As the child of two artists, I have received instruction in a variety of mediums since I was able to hold a pencil. Although this is something I am incredibly thankful for, it was also a source of pressure. In elementary school, I worked tirelessly on drawings that earned me praise and recognition from my teachers and parents. I entered art contests and won awards that got the attention and approval of those around me. Among my peers, I was known as the artist in the class, the one who could draw anything. My teachers praised me for my hard work and high grades. Despite all this, I was never content. Some may say I had an appetite for learning new skills. Now I can see that it was an obsessive desire to please. As I grew older, I became controlled by my need for perfection in every aspect of my life. I sought after the perfect bodies and clear skin that I saw online, and was disappointed by what I saw in the mirror. My time was spent worrying about food or agonizing over the calorie count of my last meal. When my parents became concerned about my plummeting weight, I saw this as a sign that my efforts were working. In my struggle to achieve flawlessness, I lost touch with what really mattered in my life. This perfectionism continued for years, a persistent stain that tainted every aspect of my existence. From an outsider’s view, I was a high achieving student who was admired by teachers and popular among my friends, but in reality, I was trapped in a hopeless cycle with no end in sight. It seemed like it would last forever, until everything came to an abrupt halt. The facade of perfection that I had maintained for years suddenly came crumbling down as I found myself feeling completely helpless in the one place no one expected to find me: a mental hospital. To the utter shock of everyone that knew me, I was hospitalized following a suicide attempt during my sophmore year of high school. For weeks, I was absent from my AP classes. Missing assignments piled up and my grades fell lower than ever. Yet even in this seemingly hopeless situation, I learned a valuable lesson that changed the course of my life. When I returned to school, I bore physical signs of my struggle, including a cast on my left arm. Like this cast, the truth wasn’t something I could cover up or take off when I returned, it was a part of who I was: imperfect. In the weeks that followed, I learned the value of imperfection in both my personal and artistic life. While I was learning to forgive myself for mistakes I made at school and home, I was making artwork that embraced mistakes. I discovered that like brushstrokes on a canvas, every moment of our lives becomes a part of who we are, not just the ones that turn out like we intended. This newfound sense of freedom inspired me to share my love of creating with future generations as an art teacher. My experience has taught me that art is a powerful way to overcome hardships and learn to love yourself. I see the creative process as a metaphor for personal growth. It almost never goes as planned, is different for every artist, and the mistakes we make along the way are part of what makes the end result so beautiful. Especially because our education system is so focused on test scores and report cards, I hope to give children the freedom to enjoy the beauty around them and discover imaginative ways to share that beauty with others. I plan to obtain a degree in art education and teach in the public school system, where I can provide future generations with the skills they need to tell their story with pencils and brushes.

As the child of two artists, I have received instruction in a variety of mediums since I was able to hold a pencil. Although this is something I am incredibly thankful for, it was also a source of pressure. In elementary school, I worked tirelessly on drawings that earned me praise and recognition from my teachers and parents. I entered art contests and won awards that got the attention and approval of my parents. Among my peers, I was known as the artist in the class, the one who could draw anything. Despite all this, I was never content. Some may say I had an appetite for learning new skills. Now I can see that it was an obsessive desire to please. In my struggle to achieve flawlessness, I lost touch with what really mattered in my life. This perfectionism continued for years, a persistent stain that tainted every aspect of my existence. From an outsider’s view, I was a high achieving student who was admired by teachers and popular among my friends, but in reality, I was trapped in a hopeless cycle with no end in sight. It seemed like it would last forever, until everything came to an abrupt halt. The facade of perfection that I had maintained for years suddenly came crumbling down as I found myself feeling completely helpless in the one place no one expected to find me: a mental hospital. To the utter shock of everyone that knew me, I was hospitalized following a suicide attempt during my sophmore year of high school. For weeks, I was absent from my AP classes. Missing assignments piled up and my grades fell lower than ever. Yet even in this seemingly hopeless situation, there was hope. When I returned to school, I bore physical signs of my struggle, including a cast on my left arm. Like this cast, the truth wasn’t something I could cover up or take off when I returned, it was a part of who I was: imperfect. In the weeks that followed, I learned the value of imperfection in both my personal and artistic life. While I was learning to forgive myself for mistakes I made at school and home, I was making artwork that embraced mistakes. I discovered that like brushstrokes on a canvas, every moment of our lives becomes a part of who we are, not just the ones that turn out like we intended. This lesson left me with an astonishing sense of freedom and a newfound love for creating. Art was no longer a test of my abilities, but an opportunity to share my story with the world. I learned to appreciate the beauty around me in nature and use my artistic abilities to show that beauty to others instead of simply trying to demonstrate technical skill. I discovered that nature’s beauty is like our own: often imperfect and irregular. When I painted scenes from nature, I was able to enjoy the process of creating without worrying about trying to impress others with perfected techniques. It became my dream to share this experience with future generations by providing students with the tools they need to effectively tell their story and embrace its imperfections. I intend to make this dream a reality by pursuing a degree in art education and teaching art in the public school system.

