As I've solidified myself in the pursuit of an education and career in the arts, a question I have begrudgingly become familiar with is just that: "Why art?" I could have been a doctor discovering the cure for cancer or the head of an aspiring corporation but I chose art; why? While I have detested the question ever since I first heard it, I believe this repetition has forced me to internalize it and ask it for myself in recent years, instilling a certain sense of doubt and worry in my mind that perhaps I have been misled and overly optimistic. From a young age, rereading the children´s books that filled my bookshelves, I found much solace in art. I replicated what I saw with cheap sketchbooks and markers and, after time, hoped to one day be alongside the artists creating for the public's viewing pleasure. As I've matured, my interests have changed but it is undeniable that my goal never has. Instead, I've only found more reasons that I believe art to be a worthy career, no matter the uncertainty and hardship that come with it. I don't believe there is anything I could see myself doing besides creating. My art has been influenced by many artists however I take much inspiration from the work of painters and illustrators such as J.C. Leyendecker, Gerda Wegener, Gary Kelley, and Kerry James Marshall; all artists whose work aims to tell stories of people from all walks of life, historical and modern. This motive is one that I specifically have taken to heart in my own work and hope to achieve when I tell stories of my own. There is an undeniable disparity in representation that continues to be found in the modern art industry and I believe that it is important to diversify the stories being told for viewers to see themselves in. Art, of course, extends far past cartoons on bookstore shelves. It is the cause of revolution and innovation. It is a byproduct of change and ideology. It incites emotion, violence, and inspiration. There is nothing more versatile in its influence than art in all of the many forms it has and will forevermore continue to take on. In many ways, I wholeheartedly believe the world we know today would not and could not exist without its presence. The world keeps changing and so too will artistic endeavors as it does. There has been plenty of fear about the state of the industry at this given time and what is to come in the future with the rise of artificial intelligence and theft that has succeeded in convincing even the most perceptive of individuals of images and realities that simply aren't there. Layoffs and disregard towards artists and their work have disheartened many professional creatives. I believe that now, more than ever, the world needs artists; their visions, their voices, their passion. That´s why I am committed to my craft. I refuse to stand by in a world that throws aside personal and passionate creations in exchange for that without heart or vision. I want to be able to inspire the next generation of young artists the same way I once was inspired by publishing my own work. I hope that my efforts in pursuing this passion of mine won't be for naught and that I will, in some way, make a difference. Whether that be through spreading a message, inspiring others, or showing that there is success to be made, I am ready for it.

For as long as I can remember, I've loved to draw. While other interests only remained fads, soon passing as I grew up, drawing is one of the few that truly stuck. With cheap sketchbooks and markers, I would draw to my heart's content, often replicating the cartoons I saw on my television screen and envisioning myself in the future as a creator of such media. I did not care that my drawings were primitive and unpolished; I drew only for myself and was perfectly content with that. While I have artistically grown greatly over the years, there are many times where I find myself feeling unsatisfied. In an academic setting, surrounded by plenty of talented creatives, I often compare myself with others--nitpicking and tearing down my own work in favor of others'. Similarly, posting on social media as is necessary for reaching audiences and possible employers forces me to attribute likes and engagement with success. It is times like this that I will often look back at my younger self for inspiration--unburdened with outside pressures and able to draw without care for others' opinions. I have realized in recent years that I truly feel my most creative when I am able to let go and become that little girl once again. Though not as literally, considering my skills and interests have dramatically improved since then, being able to embody that carefree attitude about my work has allowed me to more freely experiment and find my voice in what I create. In a way, it has also helped me rediscover my connection to art--why I started, and why I am on this journey--in times of uncertainty. As an aspiring illustrator and cartoonist, my work is heavily reliant on telling stories. Though these stories can be virtually anything, my interests have most strongly stuck with telling the stories of real people, or, at the very least people that others can relate to. There is and has always been a disparity in the art industry when it comes to representation of minorities--whether that be in the employment of artists or the work created for public consumption. While much progress has been made as of late, there are still countless issues that remain when it comes to women, people of color, and those with disabilities having their voices heard in their respective fields. I feel that this, in part, has impacted my devotion to portraying 'real' people in my work. This has manifested itself in comic characters I make, paintings I have done and even self portraits. By depicting my own experiences and the experiences of those around me--directly or indirectly--it is my hope that someone out there may be able to see themselves in some way and get inspired to do the same. There has been plenty of fear about the state of the industry at this given time and what is to come in the future with the rise of artificial intelligence and widespread layoffs. I believe that now, more than ever, the world needs artists; their visions, their voices, their passion. That´s why I am committed to my craft. I refuse to stand by in a world that throws aside personal and passionate creations in exchange for that without heart or vision. I want to be able to inspire the next generation of young artists the same way I once was inspired in my childhood. I am hopeful that my efforts in pursuing this passion of mine won't be for naught and that I will, in some way, make a difference. It would be an honor to win this scholarship.

