Nemo, Marlin, Dory, and their underwater world along with everyone else. When I was twelve, I finished watching The Incredibles wishing I had super powers. At sixteen, I marveled at the colors of Paradise Falls, "aww"-ing at the adventures of an old man, a little boy, and a rainbow bird.
2010 brought something different. I walked into a movie by DreamWorks expecting some more fun nonsense like that of the studio's previous works involving talking animals and a Scottish ogre. Instead, I found myself enraptured by the tale of a young Viking named Hiccup going beyond his village's traditional hatred of dragons and befriending one.
Childish? The plot, perhaps.
But in a scene where Hiccup's father is speaking with a friend, his words faded as I stared at the separate hairs of his fur vest, shifting with his movements in the sunlight streaming in, as naturally as if watching real footage. From there, I noted the rusted details of the characters' metal hats, the carefully carved faces of rock cliffs, the actions of bodies painstakingly plotted to mimic real-life kinetics.
The simple act of Elastigirl pushing her daughter's hair back in The Incredibles in 2004 was a monumental feat in CGI animators. Long, flowing hairs had not been rendered at that level before. To experience the great achievements of the animation world all together on that screen was to return to the ground from the back of a dragon with a feeling of inspiration never felt before.
I began making crayon scribbles at age two. In elementary and middle school, I doodled habitually as a hobby. As I entered high school and got to know other artists, I acquired the typical fire to improve, drawing more and more. The act was like breathing, but as breaths the drawings crystallized fast and fell.
They were flat. They lie inert in forgotten pages of school handouts and sketchbooks. Did they have somewhere to stride towards, a final destination where their feelings and actions could reach out and touch audiences? Did they have something to become? The pages of Pixar's various art books display messy sketches of its cartoon residents, scratchy and faded like the monochromatic photographs of ancestors. I looked at these nascent stages of illustration and felt a sense of beginning. I was an amateur artist with nowhere to go and nowhere particular in mind. Movies were merely entertainment.
I yearned for my artwork to be able to dance one day as well, but knew not how to achieve this.
DreamWorks' How to Train Your Dragon exposed me to the wondrous possibilities of its medium and all those involved in production. Now, when I place my pencil to paper, I think in three dimensions. I remember the small chest heave of a character - little idiosyncrasies that connect them to us. When I place my pencil to paper, I think with respect of the years of work that stand invisible to viewers behind a film's surface: years of concept art, writing, and digital editing.
When I begin to draw, I remember the rush of emotions that emerges privately in the darkness of a theater, the artists that evoke it, and think:
I want to be a part of that.