As the child of two art teachers, I have always been encouraged to express my creativity. My parents have provided me with valuable instruction in a variety of mediums since I was able to hold a pencil. Before I went to school, my mother and father would read me stories while I drew my own illustrations in wavering pencil lines and haphazard brushstrokes. They were always there to help me when I came across a subject that I just couldn’t get right. I can remember my father lovingly taking my small hand in his and guiding my pencil until forms emerged that perfectly captured the ideas I was trying to express. Soon, however, I was no longer content to let my pencil be guided by any hand other than my own. As most children do, I developed an independent streak upon entering school and was determined to learn to draw like my father and mother. Along with the other students in my class, I watched in amazement as my father, our teacher, brought whimsical scenes to life on the white board in the front of the room. We carefully copied his lines onto our papers but could never seem to perfectly capture the magic of his drawings. I grew frustrated with the insufficiency of my own work. Drawing was difficult for me, but it seemed so easy for my parents. My father was not an easy teacher, either. If he felt my work was not the best I was capable of, he would push me to create something I could be proud of. His high standards were not without reason, however. After I went to middle school and was no longer his student, I continued to improve my technique while my mother and father constantly pushed me to try new things and always do my best. I learned many valuable lessons from both of them, but the one that has made the biggest difference in my life was this: that art communicates a message to its viewers. When they took me to art museums, my father would ask on the drive home what different pieces were trying to tell me. “Art tells a story,” he would say. As I grew older, I learned to tell my story with art. My father had taught me well. I already knew how to use watercolors, charcoal, and pastels to create an image, but, no matter how beautiful, these artworks were empty and easily forgotten. I knew that if I wanted to create artwork that could make an impact on my viewers, I needed to send a message about issues I cared about. This was not something I could rely on my father for. He had always been my guide, but I had to follow my passion, not his. Looking back at my life so far, my art has come a long way. Art has become something that I enjoy and succeed at. I have used my artwork to speak out about issues like child labor, online shopping addiction, injustices within the modeling industry, and the negative effects of diet culture on children. These pieces have been put on display in museums and galleries where their message is on display for viewers from around the country. For this success I have my father to thank. He taught me to create artwork that could change others’ lives, and I intend to do the same. I am pursuing a degree in art education in order to pass on to future generations the storytelling abilities of art so that they may someday tell their story, too.