Being a first-generation college student, it is undeniable that pursuing an arts degree was not the path my parents would initially have in mind. Rather than pursuing something that could earn me a hefty salary like law or medicine, I chose what many would consider 'just a hobby.' While my family has eventually come to support my endeavors, the question of why I decided to pursue visual art--particularly, illustration and cartooning--is something that has stuck with me for years. Naturally, such questioning would manifest itself into uncertainties about my goals and aspirations--many of which I feared could steer me off my path. From a young age, rereading the children´s books that filled my bookshelves, I found much solace in art. I replicated what I saw with cheap sketchbooks and markers and, after time, hoped to one day be alongside the artists creating for the public's viewing pleasure. As I've matured, my interests have changed but it is undeniable that my goal never has. Instead, I've only found more reasons that I believe art to be a worthy career, no matter the uncertainty and hardship that come with it. I don't believe there is anything I could see myself doing besides creating. It is the reason I auditioned for and attended the High School of Art and Design and, now, the School of Visual Arts. It is the reason I decided to become a representative for my school on our senior committee. It is the reason I have won awards from the School Art League and the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards. I have allowed art to involve itself in every aspect of my life and I would like it to remain that way. Art, of course, extends far past cartoons on bookstore shelves. It is the cause of revolution and innovation. It is a byproduct of change and ideology. It incites emotion, violence, and inspiration. There is nothing more versatile in its influence than art in all of the many forms it has and will forevermore continue to take on. In many ways, I wholeheartedly believe the world we know today would not and could not exist without its presence. The world keeps changing and so too will the artistic endeavors of creatives inhabiting it as it does. There has been plenty of fear about the state of the industry at this given time and what is to come in the future with the rise of artificial intelligence and theft that has succeeded in convincing even the most perceptive of individuals of images and realities that simply aren't there. Layoffs and disregard towards artists and their passion projects by higher-ups have disheartened many hard workers that there is no future for them in their field of interest. I believe that now, more than ever, the world needs artists; their visions, their voices, their passion. That´s why I am committed to my craft. I refuse to stand by in a world that throws aside personal and passionate creations in exchange for that without heart or vision. I want to be able to inspire the next generation of young artists the same way I once was inspired by publishing my own work. I hope that my efforts in pursuing this passion of mine won't be for naught and that I will, in some way, make a difference. Whether that be through spreading a message, inspiring others, or showing that there is success to be made, I am ready for it. It is my hope that this scholarship will be able to aid my studies and make these dreams a reality.

Like many creatives, I have had a passion for art for as long as I could pick up a crayon. I would spend hours in front of the television or looking through my books to replicate what I saw with any notebook paper I could find. While I did not yet understand that art could be a career for myself, I always knew deep down that one day I wanted to create something for others to be inspired by. It is undeniable that there are disparities within the art industry. Despite art schools being filled to the brim with a minority population--whether that be women, people of color, or those with disabilities--many sectors of the art industry are extremely challenging for these groups of people to get in the door, let alone dominate in their respective fields. For many, this unfortunate reality can make those long-standing aspirations feel like impossible pursuits. In my case, it has only strengthened my desire to keep fighting for my education and make my college years count through networking, connections, and committing myself to learning. I have already made such meaningful connections with my professors and peers that I hope to bring with me moving forward. I want to make a positive impact on the world as an illustrator by giving voice to groups of people, social issues, and fellow artists through my work--be it through editorial illustration, posters, murals, books, or even social media posts. In the current era of AI and layoffs, I think now more than ever the world needs artists to share their craft with the public. Throughout history, art has been a pawn for creativity and social change and I know that will not be changing any time soon. It is my hope that I can one day work in the professional field and not only make this stance more widely received but also help inspire the next generation of young creatives. I understand the road ahead may be rocky or uncertain but no good thing worth fighting for isn't. Whatever comes at me, I will be ready for it.

