So, this is the prompt: Write an autobiographical essay that tells us something about yourself that you feel is significant to your application and our perception of you. What would be your self-portrait?
Any help/advice/corrections would be very much appreciated. Thank you!
I concentrated intensely. Color and form cascaded from the tool in my hand. The paper in front of me rapidly evolved from a blank canvas to a masterpiece. But time was running out. I worked feverishly to finish. Then, from across the room, my teacher roared those merciless words: "Finish up, guys; it's nap time!" I let out a deep breath, laid down my crayon, and proudly gazed at my work. A smiling stick figure with yellow hair and wearing a purple dress was painting a picture of a flower. Below, I sloppily scrawled the words "I wan to be an artist wen I gro up."
after edits:
I pry. I struggle. I try to lift the past numerous and heavy years from my memory to rediscover the moment when I realized that art was my calling, but, due to my psychological inability to remember my early childhood, I fail and I ask my mom instead. She explains to me that I was drawing before I learned to walk. Supposedly, at the age of two, I amazed the pre-school teachers with my superior use of the Crayola crayon, throwing coloring books to the wind and creating my own masterpieces, typically exhibiting a diverse range of animals and scenery. Some of these were so exquisite that my teachers thought that I was bringing in drawings done by my one of my parents or, at least, an older sibling. I have no idea what my art looked like when I was this young-I imagine my teachers and parents were just easily impressed-but I must have been rather sure of my abilities as I professed, even before I reached Kindergarten, that I was going to be an artist when I grew up.
I now wish that I had continued with the career path I had formulated when I was five; it would have saved me a lot of time and stress. But I have a stubborn tendency to learn things the hard way. As I continued my education through elementary, middle, and high school, new ideas and the notion that I could become anything I wanted enveloped my mind and thrust my artistic dreams to the back burner. I chose to become a veterinarian; what could be better than helping animals all day every day? So I took a job as a veterinary assistant and tackled the heaviest workload available, laden with countless upper-level science and math courses. However, even with this science-directed career goal, I never went a day without an art class. Art was my one passion; it was the one thing that never failed to put a smile on my face.
After high school, I continued to neglect the dream within reach and strolled into college as a Biology major in a pre-veterinary program. Thankfully, I took one art course my freshman year called "Foundations of 2D/3D Design". This was my one enjoyable class of the year. Interestingly enough, the other nine students in the class, for the most part, were only taking the class to fill a fine arts requirement as part of the liberal arts education. As I eagerly arrived early for every class and spent countless hours working on projects outside of class for the love of it, the other students despondently showed up the minimum number of days to receive that one mandatory passing art grade. I could not understand their adverseness to the class. I now realize that to my fellow science majors, I was just like those passionless students. I stayed awake through my Chemistry and Biology classes by habitually drawing intricate designs throughout my notes, paying subtle attention to the professor while the lines and patterns surged across the page and between definitions, benzene structures, and Punnett squares. I disliked most of what I was being forced to learn, wishing that I could be somewhere else, doing something that I loved rather than memorizing theories and concepts that I would never see in practice, but I bit the bullet, studied diligently, and actually made the Dean's List.
This past fall, the beginning of my sophomore year, my enthusiasm for Biology and the other sciences continued to deteriorate. My grades began to fall and disappointment shrouded me. I struggled to understand why I was no longer interested in my intended career goal. I hated Chemistry. I despised the thought of having lab for the next three years. I was constantly stressed and upset. The only class I looked forward to was "Beginning Drawing." Then it finally hit me.
I am fascinated by the designs of tissue boxes and fabric softener containers. I love commercials more than television shows. AP Biology and AP Studio Art Drawing were scheduled in the same time slot my senior year of high school; I chose AP Art. I critique billboards and study magazine ads. I stare at posters and CD covers. I experiment with art whenever I'm bored or have a free moment. I spend more money on art supplies than on clothes. Fonts, color, and pattern intrigue me. My childhood self has been screaming at me to follow her dreams and I have been shushing her all my life. It turns out I was right seventeen years ago; I was born to be an artist.