Some of my earliest memories can be found between the yellowed pages of old sketchbooks illustrated in vibrant color with wavering pencil lines and haphazard brushstrokes. Unlike the more accurate representations found in the photo albums that line my shelves, these drawings bring to mind the world of my childhood through the eyes of the child that created them. However, I have not always been able to see the beauty in these early artistic ventures because of their technical imperfections. Although an obsessive pursuit of perfection is something that has troubled me for most of my life, in both my artistic and personal pursuits, I have learned to embrace the value of mistakes and appreciate the beauty of my own unique identity. As the child of two artists, I have received instruction in a variety of mediums since I was able to hold a pencil. Although this is something I am incredibly thankful for, it was also a source of pressure. In elementary school, I worked tirelessly on drawings that earned me praise and recognition from my teachers and parents. I entered art contests and won awards that got the attention and approval of my parents. Among my peers, I was known as the artist in the class, the one who could draw anything. Despite all this, I was never content. Some may say I had an appetite for learning new skills. Now I can see that it was an obsessive desire to please. In middle school, I focused on perfecting my technique. When I wasn’t busy working on projects for class, I was at home at my desk, bent over some personal project that wasn’t yet finished. This dedication was something that my teachers, parents, and friends admired and I felt proud of. However, my desire to achieve perfection soon went deeper than just my artwork. In my struggle to please others, I put all my energy into achieving academic, artistic, and physical perfection. As time went on, my “dedication” soon turned into an eating disorder. The “attention to detail” that had once earned the affirmation of my teachers and parents was literally killing me. It soon became obvious that I was out of control. In my struggle to achieve flawlessness, I had lost touch with what really mattered in my life. This perfectionism continued for years, a persistent stain that tainted every aspect of my existence. From an outsider’s view, I was a high achieving student who was admired by teachers and popular among my friends, but in reality, I was trapped in a hopeless cycle with no end in sight. It seemed like it would last forever, until everything came to an abrupt halt. The facade of perfection that I had maintained for years suddenly came crumbling down as I found myself feeling completely helpless in the one place no one expected to find me: a mental hospital. To the utter shock of everyone that knew me, I was hospitalized following a suicide attempt during my sophmore year of high school. For weeks, I was absent from my AP classes. Missing assignments piled up and my grades fell lower than ever. Yet even in this seemingly hopeless situation, there was hope. When I returned to school, I bore physical signs of my struggle, including a cast on my left arm. Like this cast, the truth wasn’t something I could cover up or take off when I returned, it was a part of who I was: imperfect. In the weeks that followed, I learned the value of imperfection in both my personal and artistic life. While I was learning to forgive myself for mistakes I made at school and home, I was making artwork that embraced mistakes. I discovered that like brushstrokes on a canvas, every moment of our lives becomes a part of who we are, not just the ones that turn out like we intended.

As the child of two artists, I have received instruction in a variety of mediums since I was able to hold a pencil. Although this is something I am incredibly thankful for, it was also a source of pressure. In elementary school, I worked tirelessly on drawings that earned me praise and recognition from my teachers and parents. I entered art contests and won awards that got the attention and approval of my parents. Among my peers, I was known as the artist in the class, the one who could draw anything. Despite all this, I was never content. Some may say I had an appetite for learning new skills. Now I can see that it was an obsessive desire to please. In my struggle to achieve flawlessness, I lost touch with what really mattered in my life. This perfectionism continued for years, a persistent stain that tainted every aspect of my existence. From an outsider’s view, I was a high achieving student who was admired by teachers and popular among my friends, but in reality, I was trapped in a hopeless cycle with no end in sight. It seemed like it would last forever, until everything came to an abrupt halt. The facade of perfection that I had maintained for years suddenly came crumbling down as I found myself feeling completely helpless in the one place no one expected to find me: a mental hospital. To the utter shock of everyone that knew me, I was hospitalized following a suicide attempt during my sophmore year of high school. For weeks, I was absent from my AP classes. Missing assignments piled up and my grades fell lower than ever. Yet even in this seemingly hopeless situation, there was hope. When I returned to school, I bore physical signs of my struggle, including a cast on my left arm. Like this cast, the truth wasn’t something I could cover up or take off when I returned, it was a part of who I was: imperfect. In the weeks that followed, I learned the value of imperfection in both my personal and artistic life. While I was learning to forgive myself for mistakes I made at school and home, I was making artwork that embraced mistakes. I discovered that like brushstrokes on a canvas, every moment of our lives becomes a part of who we are, not just the ones that turn out like we intended. This lesson left me with an astonishing sense of freedom and a newfound love for creating. Art was no longer a test of my abilities, but an opportunity to share my story with the world. However, telling a story with artwork is a risky choice that exposes the most vulnerable parts of the artist to the harsh criticism of the world. When creating a painting, drawing, or