Tears of joy terrify me. I know how to comfort someone going through loss; I know how to mend or soothe wounds; I know how to deal with an argument… But tears of grief, joy, and amazement combined into one explosion of emotion? Confounding. My artwork has made people react in that way before. 9 times, actually. At least, that I know of. (Yes, I keep count. That’s how much it shocks me.) I remember the first time it happened clearly: The woman, let’s call her Laura, was friends with my mom and had seen my work through her, so she messaged me to commission a painting of her dog who had passed away. At this point I had a lot of schoolwork keeping me busy, but still accepted the job. She had a sweet face (the dog) and a lot of light, curly hair that was an absolute pain to paint using watercolor, but somehow I managed— only after slaving over it for days, letting layer after layer of paint dry. Once it was ready, we set a time for her to pick it up. I was at my grandmother’s house for Friday night dinner and she dropped by. I walked outside with the precious painting carefully tucked into a padded yellow envelope and passed it into her waiting hands. As she slid the paper from the envelope, tears welled in her eyes. And she cried. She hugged me, cried some more, then talked about her dog. I’d never felt that way before. It made me uncomfortable. Not in a bad way, but also not in a good way. Just unsettled. I knew what I‘d done was important and made a difference. It made me feel very proud of myself, my work, and its impact on Laura— But then she handed me the envelope filled with even more cash than the price I had asked for. The guilt landed a punch to my gut. I felt like a terrible person for asking Laura to pay me for what essentially was a reminder of her late pet’s death. It felt like handing her fake emotions, a false gift. I should give her this painting out of the kindness of my heart, insist it was free. She’d gone through enough already, so who was I to ask her to pay for it? Shouldn’t I do it because it made a difference in someone’s life? Shouldn’t I do it in charity? Then I remember the struggle, the hours of frustration trying to get the painting absolutely perfect for her. Why? Was it for money? Praise? No, no. It was for the sparkle in Laura’s eyes as she told me a story about the stubborn hair always sticking out over her dog’s eye, captured in my painting without me realizing the significance. Art doesn’t imitate life—it becomes a part of it. My stoic friend burst into tears at the sight of his late mother brought back to life from a grainy image to a token of her beauty. A woman passing by my chalk mural has wiped teardrops from her cheeks. My painting immortalized a grandmother and a three-year old boy on the stairway to heaven, which now hangs in their living room. My work made a positive impact on those 9 people (and counting). Yes, I was the cause of those tears, but it wasn’t wrong. Their tears were happy, and I was okay with that. That’s my purpose: To not only induce tears of joy, but smiles, laughter, nostalgia, and wonder through my work. I can never feel guilty for that.

Those who claim that digital art is “cheating” are severely misguided. A great teacher of mine once said, “Digital art is not a replacement for the basics or skill. It is simply a tool—an avenue for artistic possibility.” I began as a traditional artist, as most have, but transitioned to digital when I started watching speedpaints on YouTube. My art career started at the age of 13, when I began using the talents I was given to make a little money here and there. At first only family members bought my artwork, but soon friends and even strangers began to commission me or offer to buy paintings. I soon realized how much I adored doing art, and decided that it would be my future career not long after. That vision has not changed, but rather evolved in its appearance. At first I wanted to do character concept art, then gallery work, then freelance illustration, then character art again, and now anything! All I know is that in whatever field I go into, as long as I can create art and make others happy, I will be satisfied. I want to succeed and be one of the best I am in my field. And that takes courage, hard work, and discipline. I am choosing to pursue a career in the arts because it challenges and stimulates me. I have been working every day since I was 13 (and even younger) to improve my skills, my character, and my creative mind. I write, I act, I draw, and paint. I pursue an artistic lifestyle in every aspect of my life. I began digital art around the age of 14-15 and immediately fell in love. The use of digital media opened an avenue of new possibilities for not only how my art could look, but where I could do it. Instead of being confined to my studio at home, I could draw on the airplane, in the car, or waiting for my parents to pick me up from school. Everything changed. Since then, the majority of my casual or formal art is down digitally on my tablet. I have delved in character design, expression, illustration, and digital painting. I feel that digital art is an avenue of possibility for the future of arts, design, and digital media. The possibilities are endless in this realm, much the same as with any of the arts. We have to stick with the times. Instead of rejecting new forms of media, we should embrace and celebrate them as an evolution of human artistry and understanding. It can change lives. Through the next few years of college and beyond, it is my goal to share my artistic vision with the world via digital artworks.

