“You are going to be creating… group films!” This announcement from our animation teacher, in my freshman year of college did not exactly elicit cheers from the class. Instead, 14 introverted artists glanced around the room at one another, worry on nearly every face, including my own. The thing is, I had always loved working with others. In high school, I went to Guatemala through a program where I and a team of others worked together to build a house for an underprivileged family. The year prior, my friends and I had teamed up to create an art exhibition for our school gallery. But working with someone else on an animated film was something I had never come close to doing. Animation was something I felt was my own. It was always in my control and as far as I knew, I liked it that way. Once we were split into groups, I was placed with two extremely talented, and unique artists. One, a character designer who could create simple but genius designers. The other, a 3D animator who didn’t draw at all! And me, a background designer and beginner 2D animator. Immediately my teammates threw around ideas. “Zombie apocalypse!” “Talking pizza!” “Killer moms!” I felt stunned. I have always been drawn to human stories about the little moments in life. Movies about simple stories that contain worlds of emotion, not talking pizza or killer moms. But I knew this was my chance to learn something from people who think differently from me, so I chimed in a vote for killer moms and it was settled. We decided to start by dividing work into our areas of expertise. I would design backgrounds, split animation with the character designer, and the other would animate a 3D sequence. This felt right. I happily designed my backgrounds and brought them into class to share. When the character designer presented his ideas, the whole class loved one of his designs. The colors were cool and bright pastel. The shapes were round and soft. It couldn’t have been more different from my background concepts; detailed with warm muted colors and sharp edges. “I also really like this design” I said truthfully pointing to his drawing. “I think working in this style would serve the story best”. The weeks that followed were some of the best of my freshman year. Late nights of the three of us trading ideas back and forth, cooking for each other in dorm rooms and meeting with our professor for feedback in the early mornings. I almost forgot that I had once worried I wouldn’t be able to connect to such a zany and comedic story. Every time one of them pitched a rocket launcher or a driving baby, I found myself loving the absurdity and even adding crazy ideas of my own. Similarly, I threw myself into the new art style. I felt our strengths bleed into one another's. I would notice the way my teammate animated with big sweeping motion and learned to do the same. I saw how our 3D animator asked me for advice on composition and how he taught our other teammate how to edit with After Effects. The day came to present our films on the big screen. Our class marveled at each other's talents. When mine came on, I was surprised to find myself marveling at my own. But more so, that I had helped create something so different from my usual style. And that it was something I genuinely loved. Both the process and the result. Killer moms and all.

Recently, I animated a short film titled “The King of Nothin’”. My dad has always told me stories about his rough early life and so I set out to explore what they meant to me. In the film, I contrast the way he retells these stories in the present, with my own faulty imagination of them happening in the past. I utilized skewed perspective, exaggerated colors and a paper cutout look to the characters to highlight my distorted point of view. The film takes place in Los Angeles, and features themes of attempted stardom and celebrity. Although my dad never became the rockstar he set out to be, the film exists to show that we are all the stars of our own stories depending on how we decide to tell them. Grainy textures and glitchy visuals helped cement his stories in a style evocative of old film. While his early life was filled with a plethora of struggles; addiction, neglect, and financially scraping by, I’m so inspired by his ability to find humor within these hard memories. Although the balance was difficult, I believe I found my own way to make space for both of these tones within the film. The desire for the Hollywood dream can be disappointing and vapid, but it reveals something deeper; a longing to be seen. I’m proud of this film because it does just that for my dad and hopefully for anyone else who gazes at the night sky, wishing to be a star.