sculpture, many fall into the trap of creating art that is beautiful. Why is this so dangerous? Although it unfailingly garners applause from viewers, art that is simply aesthetically pleasing is easily forgotten. Beauty is all around us. We do not need a painting to show us the loveliness of a sunset when we can look out our kitchen windows and bask in its glory. What we are less likely to notice without the help of an artist is our greed, cruelty, and laziness, because these things are not beautiful at all. Art that is truly powerful is not a landscape that hangs above the family couch, but an unsettling painting that causes passerbys to consider their behavior. The latter may not be beautiful, but it is the type of art that I create because I believe that the job of an artist is, as stated by street artist Banksy, “to disturb the comfortable.” One issue that I have centered my work around is the excessive consumerism that has become a part of American life. From cradles to coffins, rattles to retirement homes, every part of our lives is defined by the things that belong to us. This focus on possessions rather than personality is something I first observed in my peers, then myself, and soon everywhere I looked. The summer after my sophomore year, I spent a month at an art program with other high school students, where we were required to stay on a college campus for the duration. During this month, I was surprised by the piles of Amazon packages ordered by other students in the program that showed up in the lobby of the dorms, and the complaints about unyielding parents that refused to deliver items from home. On the only field trip taken during the program, I watched in growing disgust as students flocked to the gift shop, excited for the opportunity to spend money on overpriced trinkets and souvenirs after weeks of deprivation. Yet even as I gawked at the materialism apparent in those around me, I found myself forming a list of items I planned to buy when I got home. For the rest of the summer, I spent time considering the emphasis placed on material possessions in our society and gained a fresh perspective on things I had never noticed before. After amending my own shopping habits and noticing the benefits of my newfound freedom, I was eager to share my ideas. Once the school year started, I dedicated my time in art class to the creation of a fifteen piece series about the consequences of materialism during different phases of life. As I researched and created artwork on issues like child labor, exploitation of women in advertising, injustices within the modeling industry, and online shopping addiction, I began to realize the power I possessed. These drawings, paintings, and collages contained images that made viewers uncomfortable. They looked out of place among the still life paintings that lined the hallways at my highschool. I felt great pride, however, when I would occasionally see students and teachers gathered around my artwork silently, thoughtful expressions on their faces. I knew that I had used my abilities to speak out against injustice, even if my artwork, not “beautiful” by any stretch, went unappreciated by some. I also knew that artwork is not intended to simply be beautiful, but powerful. It became my dream to share this power with future generations by providing students with the tools they need to effectively tell their story and embrace its imperfections. I intend to do this by pursuing a degree in art education and teaching art in the public school system.

As the child of two artists, I have received instruction in a variety of mediums since I was able to hold a pencil. Although this is something I am incredibly thankful for, it was also a source of pressure. In elementary school, I worked tirelessly on drawings that earned me praise and recognition from my teachers and parents. I entered art contests and won awards that got the attention and approval of my parents. Among my peers, I was known as the artist in the class, the one who could draw anything. Despite all this, I was never content. Some may say I had an appetite for learning new skills. Now I can see that it was an obsessive desire to please. In my struggle to achieve flawlessness, I lost touch with what really mattered in my life. This perfectionism continued for years, a persistent stain that tainted every aspect of my existence. From an outsider’s view, I was a high achieving student who was admired by teachers and popular among my friends, but in reality, I was trapped in a hopeless cycle with no end in sight. It seemed like it would last forever, until everything came to an abrupt halt. The facade of perfection that I had maintained for years suddenly came crumbling down as I found myself feeling completely helpless in the one place no one expected to find me: a mental hospital. To the utter shock of everyone that knew me, I was hospitalized following a suicide attempt during my sophmore year of high school. For weeks, I was absent from my AP classes. Missing assignments piled up and my grades fell lower than ever. Yet even in this seemingly hopeless situation, there was hope. When I returned to school, I bore physical signs of my struggle, including a cast on my left arm. Like this cast, the truth wasn’t something I could cover up or take off when I returned, it was a part of who I was: imperfect. In the weeks that followed, I learned the value of imperfection in both my personal and artistic life. While I was learning to forgive myself for mistakes I made at school and home, I was making artwork that embraced mistakes. I discovered that like brushstrokes on a canvas, every moment of our lives becomes a part of who we are, not just the ones that turn out like we intended. This lesson left me with an astonishing sense of freedom and a newfound love for creating. Art was no longer a test of my abilities, but an opportunity to share my story with the world. It became my dream to share this newfound joy with future generations by providing students with the tools they need to effectively tell their story and embrace its imperfections. I intend to make this dream a reality by attaining a degree in art education and using that degree to teach art in the public school system.