Any help/advice/corrections would be very much appreciated. Thank you!
I concentrated intensely. Color and form cascaded from the tool in my hand. The paper in front of me rapidly evolved from a blank canvas to a masterpiece. But time was running out. I worked feverishly to finish. Then, from across the room, my teacher roared those merciless words: "Finish up, guys; it's nap time!" I let out a deep breath, laid down my crayon, and proudly gazed at my work. A smiling stick figure with yellow hair and wearing a purple dress was painting a picture of a flower. Below, I sloppily scrawled the words "I wan to be an artist wen I gro up."
after edits:
I pry. I struggle. I try to lift the past numerous and heavy years from my memory to rediscover the moment when I realized that art was my calling, but, due to my psychological inability to remember my early childhood, I fail and I ask my mom instead. She explains to me that I was drawing before I learned to walk. Supposedly, at the age of two, I amazed the pre-school teachers with my superior use of the Crayola crayon, throwing coloring books to the wind and creating my own masterpieces, typically exhibiting a diverse range of animals and scenery. Some of these were so exquisite that my teachers thought that I was bringing in drawings done by my one of my parents or, at least, an older sibling. I have no idea what my art looked like when I was this young-I imagine my teachers and parents were just easily impressed-but I must have been rather sure of my abilities as I professed, even before I reached Kindergarten, that I was going to be an artist when I grew up.
I now wish that I had continued with the career path I had formulated when I was five; it would have saved me a lot of time and stress. But I have a stubborn tendency to learn things the hard way. As I continued my education through elementary, middle, and high school, new ideas and the notion that I could become anything I wanted enveloped my mind and thrust my artistic dreams to the back burner. I chose to become a veterinarian; what could be better than helping animals all day every day? So I took a job as a veterinary assistant and tackled the heaviest workload available, laden with countless upper-level science and math courses. However, even with this science-directed career goal, I never went a day without an art class. Art was my one passion; it was the one thing that never failed to put a smile on my face.
After high school, I continued to neglect the dream within reach and strolled into college as a Biology major in a pre-veterinary program. Thankfully, I took one art course my freshman year called "Foundations of 2D/3D Design". This was my one enjoyable class of the year. Interestingly enough, the other nine students in the class, for the most part, were only taking the class to fill a fine arts requirement as part of the liberal arts education. As I eagerly arrived early for every class and spent countless hours working on projects outside of class for the love of it, the other students despondently showed up the minimum number of days to receive that one mandatory passing art grade. I could not understand their adverseness to the class. I now realize that to my fellow science majors, I was just like those passionless students. I stayed awake through my Chemistry and Biology classes by habitually drawing intricate designs throughout my notes, paying subtle attention to the professor while the lines and patterns surged across the page and between definitions, benzene structures, and Punnett squares. I disliked most of what I was being forced to learn, wishing that I could be somewhere else, doing something that I loved rather than memorizing theories and concepts that I would never see in practice, but I bit the bullet, studied diligently, and actually made the Dean's List.
This past fall, the beginning of my sophomore year, my enthusiasm for Biology and the other sciences continued to deteriorate. My grades began to fall and disappointment shrouded me. I struggled to understand why I was no longer interested in my intended career goal. I hated Chemistry. I despised the thought of having lab for the next three years. I was constantly stressed and upset. The only class I looked forward to was "Beginning Drawing." Then it finally hit me.
I am fascinated by the designs of tissue boxes and fabric softener containers. I love commercials more than television shows. AP Biology and AP Studio Art Drawing were scheduled in the same time slot my senior year of high school; I chose AP Art. I critique billboards and study magazine ads. I stare at posters and CD covers. I experiment with art whenever I'm bored or have a free moment. I spend more money on art supplies than on clothes. Fonts, color, and pattern intrigue me. My childhood self has been screaming at me to follow her dreams and I have been shushing her all my life. It turns out I was right seventeen years ago; I was born to be an artist.