From as long as I can remember, my mother has been there. She has been my rock, my inspiration--my superhero, in more childish terms. Being that my parents split when I was only three years old, it is difficult to remember what life was like before that point. Contrary to popular belief, I would not wish it to be any other way. My mother has allowed me to flourish in my passions and grow to be the person I am today. She has always been my greatest supporter and while I may not have noticed it in my earlier years, her sacrifices and efforts serve as a testament to how strong she truly is. Since I could pick up a crayon, my greatest passion in life has always been art. I would sit for hours in front of a television screen and try to replicate what I saw with whatever writing utensil and notebook paper I could find. While other children wanted to be firefighters, policemen, or astronauts, I struggled to find a career path that felt right, never knowing that my passion could become and eventual career. It seemed impossible. Nevertheless, my mother nurtured me and enrolled me in art classes on the weekends. It wasn't until seventh grade that my view on the arts truly changed for the better. My science teacher pulled me aside after class and told me of a school in Manhattan specializing in artists like me: The High School of Art and Design. Suddenly, it felt as though a puzzle piece clicked into place. The years of confusion seemed to dissipate and I felt as though that once-impossible world was suddenly in reach. Upon telling my parents, my father did not understand. To him, art did not seem like a viable high school practice, let alone a career path and I felt that unsureness wash over me again. My mother, however, supported me even more. She took me to open houses, helped me with my portfolio. Naturally, I was accepted. That support has never ceased and continued through high school, college applications, and, eventually, now; after my first year of college. Now that I am older, I understand much more about my mother; The woman who was unable to pursue her own artistic passion in her youth, took extra shifts at her job to support me, enrolled me in extracurriculars, and was there for me in my times of distress. My mother did all that and more all on her own in ways I could never imagine. In 2017, our lives would change forever when my mother became permanently disabled and was no longer able to work. In spite of all her pain, she tried to be strong for me and continue supporting me in any way she could. After years of needing her support, I understood that she now needed mine. My first year of college has not been easy. My mother and I have always been there for one another and dorming left me feeling guilty about leaving her by herself. Her reassurance has gotten me through the roughest parts of my freshman year but that worry still lingers. I continue to pursue my craft because it would be the greatest disservice to let her support be for naught. I hope that in doing so I can make something that she will be proud of; that speaks to her and lets her know what she has done for me. I will never be able to truly repay the favor but I will try my best to get as close as possible.

"I am an invisible man. No, I am not a spook like those who haunted Edgar Allan Poe; nor am I one of your Hollywood-movie ectoplasms. I am a man of substance, of flesh and bone, fiber and liquids -- and I might even be said to possess a mind. I am invisible, understand, simply because people refuse to see me. Like the bodiless heads you see sometimes in circus sideshows, it is as though I have been surrounded by mirrors of hard, distorting glass. When they approach me they see only my surroundings, themselves, or figments of their imagination -- indeed, everything and anything except me." Ralph Ellison, Invisible Man (New York: Second Vintage International Edition, 1995), 3, pp. 1. In childhood, a common hypothetical question may be proposed to you: What superpower would you want to have if given the opportunity? There are several ‘sufficient’ answers—flight, teleportation, super-speed—but one that always tends to come up in conversation is much more inconspicuous: invisibility. While the likelihood of truly being able to be invisible is nonexistent, what the experience may be like was still a lighthearted fantasy to ponder over. Although incredibly more tragic, Ralph Ellison puts a new meaning to the idea of being invisible in his 1952 novel Invisible Man. In this rendition, the invisibility is depicted not in a literal sense but rather as a byproduct of the systematic racism upon which American society was founded. In the opening paragraph of Invisible Man, Ellison uses diction and imagery to convey the racial prejudice inflicted on Black Americans in 20th-century society and its subsequent impact on identity. How these topics are discussed allows for a new and innovative understanding of what it means to be Black and ‘invisible.’ Following the introduction, the novel begins with a deceptively simple line: “I am an invisible man.” It is both rudimentary and thought-provoking. It gives away both nothing and everything that the novel intends to say. The narrator is given no identity—no name, no face. He leads with the fact that he is invisible because it is the most important thing for the reader to understand about him. It dictates how he navigates through life, how he is perceived—or, rather, not perceived—and shapes who he is as a result. That then begs the question of what it means to be invisible. The nonchalance of how it is so blatantly mentioned insinuates a normality of some kind associated with it. Moreover, if the narrator—the titular invisible man—is introducing himself, why does he not try to break out of his invisibility by giving himself an identity? Is it comfortable for him, or has he grown accustomed to it? Perhaps it is instead that attempting to escape it would be in vain. Being that he is only invisible so long as he is imperceptible to those around him, it is unlikely that he is the cause of his fate; rather, it is something that has been imposed on him. The invisibility, no matter its direct causation, is inescapable, and any attempts to be rid of it would do little to help that fact. Inevitably, it is and may always be a part of him. Whether or not this characteristic is something he finds favorable is still yet to be determined—although further context will prove it not to be so. He continues, “No, I am not a spook like those who haunted Edgar Allan Poe; nor am I one of your Hollywood-movie ectoplasms. I am a man of substance, of flesh and bone, fiber and liquids—and I might even be said to possess a mind.” The manner in which this passage is written brings into it a humorous yet sarcastic tone; it is almost informal. The narrator is aware of the connections one may draw between his ‘invisible man’ identity and the classical horror that is more commonly associated with it. The “Hollywood-movie ectoplasms” is likely in reference to the popular horror-sci-fi film The Invisible Man (1933) based on H. G. Wells’ 1897 novel of the same name. An important difference to note between Ellison’s novel and the science fiction classic is the inclusion, or exclusion, of the word ‘the’ in the title. Wells’ title, The Invisible Man, implies the titular character’s existence as the sole possessor of that identity. He finds himself invisible in a literal sense after a science experiment made it so. Ellison’s Invisible Man—omitting ‘the’ entirely—tells a different story. In effect, the narrator is simply one of many ‘invisible’ men. His namelessness, facelessness, and, of course, invisibility insinuate his shared experience with many others like him who, too, are inescapably invisible. He clearly does not share commonality with his science fiction counterpart. His invisibility is grounded in reality and remains simply figurative—as demonstrated by the description of his “flesh and bone, fiber and liquids”; words which, while grounding him as being real, are visceral and give the reader a grotesque image of gore; the inner workings of the human body those which are beneath the surface. This imagery is vital in setting the scene for the rest of the novel. The reality the narrator lives in is not ‘pretty’ or favorable. Just as the imagery implies, it, too, is grotesque in its own way. The narrator soon reveals that this reality places him as an African American man in the early 20th century; however, the intricacies of this experience can be detected even before this fact is made known. As the description progresses, a clearer picture of what invisibility means to the narrator is established. He says, “I am invisible, understand, simply because people refuse to see me. Like the bodiless heads you see sometimes in circus sideshows, it is as though I have been surrounded by mirrors of hard, distorting glass. When they approach me they see only my surroundings, themselves, or figments of their imagination—indeed, everything and anything except me.” The figurative circus mirrors he describes are likely familiar to the average reader; they reflect distorted images, unlike the actual form in front of them. This distortion, actualized in the form of warped images, represents a warped sense of the narrator’s identity—both from external and internal perspectives. There is a minor contradiction in this passage, however, that forces the reader to reevaluate their understanding of the narrator’s experience. Despite being said to be invisible, that is, those who come in contact with him see only “[his] surroundings, themselves, or figments of their imagination,” his presentation is warped by the ‘mirrors’ that they look through. It is not that he is entirely invisible, but rather, he is viewed through a distortion—“figments of their imagination.” Here, there is an interesting shift in the narrative. The narrator goes from something omniscient and unperceived by others to something seen only in a manipulated form. The self that is perceived is not himself at all. This notion begins to make more sense when analyzed through the context of 20th-century American society. His identity as a Black man puts him in an uncomfortable position, Just as other minorities—racial or otherwise—Black Americans have often been ignorantly perceived under the influence of stereotypes and preconceived notions of their race. It is frequent that before seeing any aspects of their individual identities, they will always be first associated with their blackness. This is what the distortions in the mirror are referring to. The narrator, just like many other Black men, becomes invisible because he is reduced to a caricature, a monolith—one that continues to be used as a device to keep them oppressed in society. The narrator has no identity because he is perceived as the same as any other Black man by those he encounters. It is not absurd to think that living in this distorted reality that causes you