As the child of two artists, I have received instruction in a variety of mediums since I was able to hold a pencil. Although this is something I am incredibly thankful for, it was also a source of pressure. In elementary school, I worked tirelessly on drawings that earned me praise and recognition from my teachers and parents. Among my peers, I was known as the artist in the class, the one who could draw anything. Despite all this, I was never content. Some may say I had an appetite for learning new skills. Now I can see that it was an obsessive desire to please; in reality, I was trapped in a hopeless cycle with no end in sight. It seemed like it would last forever, until everything came to an abrupt halt. The facade of perfection that I had maintained for years suddenly came crumbling down as I found myself feeling completely helpless in the one place no one expected to find me: a mental hospital. To the shock of everyone that knew me, I was hospitalized following a suicide attempt. For weeks, I was absent from my AP classes. Missing assignments piled up and my grades fell lower than ever. Yet even in this seemingly hopeless situation, there was hope. When I returned to school, I bore physical signs of my struggle, including a cast on my left arm. Like this cast, the truth wasn’t something I could cover up or take off when I returned, it was a part of who I was: imperfect. In the weeks that followed, I learned the value of imperfection in both my personal and artistic life. While I was learning to forgive myself for mistakes I made at school and home, I was making artwork that embraced mistakes. I discovered that like brushstrokes on a canvas, every moment of our lives becomes a part of who we are, not just the ones that turn out like we intended. This lesson left me with an astonishing sense of freedom and a love for creating. It became my dream to share this newfound joy with future generations by providing students with the tools they need to effectively tell their story and embrace its imperfections. I intend to make this dream a reality by attaining a degree in art education and using that degree to teach in the public school system.

As the child of two art teachers, I have always been surrounded with encouragement to express my creativity. My parents have provided me with valuable instruction in a variety of mediums since I was able to hold a pencil. Before I went to school, my mother and father would read me stories while I drew my own illustrations in wavering pencil lines and haphazard brushstrokes. They were always there to help me when I came across a subject that I just couldn’t get right. I can remember my father lovingly taking my small hand in his and guiding my pencil until forms emerged that perfectly captured the ideas I was trying to express. Soon, however, I was no longer content to let my pencil be guided by any hand other than my own. As most children do, I developed an independent streak upon entering school and was determined to learn to draw like my father and mother. Along with the other students in my class, I watched in amazement as my father, our teacher, brought whimsical scenes to life on the white board in the front of the room. We carefully copied his lines onto our papers but could never seem to perfectly capture the magic of his drawings. I grew frustrated with the insufficiency of my own work. Drawing was difficult for me, but it seemed so easy for my parents. My father was not an easy teacher, either. If he felt my work was not the best I was capable of, I came with him early to redo it. His high standards were not without reason, however. After I went to middle school and was no longer his student, I continued to improve my technique while my mother and father constantly pushed me to try new things and always do my best. I learned many valuable lessons from both of them, but the one that has made the biggest difference in my life was this: that art communicates a message to its viewers. When they took my brother and I to art museums, my father would always ask on the drive home what different pieces were trying to tell us. “Art tells a story,” he would say. As I grew older, I learned to tell my story with art. My father had taught me well. I already knew how to use watercolors, charcoal, and pastels to create an image, but, no matter how beautiful, these artworks were empty and easily forgotten. I knew that if I wanted to create artwork that could make an impact on my viewers, I needed to send a message about issues I cared about. This was not something I could rely on my father for. He had always been my guide, but I had to follow my passion, not his. Looking back at my life so far, my art has come a long way. Art has become something that I enjoy and succeed at. I have used my artwork to speak out about issues like child labor, online shopping addiction, injustices within the modeling industry, and the negative effects of diet culture on children. These pieces have been put on display in museums and galleries where their message is sent to viewers from around the country. For this success I have my father to thank. He taught me to create artwork that could change others’ lives, and I intend to do the same. I am pursuing a degree in art education in order to pass on to future generations the storytelling abilities of art so that they may someday tell their story, too.