When I first watched my favorite movie, Dead Poets Society, there was one quote that I knew would stick with me for a long time. It is when the incredible teacher, Mr. Keating tells his class: “ medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for” (Weir, 1989). As an artist, I have often struggled to feel as though my trade contributes to our society the way my stem-oriented peers do. However, when I reflect on the difficult times in my life, losing loved ones, struggling with my anxiety, and most recently; leaving home, I find that it’s my beloved media which has guided me through these moments the most. Like my favorite quote says, art is the reason we stay alive. It doesn’t matter how difficult a challenge may take over my life, because I can always find a way to escape into the stories that my favorite art provides. This is the reason I chose to pursue animation as my college major. Animation is undeniably beautiful to look at, but it’s also something more. To me, it’s a way to tell stories. To mirror my own experiences onto those of my characters and watch the fight to find the joys of life. It’s about translating my experience onto a screen so that other people can one day find the same comfort in my art that I have found in other people’s all my life. When we, as artists, use our craft to tell our stories, we remind others that we are here. If our lives lacked art, humanity would lose its age-old way of remembering itself. Art is representation, history, and activism. It shines a light on people so often forgotten by society. It brings attention to the lives, struggles, and emotions of those that textbooks might deem unimportant. When artists create work, they also cement their ideas as something worth remembering. We bring importance to our inner worlds rather than just the one happening outside our doors. Having struggled with mental health all my life, having an outlet to translate my own inner ecosystem into something beautiful, along with the ability to see so many other’s stories represented in their own ways has been the most freeing experience of my life. It reminds me that I am not alone, while also showing me that my life, however small and insignificant, is my own, an entirely unique story for me to share. So I cannot agree with Mr. Keating more. I have science and math to thank for most of the tools I use in my life. For the vehicle I drive and for the buildings I move through. But it's art that makes me excited to wake up each day and experience our complicated world. It’s art that reminds me that my simple existence can be beautiful and worth sharing. It connects me to those around me when we find we share the love of a creation. I am so proud to major in animation and learn each day how to effectively share my story. I hope all artists feel the same, because our craft makes a world worth living in.

It doesn’t matter that it’s a nightly tradition at my house, I never tire of the moment when I get to hop on the couch wrapped in a fuzzy blanket with a piece of cake, ready to embark on a new adventure. My family TV time is not only a loved practice for the three of us but has inspired my current goal of working in the animation industry. To me, art has always been about storytelling. Anyone from the third-grade class will recount with a groan how my friend and I spent every recess illustrating our own book series, Pip and Froggy. After that, it was comics that carpeted the floor of my room as I sketched out scenes from the chaos of middle school life. Now, I am drawn to the way a picture can dance across a screen, or clay can be moved one frame at a time to tell a story. As a lifelong creative, my artistic practice informs my outlook on life. On one hand, there are the technical abilities any great animator must master. So whether it's figure sketching on the train or plein air painting at the beach, I aim to constantly study from the life around me. This builds an immediate deeper connection between me and every place I go, as my perception of it is forever cemented in the sketchbooks I fill. It also motivates me to seek adventure as I jump at the chance to leave the house, always excited for unlikely subjects waiting to be discovered. On the other hand, it is narratives that drive any great piece of media. I collect stories daily from my own life like postcards, storing them in note apps and Google Docs on my phone. I jot down funny remarks overheard on the bus and deep conversations I’ve had with my parents. I sketch characters of the people I meet who are brimming with personality. Collecting these stories reminds me to look up from my sketchbook every now and then. It compels me to take risks and meet new people because I never know what may become my next inspiration. Taking risks has been a particularly important part of my artistic journey. It is with this skill that I learned to let my art be seen, an inevitable part of being a creator. When I started high school, my art was something I hid away from prying eyes. I was ashamed of every imperfection and self-conscious of my weird stories. In 10th grade, four other artists and I decided to collaborate on a huge mural for our school art show. Although we faced setbacks, and communication issues, in the end, we completed the project. The support I received from my teachers and peers inspired me to show my solo work at gallery shows for my remaining years of high school. Through this work, I told my own stories. I presented digital paintings of places in my life, often with an added magic touch. When I share my work, my hands still sweat and my voice still shakes, but it gets a little bit easier every time. As this year's Film and Media Arts Festival rolls around, I am excited to be submitting animation for the first time. I hope that someone in the crowd may look at my humble beginnings and feel a resemblance to the joy I get every night with my family in front of my TV. That magical moment when I watch a drawing come alive before my eyes and marvel at the cross between art and storytelling.

