I am Ella Hanhan, an undergraduate sophomore in the Bachelor of Fine Arts program at the University of Minnesota. I’ve been making art since I was young any way I could, and around the age of 15, I received art supplies that belonged to my great-grandmothers. Their old, worn oil pastels, boxes of stiff charcoal, smudged sketchbooks, and the pigmented watercolor tubes inspired me to continue making art and to work hard to improve my skills. All those supplies and more became incorporated into my work. I picked up acrylic painting, digital drawing, animating, sculpting, collage, playing viola, playing guitar, choreographing, abstract painting, all of which have played a role in my craft. I enjoy my slightly odd creations, with their emphasis on what makes us weird and the deconstruction of mind and body. Creating has become a core portion of my being. I live for it. As I’ve recovered from my depression throughout the years, I’ve begun to realize that I have to chase what I value and what makes me feel alive. I’ve never felt more alive than I do when I am throwing paint onto a canvas, working to place my emotions onto the page. A recent experience related to my art-making was my first experience with abstraction a few weeks ago. Sean Garrison, a Minneapolis-based artist who creates massive abstract paintings, attended a study I participated in for the past six weeks. This study concerns how artistic involvement can help improve one’s mental state, so he arrived in a room of 20 undergraduate students, some of whom hadn’t interacted with artwork since they were children. Sean Garrison explained how abstract painting connects him to his emotions more, how it is fundamentally freeing, and how the spontaneity of it all feels more deeply authentic. I hadn’t tried this painting form before, but I started slathering the shades of pink and orange on the canvas without hesitation. I bathed my hands in the vivid hues before smearing my feelings onto the canvas. Eyes took form, bright roots to the bottom of the canvas, figures standing in a line, handprints, and a star. I felt that childlike joy. My hair swept back from my face, my mouth aching from a smile. After college, I hope to operate as a curator for art museums. Traveling to find other artists and evaluate their work, taking inspiration, and hearing the stories of others before returning home to my work is my dream occupation. I’m taking solid steps to get there- I hope to have a display in an on-campus gallery by the end of May, and I’m filling out applications to intern at the Minneapolis Institute of Art. Most recently, I submitted my portfolio to the Bachelor of Fine Arts program and got accepted! Additionally, I will have the abstract painting I have described on display in the spring. I’m very optimistic about what the future holds, and I’m willing to work hard to make my dreams become reality.

In my final year of high school, I took a psychology course where we briefly discussed mental illnesses. My teacher informed our class in a solemn voice that mental health is not a joke and that mental illness can negatively impact people. 'Half of it is genetic,' she said, 'and half is due to environmental factors.' I sat towards the back of the class with my Sertraline prescription number written on my forearm with a reminder to call my pharmacist by the end of the day. The girl to my left leaned over and gave a snarky comment about her experience with anxiety. My mother started experiencing depression in middle school. It stayed with her like a nasty bruise until halfway through college. Her parents fought and clashed until they filed for a long-needed divorce. She informed me in a hushed voice that she felt such shame about it, not understanding why her mind was so fixated on such uncontrollable sorrow from such a young age. My mother has fought long and hard for recovery and supported my journey. Once I started middle school, she told me she would help if I started feeling sad for no reason for too long. Feelings come and go; a lack of change is worse than the alternative. When I turned sixteen, my high school shut down. My friends kept in contact somewhat, but the events became more tiring, the calls too long. Leaving my room became difficult, almost painful, when I had nowhere to go. My mom was the first one to check in, asking if I thought I was depressed. I nodded. She hugged me and said she would help me find a therapist. Managing my symptoms entailed a learning curve that relied on understanding myself first and the rest of the world second. Making my bed was difficult, so I broke it up into pieces and slept under a single blanket instead of two. I felt proud of my problem-solving ability, even though expectations indicated I shouldn't need it to make my bed. Positivity is allowed to feel forced. Its existence is required regardless of its ease. I started drawing more, enjoyed long walks with my dog, and discovered that I liked different pronouns. Halfway through my first college semester, I made a few resolutions. One was avoiding calorie counts, and another was to reach out whenever I felt the same sedimentary sickness worming its way back into the center of my life. I designed the first to discourage eating disorders, and the second to allow others to help me when needed. I'm proud to say I've developed a support system at my college, I have beneficial coping mechanisms to manage and divert my depression, and I can lead a life in which I am happy. I take after my mother, and I fight for my success.

There’s a saying in the art world, that you need to know the rules of art to break them. This general rule prevents meaning from being converted to prettiness, beauty to an easily ignored concept. Learning the rules may be far more difficult than breaking them for some, including me, yet the reward of understanding contains a significant value. I grew up drawing. My parents have never been artistically inclined, but two of my great-grandmothers were, and as such, I inherited much of their supplies. The keystones I was provided with as a preteen were two watercolor sets, with their bright hues packed in a box. Included in this gift were sketchbooks, some of which held drawings from my great-grandmother on my father’s side. There were color charts, sketches of graphite trees, landscapes in pale shades of blue and orange. I have never met my great-grandmother, but looking at those pieces of art showing me true beauty, there was no doubt in my mind that I would love her, and that she loved me. Now, the acquisition of motivation and supplies did not cancel out my lack of skills and knowledge. Through the help of my few art classes and many, many hours spent watching professional artists recording their process and general tips throughout high school, I grew in my usage of watercolor and branched out to other mediums; gouache, acrylics, and charcoal. My chaotic learning style became comprehensible, my art became an object of skill. So went the first half of high school. The second half was underlined with fear and anxiety, disease and isolation. I went into lockdown with enough technical skills, but too little knowledge of myself and my mind to create with confidence and conviction. I developed moderate to severe Major Depressive Disorder a few months after COVID began. Pulling myself out was a gradual process, a painful one at that. My saving grace came in the form of those same watercolors. Escaping into the simple rhythm of brushstrokes, mixing colors, discovering how far was too far... It was a cathartic release of the anxiety and constant turmoil around me. A release in whatever form my mind would take it. I am proud of my work now, prouder than I have ever been of myself. I am now an art major, applying for the Bachelor of Fine Arts program at the University of Minnesota. I use my art to express myself, all of my beauty and pain, my experiences and things I have yet to experience. As a largely self-taught artist, the educational aspect of art is a privilege I am in awe of every day. Going to a classroom with like-minded students and watching their creativity grow is a motivation like no other. I plan to teach students someday, as an art professor. I want to encourage students, to watch as they achieve expression and beauty in their purest forms. To watch as they learn the rules, and how to break them.