For most of my educational career, I have been “the new kid.” I have been to 4 high schools, 3 middle schools, and 2 elementary schools. However, for many years of my academic life, I have been the “new kid who made a difference.” The pandemic was rough on my high school experience. During 2020, as a freshman, I switched schools twice while on hybrid schedules. This meant I had no connections, no community, and barely any friends. I am a very social person, but for the first time in my life I felt afraid to get to know anyone. Walking down the halls with masked faces, eyes peering through hair, chains dividing the halls in half, and desks separated… terrified me. I didn’t make a single friend. I transferred to the next school not too far away (for mental health and safety reasons) where a few friends attended. I settled back into a routine. While I still felt out of place and overwhelmed, I was satisfied. I liked the second school enough that I was prepared to graduate from there. I would survive. Then my parents made me switch again in my junior year. I was furious. I thought I had been done being “the new kid.” I thought I had found my place. I was comfortable Then a shy girl shuffled up to me and pointed at my pop socket on my phone as her friends shoved her forward with encouraging smiles. “Hi,” she said. “Is that Baby Yoda?” I nodded. “Oh my gosh,” she gasped, “I love Star Wars!” And that was the blossoming of a beautiful friendship. We began talking, and it turned out we had a mutual childhood friend in my hometown, and had even met once for a play date when we were 5 years old. The rest is history. Throughout the year and until present day I grew closer with that group of friends. They have healed a hole bored inside me from always being that “new kid.” Switching schools ended up being the greatest thing that has happened to me since the pandemic. At this school, though it was a 35 minute commute to get there, it was worth it. Coming to a school with people who shared my interests and values, though I had struggled to find my place at previous schools, gave me opportunity to truly shine as myself with a fresh start. If I hadn’t had my experiences I’d being the new kid, I would not have been able to find my way in a social life. I would not have been able to learn my strengths and weaknesses, nor recognize who would be good for me. I’ve loved and learned through these experiences, and I cannot wait to be a new kid again in college.

It has been said that “art imitates life”— but I believe that art enhances it. Plein air painting or other forms of from-life artworks are a beautiful example of this. Every artist views the world in a unique way, whether that be in color, shape, order, or expression. Through different styles of realism, impressionist, stylism, cubism, or modernist, different artists could portray the same place as something astonishingly their own. Experience is relative, as is perception. I use the world around me, as does every other artist, to enhance my artworks. While on a hike in autumn, I consider the light filtering through the falling leaves, and how they join the dappled sunlight across the forest floor. Sitting in class, I consider my classmate’s side profile, the gentle slope of their nose. I stumble upon a doe’s skeleton in the forest, picked clean by crow cawing it’s mourning call from the branches above. Or perhaps my imaginations run wild as I’m driving in the early hours of the morning, with the horizon just beginning to blush peach as the stars disappear from view. My art portrays the beautiful cycle of life, humans, and nature, because that is what I see in my surroundings. I take these observations and my perception of them with me into my studio, onto the paper, and delicately displayed upon a canvas. I portray my perception of life, just as millions of artists have done before me. It’s the human legacy, and thus the blessing of the artist to be able to share our experience just as an author writes poetry.

Tears of joy terrify me. I know how to comfort someone going through loss; I know how to mend or soothe wounds; I know how to deal with an argument… But tears of grief, joy, and amazement combined into one explosion of emotion? Confounding. I say this because my artwork has made people react in that way before. Many times, actually. I remember the first time it happened clearly: The woman, let’s call her Laura, was Facebook friends with my mom and had seen my work through her posts, so she messaged me to commission a painting of her dog who had just passed away. She had a sweet face (the dog) and a lot of light, curly hair that was an absolute pain to paint using watercolor, but somehow I managed— only after slaving over it for days, letting layer after layer of paint dry. Once it was ready, we set a time for her to pick it up. I was at my grandmother’s house for Friday night dinner and she dropped by. I walked outside with the precious painting carefully tucked into a padded yellow envelope and passed it into her waiting hands. As she slid the paper from the envelope, tears welled in her eyes. And she cried. She hugged me, cried some more, then began to talk about her dog. I’d never felt the way I felt at that moment before. It made me uncomfortable. Not in a bad way, but also not in a good way. Just unsettled. I knew what I was doing had been important and made a difference. It made me feel very proud of myself, my work, and its impact on Laura— But then she handed me the envelope filled with even more cash than the price I had asked for. That’s when the guilt landed a punch to my gut. I felt like a terrible person for asking Laura to pay for what essentially was a reminder of her late pet’s death. It felt like handing her fake emotions, a false gift. I should just give her this painting out of the kindness of my heart. She’d gone through enough already, so who was I to ask her to pay for it? Shouldn’t I do it because it made a difference in someone’s life? Shouldn’t I do it out of charity? Then I remember the struggle, the hours of frustration trying to get the painting absolutely perfect for her. Why? Was it for money or praise? No, no. It was for the happy sparkle in Laura’s eyes as she told me a story about the stubborn hair that would always stick out over her dog’s left eye, which I captured in my painting without realizing the significance. Art doesn’t imitate life—it becomes a part of it. My stoic friend burst into tears at the sight of his late mother brought back to life from a grainy image to a token of her beauty. A woman passing by my chalk mural has wiped teardrops from her cheeks. My painting immortalized a grandmother and a three-year old boy taken too soon on the stairway to heaven, which now hangs in their living room. My work made a positive impact on those 9 people (and counting). Yes, I was the cause of those tears, but it wasn’t wrong. Their tears were happy, and I was okay with that. It’s the collaboration of soul, compassion, and appreciation that really makes art count for something. It’s not just artists who collaborate, but those who are affected by it. You cannot have one without the other.