“Are you a lesbian?” My friend asked playfully. He was on the phone with me as I drew fanart of my favorite queer ship on the show She-Ra and the Princess of Power. “No, I’m not” I responded, questioning the smile that crept onto my face. Somehow, the fact that I told no lie didn't comfort me in the way it should have. I often felt in my early years of high school, that every passive comment about how pretty an actress or girl in my class was, served as a plea for someone to ask if I liked girls. Yet when they did, it was never in a way that made it easy to answer. This was my bisexual struggle. In the days before my coming out, I rarely felt like I saw bisexuality in the media I watched with my parents or friends. If anything, it was a passing joke in Curb Your Enthusiasm or an unaddressed subtext in an old movie. Instead, I turned to what I found to be a reliable source of representation, queer cartoons. Cartoons made for queer people by queer people, and colorful as the hair of their characters, portrayed the rainbow in all its many fluid and fascinating shades. Luz Noceda, Disney's first certified bisexual appeared in The Owl House in 2020. As I watched the show from the comfort of quarantine, I realized that there would always be a place in cartoons for my community. If Luz could create magic, befriend witches, and fight titans, how is it at all implausible for her to have a crush on her friend Amity? How is it unimaginable for them to date and simultaneously save the world? Turning to my love for cartoons as I learned of my sexuality mirrored another recent self-discovery I was having at the time, I love making art. In fact, I had realized that I loved it more than anything else in the world, except maybe for storytelling. At one point the struggle to identify which one of these passions I should pursue caught me at the same crossroads as my sexuality. Of course, with both conundrums, I realized I didn’t have to choose. I could like any gender under the sun, and as far as my passions went, animation almost called out to me, reminding me of a space where art and storytelling coincide. I entered into 12th grade, a newly out individual ready to commit to my dreams as I started the process of college applications. Many schools asked why I wanted to pursue the major I did. I began to reflect on the space animation had always provided for me, writing out in detail the ways that these shows provided a world where anything was possible. How queer people seem to flock towards the arts perhaps glad for a canvas as blank and full of possibilities as we feel humans should be. The community of queer artists and storytellers solidified my need to come out. They spoke to me through their tales and reminded me that if I continued down my desired path, there would always be a place for me in animation, if not anywhere else. Today, I am thankful for the support I have received from friends and family and the safe space the art community has provided me with. No matter what stories I choose to tell, I know I’m going to pack them full of the beautiful people and communities the media fails to represent all too often and share stories I would have needed before coming out.

It doesn’t matter that it’s a nightly tradition at my house, I never tire of the moment when I get to hop on the couch wrapped in a fuzzy blanket with a piece of cake, ready to embark on a new adventure. My family TV time is not only a loved practice for the three of us but has inspired my current goal of working in the animation industry. To me, art has always been about storytelling. Anyone from my third-grade class will recount with a groan how my friend and I spent every recess illustrating our own book series, Pip and Froggy. After that, it was comics that carpeted the floor of my room as I sketched out scenes from the chaos of middle school life. Now, I am drawn to the way a picture can dance across a screen, or clay can be moved one frame at a time to tell a story. As a lifelong creative, my artistic practice informs my outlook on life. On one hand, there are the technical abilities any great animator must master. So whether it's figure sketching on the train or plein air painting at the beach, I aim to constantly study from the life around me. This builds an immediate deeper connection between me and every place I go, as my perception of it is forever cemented in the sketchbooks I fill. It also motivates me to seek adventure as I jump at the chance to leave the house, always excited for unlikely subjects waiting to be discovered. On the other hand, it is narratives that drive any great piece of media. I collect stories daily from my own life like postcards, storing them in note apps and Google Docs on my phone. I jot down funny remarks overheard on the bus and deep conversations I’ve had with my parents. I sketch characters of the people I meet who are brimming with personality. Collecting these stories reminds me to look up from my sketchbook every now and then. It compels me to take risks and meet new people because I never know what may become my next inspiration. Taking risks has been a particularly important part of my artistic journey. It is with this skill that I learned to let my art be seen, an inevitable part of being a creator. When I started high school, my art was something I hid away from prying eyes. I was ashamed of every imperfection and self-conscious of my weird stories. In 10th grade, four other artists and I decided to collaborate on a huge mural for our school art show. Although we faced setbacks, and communication issues, in the end, we completed the project. The support I received from my teachers and peers inspired me to show my solo work at gallery shows for my remaining years of high school. Through this work, I told my own stories. I presented digital paintings of places in my life, often with an added magic touch. When I share my work, my hands still sweat and my voice still shakes, but it gets a little bit easier every time. As this year's Film and Media Arts Festival rolls around, I am excited to be submitting animation for the first time. I hope that someone in the crowd may look at my humble beginnings and feel a resemblance to the joy I get every night with my family in front of my TV. That magical moment when I watch a drawing come alive before my eyes and marvel at the cross between art and storytelling.

