Indicate a person who has had a significant influence on you, and describe that influence.
Right now this essay doesn't seem very complete - the conclusion needs a bit of work (any way I can tie it back to beginning?) Also, any grammar corrections would be greatly appreciated.
"Why did I get a B on this?" I was staring at my pencil drawing of a giraffe, perfectly proportioned - almost a replica of the real thing.
"You didn't use enough value"
I looked back at the dimly shaded drawing. She was right. I could do better.
That was my first B ever in art.
Before I became her student, there were some serious flaws with the way I approached art. There seemed was common lesson plan among my previous teachers - assign the project, and then leave the students on their own. Everyone gets an A for trying. It worse for me because I had a natural talent for composition and lines. I was almost always left alone. My work was hailed as the best in the class. Not surprisingly, I never improved. I became egotistical. Art was just replication, and I excelled at it.
But the day I walked into my new classroom, I sensed something different about my new art teacher. She had translucent red hair, cropped stylishly short at the shoulders, and a tiny blue jewel embedded in her nose. Although piercings usually repulsed me, I remember wanting one myself. Sparkling under the sunlight that flooded the room, it was pretty, distinctive and artsy. Her voice was elegant. She addressed us with an assuring yet stern tone. I was surprised. She was talking to us like we were capable of many things, like we were more than just a bunch of 10 year olds.
I wasn't wrong. During the first week, she would teach me more than I've had in all the hours, days, and years I've spent in earlier classes. We even had an exam. I discovered that there were complementary colors that you could mix together to get your browns. Cool colors and warm colors with different moods. There was something called tone, value, and space. The letters notched at the end of my sketching pencils had meaning - H's were light, B's were dark. It was intriguing. There were so many subtleties to just a simple line. But it wasn't just a bunch of pointless terminology - it was the basic toolbox for making art. Like the punctuation, words, and paragraphs in a paper, the basics were essential.
It was also a whole way of looking at things. I remember that day when she pointed to the forest green foliage of the oak tree outside the window, asking us to look for the purples, yellows, and reds. The class stared at her in disbelief, but when we looked past the green, it was like magic. In the shadows there really was a tint of purple, of red, and in the sunlit edge there were yellows. For the first time, we were looking through the lens of Monet and Van Gogh.
In our critiques, the class sat around a wall full of artwork, and examined each individual piece one by one, pointing out any improvement that could be made and doling out compliments. Looking back, I'm still amazed at the maturity with which our fourth grade class approached these sessions. We learned to think critically about artwork, and by examining the flaws or successes in the work of others, we improved by bounds. I learned so much in those sessions, yet in my subsequent years, none of my other art teachers ever gave me the same opportunity.
I spent two years other the guidance of Ms.Young, leaving the class with a stack of Bs. In exchange, I matured not only as an artist and as a person. She saw the potential we had and pushed us to reach that potential. We gained confidence, set goals for ourselves, and discovered that the world of art was much deeper than we expected.
Right now this essay doesn't seem very complete - the conclusion needs a bit of work (any way I can tie it back to beginning?) Also, any grammar corrections would be greatly appreciated.
"Why did I get a B on this?" I was staring at my pencil drawing of a giraffe, perfectly proportioned - almost a replica of the real thing.
"You didn't use enough value"
I looked back at the dimly shaded drawing. She was right. I could do better.
That was my first B ever in art.
Before I became her student, there were some serious flaws with the way I approached art. There seemed was common lesson plan among my previous teachers - assign the project, and then leave the students on their own. Everyone gets an A for trying. It worse for me because I had a natural talent for composition and lines. I was almost always left alone. My work was hailed as the best in the class. Not surprisingly, I never improved. I became egotistical. Art was just replication, and I excelled at it.
But the day I walked into my new classroom, I sensed something different about my new art teacher. She had translucent red hair, cropped stylishly short at the shoulders, and a tiny blue jewel embedded in her nose. Although piercings usually repulsed me, I remember wanting one myself. Sparkling under the sunlight that flooded the room, it was pretty, distinctive and artsy. Her voice was elegant. She addressed us with an assuring yet stern tone. I was surprised. She was talking to us like we were capable of many things, like we were more than just a bunch of 10 year olds.
I wasn't wrong. During the first week, she would teach me more than I've had in all the hours, days, and years I've spent in earlier classes. We even had an exam. I discovered that there were complementary colors that you could mix together to get your browns. Cool colors and warm colors with different moods. There was something called tone, value, and space. The letters notched at the end of my sketching pencils had meaning - H's were light, B's were dark. It was intriguing. There were so many subtleties to just a simple line. But it wasn't just a bunch of pointless terminology - it was the basic toolbox for making art. Like the punctuation, words, and paragraphs in a paper, the basics were essential.
It was also a whole way of looking at things. I remember that day when she pointed to the forest green foliage of the oak tree outside the window, asking us to look for the purples, yellows, and reds. The class stared at her in disbelief, but when we looked past the green, it was like magic. In the shadows there really was a tint of purple, of red, and in the sunlit edge there were yellows. For the first time, we were looking through the lens of Monet and Van Gogh.
In our critiques, the class sat around a wall full of artwork, and examined each individual piece one by one, pointing out any improvement that could be made and doling out compliments. Looking back, I'm still amazed at the maturity with which our fourth grade class approached these sessions. We learned to think critically about artwork, and by examining the flaws or successes in the work of others, we improved by bounds. I learned so much in those sessions, yet in my subsequent years, none of my other art teachers ever gave me the same opportunity.
I spent two years other the guidance of Ms.Young, leaving the class with a stack of Bs. In exchange, I matured not only as an artist and as a person. She saw the potential we had and pushed us to reach that potential. We gained confidence, set goals for ourselves, and discovered that the world of art was much deeper than we expected.