I believe in the power of art. The beauty and awe of skyscrapers, the spots on a ladybug’s back, everything that inspires and electrifies the soul. I believe that one great piece could change the world.
My love for art came from my dad. He filled our house with portraits and landscapes that would catch my eye as I moved through each room. Vibrant colors and smooth, arching brush strokes splash down my throat and course through my veins as I gazed at one after another. He encouraged my first steps in painting and sketching and praised each piece of work which helped build my fascination. Each time I would present him with a new picture, he would marvel at it regardless if he knew what it was. His enthusiasm bolstered confidence in my abilities and it is because of him that I consider art my passion.
I believe in art because each piece has millions of interpretations that keep it new and always changing. My true love of art emerges when I sit down and start my pencil or brush. My imagination takes hold of me and I’m pulled into the canvas; I search my soul for the perfect replica of the picture burned in my head. I struggle furiously to construct it because I know that if I don’t do it justice, if the final product isn’t exactly how I saw it in my flash of inspiration, the final is worthless to me. Extensive paper graveyards are all too common in my room.
I believe in art because of the mystery, because some paintings you can’t decipher. The source of inspiration is unknown which leaves just colors and shapes that are almost haunting in their obscurity. They arre something that is bigger than me, no explanation, no interpretation; I can wonder at the raw talent that I am privileged to see. I believe in art because of its hold on me, because it’s passion brought to life.
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