From an early age, I wanted nothing more than to make every person I met happy. While it would be years before I learned the term "people pleaser", it didn't take long for me to see the harmful effects of this constant desire to please on my mental health. Through challenging circumstances, I have learned to allow myself to appreciate the value of mistakes, and I intend to pass on this freedom to my students when I pursue my dream of becoming an art teacher. As the child of two artists, I have received instruction in variety of mediums since I was able to hold a pencil. Although this is something I am incredibly thankful for, it was also a source of pressure. In school, I worked tirelessly on drawings that earned affirmation from my teachers and parents. I entered art contests and won awards that gained the approval of my parents. Among my peers, I was known as the artist, the one who could draw anything. Despite all this, I was never content. Some may say I had an appetite for learning new skills. Now I can see that it was an obsessive desire to please. In middle school, I focused on perfecting my technique. When I wasn’t busy working on projects for class, I was at home at my desk, bent over some personal project that wasn’t yet finished. This dedication was something that my teachers, parents, and friends admired and I felt proud of. However, my desire to achieve perfection soon went deeper than just my artwork. In my struggle to please others, I put all my energy into achieving academic, artistic, and physical perfection. As time went on, my “dedication” soon turned into an eating disorder. The “attention to detail” that had once earned the affirmation of my teachers and parents was literally killing me. It soon became obvious that I was out of control. In my struggle to achieve flawlessness, I had lost touch with what really mattered in my life. From an outsider’s view, I was a high achieving student who was admired by teachers and popular among my friends, but in reality, I was trapped in a hopeless cycle with no end in sight. It seemed like it would last forever, until everything came to an abrupt halt. The facade of perfection that I had maintained for years suddenly came crumbling down as I found myself feeling completely helpless in the one place no one expected to find me: a mental hospital. To the utter shock of everyone that knew me, I was hospitalized following a suicide attempt during my sophmore year of high school. For weeks, I was absent from my rigorous classes. Missing assignments piled up and my grades fell lower than ever. Yet even in this seemingly hopeless situation, there was hope. When I returned to school, I bore physical signs of my struggle, including a cast on my left arm. Like this cast, the truth wasn’t something I could cover up or take off when I returned, it was a part of who I was: imperfect. In the weeks that followed, I learned the value of imperfection in both my personal and artistic life. While I was learning to forgive myself for mistakes I made at school and home, I was making artwork that embraced mistakes. I discovered that like brushstrokes on a canvas, every moment of our lives becomes a part of who we are, not just the ones that turn out like we intended.

Since childhood, I have enjoyed observation. Quiet and wide-eyed, I was always busy watching and listening to the world around me. As I have grown up, I have made it my goal to share these observations with others through my art. By pointing out mundane patterns, imperceptible changes , and beautifully subtle details, I have the ability to change the perspective of my viewers. However, even the most important ideas are powerless without a means of communication. I strive to make my artwork as meaningful as possible by capturing my viewers' attention with my unique style. I have dedicated countless hours to improving my technique through observation and practice, yet I never dread the moment by brush touches the canvas. For me, painting is an opportunity to enjoy the beautiful world around me and embrace the many possibilities available when a creative mind is applied to the simple supplies of paint and brushes. When I observe a breathtaking scene in nature, my first thought is to share the beauty by recreating the path of light among the dainty leaves, bright flowers, and rushing waters. Although my paintings never capture the full splendor of the natural world, I am content if I am able to see just one person smile when viewing my creation. In adulthood, I plan to pass on this joy to students as I teach them the most effect techniques to depict the world around us. In order to pursue this dream of becoming an art teacher, I plan to attain a degree in art education and dedicate my life to sharing the joy of creating with the next generation.