From the very first day I learned to speak, I've been doing art. As long as I can remember I've been surrounded by art, and a love for it. My mom makes the most wonderful art, full of spirit and feeling, so intense it's abstract in the love it radiates. She taught me to love paints, when it was just crayola washables and cheap printer paper. When my best piece was a finger painting of the monster under my bed, she encouraged me, and loved every piece I made. There's a collection in my home, binder upon binder, upon folder of my old drawings and paintings and collages. Every single one. She taught me that the world is my canvas. That everything is art. She showed me clay, and paper mache, with sewing, and a million other wonderful things. With my mother, my love of art was born. She cradled it in her hands from day one, and told me I could do anything. When I was a bit older, my dad came in. He's a magnificent artist. He went to college for an associates degree in studio arts. He designed comics, he created masterpieces in ink, and graphite, and pen. The Prismacolor pencils, his to create the whole world with. My dad taught me technicality. He showed me perspective, from the very first cube I successfully drew, to graffiti tags, on practice sketch paper. He showed me a love of jewelery making, and beading, and how lovely a gift can be when you've made it yourself. He taught me theory. He was and is my harshest critic. He inspires me every day to do more. He tells me how I can improve, what I can make better. He pushes me. He knows how far I can go, and he doesn't let me stop before I've done my absolute best. With my father, my skill was honed, and nourished. I have been surrounded by art, from every painting in every hallway that my grandmother ever made, to stacks of my dad's college portfolio's to my mother's paintings in large, to the craft reindeer I made at Christmas 14 years ago, to the dolls and blankets sewn for me from loving hands, to the collages on my walls, the jewelery on my neck, the flowers in the vase on my dresser, a gift from my uncle when I was eight, clay dishes for my rings, hand molded mugs for my mother's pens. Bookshelves full of sketchbooks and journals and memories from every member of my family. My mom, my dad, my brothers and my sister. There is not simply one place where my love for art had stemmed from. I am surrounded by art, I am surrounded by love. For me, for my family, art is love. Art is the tender hand that holds mine when I don't know where I'm going. My father is my favorite artist. He has never been too proud of his art. He doesn't talk about it, or hang it up, but I've seen it. I look through it on days when I need something to remind me what I came from and what I can do, if I just keep practicing. His skill is incredible to me. He quit doing art sometime in college after a beloved friend passed away, and I mourn for my dad, who loved to do art, who was so good at it. He is my favorite artist. He inspires me. So, with the love that my mother blossomed, and the skill my father taught. I will create.