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Rebecca Agosta, Instructor of Eng 1103 Keimhya Covington January 30, 2014 The Brush that Guides Me I I recall the wet and dripping paint as it ran through my tiny, childlike fingers. The wash of the cool and warm colors of blues, greens, yellows, and reds, as they were scattered across my flimsy piece of vanilla construction paper. I even remember the joyful, wide smile that ran across my round, rosy cheeked face, when I imagined the image in my innocent mind making its way onto an empty canvas. The children around me scuffled through their papers, with the cold thick liquid wiped across their faces. They gleamed with the satisfaction of their works, and some with the frustration of their small failures. Me? Well, I was one who believed that art couldnt get any better. I believed it was something I couldnt possibly gain disappointment from. My friends all would call out to me and say, Ugh! You are so good at drawing! Could you make something for me!? My response more often than not, Of course I will! What do you want me to draw for you? Umma horse, a giraffe? Oh! What about a Kola Bear or a fish? Im really good at that! Grinning from ear to ear, they would usually give me the choice of picking their artistic focus. I would draw curve after cure, line after line basically doing anything I could to rid my masterpieces of any stray marks.

II Growing throughout my years of pre-k to kindergarten, to even elementary school. I learned that I gained more interest as time went on. My elementary art teacher, Mrs. Perdue, walked around the tables with her big, pregnant belly and jean overalls hovering over each students shoulder one by one. Everything she had to say was positive; if not, then nothing would be said at all. She wasnt a strict teacher so, she didnt give us too many guidelines on what was acceptable and what was not. However, her art lessons kind of gave us, students a glimpse of what she expected. For her, her obvious priority was allowing creativity, but also teaching the importance of line work and placement. Things like shading were introduced, as well as assigning us the task of memorizing the color wheel complementary colors here and primes there. It was never a hassle though, because I felt as if art was my favorite subject, so it was never really hard for me to grasp onto. Being in her class, I felt enormous amounts of gratitude, as I would receive plenty of awards and certificates for my progression and skill. Trying not to rub it in towards others, I would keep a closed mouth about it. Although, from the snickering and grunting of other kids, you could tell I was sort of the golden child of the class - in a sense. Going into middle school, Mrs. Perdue offered a job-like position, where a former student of hers would teach and assist students in the grade level that I was formerly in. The only difference with working with my teacher was that I started to feel a little nervous and slightly lost. I had a reserved and shy personality, so occasionally I would just nod my head here and there, hoping that I wouldnt get asked any questions about formation and context that I didnt know the answers to. Probably wondering why I would feel incompetent if I was the golden child of her class about three years prior it was because she started teaching subjects that I never learned from her. She was more of a critic, so I was more concerned that I wasnt capable

of giving the assistance needed for the class. Art still being such a large part of my life, I believed that I needed to know everything and anything about it. I reviewed materials, focused more on my outside works, referenced other artists just anything that would give me a hint to improve. It was just that important to me. III On the fast track into high school, I was enrolled into another art class where I had to acquire new techniques such as gradient, dimension, focal point, depth, etc. At this point I was just getting used to my teacher, so asking about how to do certain methods was definitely out of the question. As you can imagine, with my shy personality, I didnt talk too much unless I had to and then I still didnt give long winded responses. The first day of sitting in the hour and a half course is still like a flashback from yesterday. The classroom was kind of awkwardly placed, as it was at the end of a long hall where the only thing you could see was the glare of the sun bouncing off two, big double doors that led to the outside. The individual rooms wrapped around a hole in the wall, with a large maple door initializing its place. When you walked in the class it was full of oversized art desks, where the tables could rise to become easels. In the four windows in the back stood canvas boards that were clearly there for drying, being that the drying rack was completely stuffed full of painted papers. The shelves that ran throughout the room contained books, boxes, trays, bottles full of acrylic paint, brushes and glues of all sorts. As I made my entrance I kind of took my position in the front second desk from the board. The class was so quiet you could hear the sound of a pen drop. I guess it was just because no one really knew each other yet and most of us were freshman, so we were out of our element. However, once everyone got over their communication barriers, the class was rambunctious and rowdy. My relationship with my instructor, Ms. Rice, definitely grew on me and helped me blossom mentally. She was

such a positively stimulating person, that she left an impact on me to be open to constructive criticism and really try to comprehend what the artistic language meant. So, a simple term like repetition was no longer just a repeated set. It was now something closely related to harmony; a principle of design; it was a way of combining elements of art so that the same elements are used over and over again. Harmony was a union or blend of aesthetically correct components. Emphasis was some importance or dominance that was given to some feature of artwork. My point being is that these foreign terms now became native to me. I learned more than what I expected to. When I did struggle, Id go about asking Ms. Rice for all the assistance I could possibly get. IV I remember the crisp paper as it would touch the tip of my lead pencil. Drawing my lines and angles, my rough sketch was complete. As I let the steam roll off, Ms. Rice reminding me of all my other teachers would roam the aisles looking at each students piece. I sat with a little bit of a confused expression on my face and right hand high in the air. She comes to greet me with a casual Hi, Whats up? What do you need help with? In the politest manner I discussed my issues of not knowing what color tools I should use or even what colors to consider. Her response, Well, I think you could try blending together Prismacolors and maybe using a contrasting color scheme like maybe purple, yellow and orange. Thatll be cool. However, I also think you need to lighten up your lines and maybe try to align the facial structures on this guy. His nose looks a little big. I looked down at the area she was pointing to, doing nothing but starting at my oversized, crooked nose upon my sketched out figure. By the time I got to my senior year in high school, I was still getting the same advice upon what I should change and what I should fix, but it was the way that she presented my flaws to me.

V My last year, I decided to take two classes one at my homeschool, Ronald Reagan and another at my extended school, Career center. These last two semesters were particularly hard, just because I had so much work between the two classes, that I barely had time to take any breaks for myself. I was introduced to an advance placement college course, instructed by Mrs. Toni Graves. I will admit she was a pretty good teacher, but I only recall how I had a number of frustrations with her. I was able to take my constructive criticism although, what I couldnt take was the constant comments of insisting I change something. The class was fast pace and by this point art didnt really seem to be the light of my life anymore. It was like I was just going through the motions. Occasionally, she would come through to check my progress and time to time I would get positive feedback, but most of the time when it came to this class, I just wanted to run and duck for cover. I could ask myself, How is it that I have always been good at what I do and now its just not enough? Through the process of growing with this close hearted hobby, I have found that art is no longer my calling. I still have a passion for it, but now its on my terms. That same harmony, it is now whatever I feel bring me peace. My emphasis is what is important to me and my repetition is the flashbacks that play in my mind as I think about how far I have come. For now, I just admire art, and maybe if Im feeling it, Ill piece together on my own. I have grown to see myself go through many transformations, and though I can say art is not my one true love, I can say its a guidebook for me to learn to express myself.