Sure I’ll admit it, I had my doubts about Bojack Horseman. Convinced that it would be just another adult cartoon with average cheap laughs and lazy art, I reluctantly started it upon my dad’s recommendation. Looking back, however, I should have trusted him from the start, after all we’re both artists and if there’s anything we love it’s a well-done cartoon. The show’s protagonist of the same name is a washed-up celebrity living in Los Angeles and trying to search for happiness and a reason for self-improvement. Upon starting the show, it was a little like I expected, with lots of visual gags and unconventional-looking characters. Quickly, however, these characters began to acquire… depth. I felt almost thrust into a world that explores addiction, depression, issues within the entertainment industry. I noticed that the writing was genius. Yes, the animal puns were fun (did I mention Bojack is a horse person living among humans and other animal people?), but what really stood out were quotes such as “When you look at someone through rose-colored glasses, all the red flags just look like flags” (Season 2, Episode 10). The show is littered with phrases like these that can single-handedly make me look at the world in a different light. As someone who plans to go into animation and hopes to work on my own projects and stories one day, I looked towards Bojack Horseman to reimagine what an animated show could be. My biggest takeaway was that the ability to represent emotions genuinely doesn’t depend on complete realism or any universal idea of what an emotional show should be. I’m sure many would dismiss Bojack Horseman before seeing it due to an assumption that a talking horse will only provide constant gags and absurdity. I think, however, that this can be a lesson in itself. Art is what you make of it. Art has the power to bring any emotion the artist can to any subject possible. It is an ability to twist reality while representing and making a statement on our own. The wackiness of the show only makes its messages stand truer. The human desire to fit in and find happiness despite no singular answer on how to do so is so universal that it can be portrayed through cartoon animal people living in a Hollywood satire world. Bojack Horseman has had a tremendous impact on my own art. After my first viewing, I started playing around more with concepts and colors. I started wanting to experiment with style and mood and found myself asking why I thought things had to be a certain way. I began to examine the world around me less literally and found meaning in monotonous moments. Most importantly, Bojack Horseman taught me to look at art as an interpretation of reality rather than a copy of it, and for that, I will always look towards it as one of my favorite pieces of work to exist.

I open the car door to the piercing evening sun and the barely crisp fall air of Los Angeles in October. It is Wednesday and I am happy for two reasons, one, I am headed to my weekly art class at Santa Monica College, and two, I am grabbing Starbucks beforehand. Although I am excited, this is not a rare event, but a weekly one. My mom agreed to make getting Starbucks with me a tradition before all my Wednesday classes. Recently, I have been ordering the Iced Pumpkin Cream Chai Tea Latte, a fall favorite. This drink is sweet with a spiced kick and pumpkin cold foam to top it off. It makes me feel as many positive emotions as the words in its name. As we get out of the car my mom and I continue our conversation. This week it’s about movies, but I can never predict what topic will come up on the drive, because it’s an evening class, the end-of-day feeling often leaves me sentimental. We have had some emotional talks while driving to Starbucks and then to Santa Monica College, drinks in hand. I’m a slow drinker, which means I’m always only about a fourth through my Venti by the time we reach my class. I also drink my latte especially slowly on class days, because the best part is having it at hand while I draw. As I do every week, I heave my giant sketchpad out of the car, carefully balancing my drink on top of it. I say goodbye to my mom and perform my ultimate balancing act as I walk across campus. Every time, It’s astoundingly successful. As I walk into the classroom, I set my drink down by the easel. The floor is made of stone and marked with years of pencil scratches so I don’t have to worry about the ring of water that gathers at the bottom of the cold cup over time. This floor has seen it all. My class lasts three hours, the drink is usually around for two. That’s when I really go to my happy place. We begin sketching figures from the live model. We draw standing up and the poses can be long. I am never anything less than grateful to have my fall-flavored coffee at my feet, ready to pick me back up when I start to feel tired. In the hot stuffy classroom, the coffee runs cold through my body and the spices keep me awake. It brings a smile to my face as I resume the peaceful act of etching away on huge pieces of paper. It may seem like a small thing, but it helps my drawing a lot. The excitement of looking forward to a simple pleasure and time spent with my mom delights my brain and my heart. Having an energy boost, a sweet, caffeinated iced latte, helps my body when it starts to feel sore. Both of these things contribute to my creativity as I feel more free to experiment as my mental and physical well-being is all taken care of. My drawing class would genuinely not feel the same without this drink, and for that, it is my favorite.

