- The Latin words, "Vires, Artes, Mores" have been the guiding philosophy behind Florida State University. Vires signifies strength of all kinds - moral, physical, and intellectual; Artes alludes to the beauty of intellectual pursuits as exemplified in skill, craft, or art; and Mores refers to character, custom, or tradition. Describe how one or more of the values embodied in these concepts are reflected in your life.
Evaluate a significant experience, achievement, risk you have taken, or ethical dilemma you have faced and its impact on you.
Among the buildings in the hustle and bustle of Barcelona's inner city lies a network of serpentine streets and pathways that only those with prior knowledge, or an impressive sense of direction, know how to navigate. The sky-high structures of GaudÃ, van der Rohe and the rest are encased in a realm of, literally, new sights at every turn. I have always had a strong infatuation with Spanish culture so it is no wonder I leapt at the first opportunity to experience it for myself. Never did I realize, however, how fully immersed I would actually end up.
Closely scrunched together in a group of fellow Americans I shuffled along the cobble stone streets soaking in the sights. The tour guide babbled on in her thick Catalonian accent about great places to eat "tapas" and dance at the "discotecas", but my eyes remained fixated on the pure grandeur and detail carved and sculpted into every inch of the city. It didn't matter that I didn't understand all the things the woman was saying because the architecture seemed to speak for itself. The shift in artistic style was evident as we trekked through each "barrio". The Romanesque structures with their looming Gothic towers, it was like a time-line had been laid over the entire city.
As the people began to disperse at the end of the tour local Spanish flavor filled their place until I was the only red head visible for miles. With some time to spare and a hungry stomach I set off in search of some "jamon y queso", my new favorite Spanish delicacy. I recalled seeing a small café back in the direction we had come so I ducked into the small alleyway.
Again between the shadows of the surrounding buildings I began to wander down the winding street. It was mid afternoon by now and all the shops were closed for "siestas", the street had taken on a whole new appearance. Each shop front was now lost behind metal shutters painted in some of the most unique forms of street art I had ever seen; some told stories while others fended off potential trespassers. Entranced by the colors and designs I ventured deeper into the alleys following the patchwork of art and documenting everything with my camera.
It wasn't until my stomach growled did I remember the original intention of my venture, only by this point nothing around me looked familiar. I turned to retrace my steps but each time I turned a corner a new store front shutter was staring me in the face. I continued this process until I realized how hopelessly lost I really was. I tried to decipher the tiny street signs but to no avail, I felt like I was walking in a never ending circle. Panic set in as I rushed down each street, the once brilliant Gothic architecture now looked ominous and foreboding around me.
Another half hour of aimless wandering landed me, fatigued and hungry, in the only café open on the street. Hot tears stung my eyes as I slumped in my chair. An older man glanced in my direction from the top of his newspaper, smoke drifting off the tip of his cigar. It was hard to keep a low profile as the only flustered pasty red head amongst a few older Spaniards. He landed over and in the kindest Spanish he could muster asked me if I was alright. Already feeling defeated and alone I tripped over and butchered out a few sentences in Spanish explaining my situation. He moved his chair closer to mine and asked where I was headed and what I was doing all alone in Spain.
I talked to him, poorly, about my studies at the "universidad" and my fascination with Spanish art; at the word his eyes light up. Even through his thick accent I could understand names like Gaudi, Picasso, and Dali. We talked a bit longer about Spain's famous buildings and influential pieces of art sometimes in broken Spanish sometimes with a bit of English. The conversation was slow and choppy but even with the language barrier we knew what the other was, at least trying, to say. I explained my interest in the store front shutters; how such a modern form of art could end up right on the face of some of the oldest and most unique architecture in Europe. I remembered seeing one fascinating shutter in particular right next to the metro stop in which I was headed. The old man nodded his head at my description of the modern rendition of Picasso's "Guernica" and with a few nods, hand gestures and a hand drawn map on a napkin I was again on my way.