My name is Ani. I have been an artist since I could first pick up a paintbrush, and the need to create hasn’t left me alone since. Art and storytelling have always been what I am most passionate about. The ability to present ideas and messages through beautiful mediums like animation never fails to stun me and remind me why I work hard for my goals. I want to go into the animation industry because I believe it’s a beautiful way to tell stories that important stories that need to be heard. As I watched the show Arcane for the first time, I stared wide-eyed at the most beautiful colors, compositions, and character designs I had ever seen. I felt like the characters grabbed me by the color and yanked me into my TV. Each shot was a masterpiece. I also noticed the complexity of the story. I reflected on the class differences and oppression present in our society which the show reflected. This strong reaction is common for me when presented with this medium. From cartoons to incredible stop motion, media that is made up of art just always seems to be so thought out. Each Disney movie still makes me cry, not just from nostalgia but because of the ways they promote messages of kindness and inclusion by creating worlds that kids can enjoy. As well as consuming art, making it is something I do every day. Whether it’s sketching on public transportation, spending hours perfecting a painting’s many details, or animating my first short film, I happily dedicate hours of every day to this craft. My first iPad, which I saved up for after 10th grade, opened up so many possibilities. The world of digital art was vast and I fell in love with my new favorite medium. Most importantly it allowed me to move my art, frame by frame, and watch it come alive on the screen. My dream would be to one day create my own animated movie or show. I believe that now more than ever, the media we consume plays a huge role in how we go about our daily lives. I hope to use my art and story ideas to make media that promotes strong messages and highlights problems such as climate change and the need for Social Justice. I plan to take the approach of highlighting beauty in what I believe is important to preserve, something I love to do in my art now. To help me get there, going to art school is my current goal. I believe the skills I would learn and the connections I would make would put me on the perfect track to my animation career dreams! Because I love to draw, write, storyboard, and animate, my dream is to share my own ideas through stories. I believe that now more than ever, the media we consume plays a huge role in how we go about our daily lives. If I can manage to create media that reinforces my beliefs, for example, that acceptance, intellect, and a willingness to learn are all crucial to building a better world, then I will feel as though I have made the mark I am meant to make.

“Pamcasso!” I grinned as my best friend walked beaming into my art show. I couldn’t believe he was going along with the bit I asked him to do, he didn’t even watch my favorite show! As I hugged him, however, I knew it didn’t matter, Pam Beesly has helped shape who I am today, and she is a small part of the lives of all who know me whether they know it or not. When I first started watching The Office with my family, I was in 8th grade. I was underconfident, anxious, and starting to fall in love, not with a shaggy-haired prankster sitting across from me, but with making art. Naturally, amidst the hilarity of Dwight and Micheal’s awkward dynamics and Jim’s iconic looks to camera, Pam’s quiet plight for happiness called to me. I wanted her to escape her toxic relationship and to stop letting Micheal belittle her. Most of all, I wanted her to express her passions instead of sitting behind the Dunder Mifflin reception desk. As TV-family time continued at my house, I watched Pam bloom. She left Roy, she confronted Jim, and most subtly, she wasn’t the underconfident person she once was. Pam’s comedic style began to change as well. No longer was she always the offended reactor, but she started to embrace the same goofy nature as the show’s ensemble. As she found humor, she found fun and family amidst the same people whom she once hid among. It was at this time that I started to change too. I started to drop friendships that no longer seemed to favor my happiness and make ones who celebrated my absurdity. Like Pam, however, I was still underconfident in my art which resided in sketchbooks only for my own eyes. It was then that COVID-19 hit, and school resumed online. In this isolating environment, I found myself not relating to Dunder Mifflin, but envying it. I knew the jobs were dry and the work uninteresting, but all I wanted was to be around people again. The Office never failed to make me feel hopeful. It convinced me that although the workplace is not designed around creativity, well-being, or friendships, we have the power to make a space our own. Each character serves as a reminder that our wackiest qualities should not be hidden, but embraced, if not for ourselves, then for the joy of making a space that supports all our unique personalities. By the time school was back in person, I was different. Like later seasons Pam, I felt supported by those I loved, and for the first time in a while, that included myself. By this point, I had long since finished The Office and then finished it again. Ok, one more time for good measure. It seemed Pam’s art journey was all that was left to mirror mine. I was awestruck by the ways she continued to pursue her passion, no matter how much people put her down for it. Whether it was her making the decision to quit art school, or dealing with someone spray painting butts on her mural, she kept creating. As I, myself, improved, I began to participate in art shows at my school each year. There I would have to speak about my work to a room full of people I knew. While I never would have done this years ago, I felt like it was time. Pam Beesly had taught me that I had nothing to apologize for. That there is no space I don’t belong in. For that, she will always be my favorite character.