This time the trip only took about 10 minutes until I was safely headed home on the Metro. During the ride I thought back to the kind man at the café. How even two strangers we barely spoke the same language were still able to understand the passion the other shared for art. Honestly without his knowledge of Picasso's work I doubt I would have ever found it out of the maze of tricky streets. Without the time-line of styles in the architecture along with my hand drawn map to "Guernic
Evaluate a significant experience, achievement, risk you have taken, or ethical dilemma you have faced and its impact on you.
Among the buildings in the hustle and bustle of Barcelona's inner city lies a network of serpentine streets and pathways that only those with prior knowledge, or an impressive sense of direction, know how to navigate. The sky-high structures of GaudÃ, van der Rohe and the rest are encased in a realm of, literally, new sights at every turn. I have always had a strong infatuation with Spanish culture so it is no wonder I leapt at the first opportunity to experience it for myself. Never did I realize, however, how fully immersed I would actually end up.
Closely scrunched together in a group of fellow Americans I shuffled along the cobble stone streets soaking in the sights. The tour guide babbled on in her thick Catalonian accent about great places to eat "tapas" and dance at the "discotecas", but my eyes remained fixated on the pure grandeur and detail carved and sculpted into every inch of the city. It didn't matter that I didn't understand all the things the woman was saying because the architecture seemed to speak for itself. The shift in artistic style was evident as we trekked through each "barrio". The Romanesque structures with their looming Gothic towers, it was like a time-line had been laid over the entire city.
As the people began to disperse at the end of the tour local Spanish flavor filled their place until I was the only red head visible for miles. With some time to spare and a hungry stomach I set off in search of some "jamon y queso", my new favorite Spanish delicacy. I recalled seeing a small café back in the direction we had come so I ducked into the small alleyway.
Again between the shadows of the surrounding buildings I began to wander down the winding street. It was mid afternoon by now and all the shops were closed for "siestas", the street had taken on a whole new appearance. Each shop front was now lost behind metal shutters painted in some of the most unique forms of street art I had ever seen; some told stories while others fended off potential trespassers. Entranced by the colors and designs I ventured deeper into the alleys following the patchwork of art and documenting everything with my camera.
It wasn't until my stomach growled did I remember the original intention of my venture, only by this point nothing around me looked familiar. I turned to retrace my steps but each time I turned a corner a new store front shutter was staring me in the face. I continued this process until I realized how hopelessly lost I really was. I tried to decipher the tiny street signs but to no avail, I felt like I was walking in a never ending circle. Panic set in as I rushed down each street, the once brilliant Gothic architecture now looked ominous and foreboding around me.
Another half hour of aimless wandering landed me, fatigued and hungry, in the only café open on the street. Hot tears stung my eyes as I slumped in my chair. An older man glanced in my direction from the top of his newspaper, smoke drifting off the tip of his cigar. It was hard to keep a low profile as the only flustered pasty red head amongst a few older Spaniards. He landed over and in the kindest Spanish he could muster asked me if I was alright. Already feeling defeated and alone I tripped over and butchered out a few sentences in Spanish explaining my situation. He moved his chair closer to mine and asked where I was headed and what I was doing all alone in Spain.
I talked to him, poorly, about my studies at the "universidad" and my fascination with Spanish art; at the word his eyes light up. Even through his thick accent I could understand names like Gaudi, Picasso, and Dali. We talked a bit longer about Spain's famous buildings and influential pieces of art sometimes in broken Spanish sometimes with a bit of English. The conversation was slow and choppy but even with the language barrier we knew what the other was, at least trying, to say. I explained my interest in the store front shutters; how such a modern form of art could end up right on the face of some of the oldest and most unique architecture in Europe. I remembered seeing one fascinating shutter in particular right next to the metro stop in which I was headed. The old man nodded his head at my description of the modern rendition of Picasso's "Guernica" and with a few nods, hand gestures and a hand drawn map on a napkin I was again on my way.
This time the trip only took about 10 minutes until I was safely headed home on the Metro. During the ride I thought back to the kind man at the café. How even two strangers we barely spoke the same language were still able to understand the passion the other shared for art. Honestly without his knowledge of Picasso's work I doubt I would have ever found it out of the maze of tricky streets. Without the time-line of styles in the architecture along with my hand drawn map to "Guernic