to feel unseen and powerless would cause one to begin to internalize these ideas into a warped sense of self-perception. How could a person know what it is like to exist when treated at every turn as if they do not? It is impossible to say. Alongside the imagery described previously, the diction utilized in these passages is vital to properly conveying the setting, narrator, and main points to the viewer. Ellison uses precise diction to express the narrator’s tone, which is somewhat humorous and sarcastic but also tired of the treatment he has faced all his life. For example, in the third line, the narrator states, “...and I might even be said to possess a mind.” On one hand, the statement is humorous as if it is a joke; it is evident to anyone that he would have a mind if he is ‘speaking’ to the reader. On the other hand, however, the quip insinuates that he may be perceived as not having a mind; that he is an idiot. When looking deeper into stereotypes of Black Americans, this is hardly surprising. The stupid, lazy archetype of the Black man perpetuated by 20th-century media—minstrelsy, cartoons, et cetera—was commonly used against real Black Americans by their white counterparts. To these people, the idea that the narrator could be enough of an intellectual to articulate himself and have his own opinions could be preposterous. The narrator taking a jab at this logic despite his gripes with how society treats him shows not only his somewhat humorous nature but also the resilience he and many others like him have to bounce back from what could be severely discouraging outlooks. Born in 1913, Ralph Ellison undeniably experienced the early 20th century and how its ideals and conventions shaped American perceptions of the Black population. The stereotypes and prejudices that began forming centuries prior manifested themselves in an everlasting and ever-changing method of subjugation that persists into the 21st century, albeit in a new form. These experiences allowed for an authentic retelling of the Black experience in as little as the novel’s opening paragraph. Invisible Man turns these ideas and struggles into a thought-provoking piece of literature worthy of precise analysis. Every sentence and word was picked very carefully to properly depict the ideas, characters, and settings within it. Even minor adjustments could completely change the trajectory of the narrative. Understanding how vital these nuances are in telling a story makes Invisible Man all the more remarkable as a piece of literature.

For as long as I can remember, I loved to draw. While other interests I had only remained fads, soon passing as I grew up, drawing is one of the few that truly stuck. With cheap sketchbooks and markers, I would draw to my heart's content, often replicating the cartoons I saw on my television screen. My passions for art only grew as I matured and began to take the idea seriously as a career path. That has led me to now—my first year of college pursuing art. While this was always a dream of mine, I’ve found myself with a new and unexpected problem. With deadlines, assignments, and critiques, I have grown exponentially in my skill level and, yet, I sometimes find myself feeling unsure of myself and my craft. The confines of education seem to distance me from what art originally was to me—a pastime, a passion that I would do just because I wanted to. Now, there is another incentive—to be successful, to be able to make money, to survive as an artist. It is these conflicting emotions that have caused me many feelings of inadequacy and uncertainty about my future and, more importantly, whether or not I still retain that unbridled creativity I had in my childhood. That’s where this drawing comes in. I took it upon myself to create a self portrait with ballpoint pen (a cheap material just like the ones I used to use all those years ago). In it, I abandon all the traditional techniques I have been taught, making it entirely out of scribbles. As the portrait disintegrates into the background, it creates sparks of energy that fling out and express the imagination that I once had—and, I believe, still have deep within me. This portrait, to me, expresses what creativity is. It is the spark that started my desire to make art. It reverts back to my original childlike methods of creation and expands upon them with the skills I have built up over the years. In a way, it is also what I want to be able to embody as I continue my pursuit of the arts in school and professionally. To be able to balance my education and improvement without losing that spark that started it all is truly all I could ever hope for as I continue throughout my college journey. I have it on display in my room to serve as a reminder to continue on, even when I no longer can see the light at the end of the tunnel. Deep in the darkness is that spark and the only way for me to find it is to keep creating for as long as I can.

In many ways, the nuclear family dynamic has been seen as the standard of American life and the American Dream: a suburban house with a picket fence, a husband, a wife, and two or three children who all smile contently, knowing their life is perfect. Despite this widespread idea of perfection being perpetrated everywhere we look, many of us do not have the privilege of experiencing this kind of dynamic. Without a picket fence, without siblings---but most importantly---without two parents. I can vividly recall times where I would wonder to myself why I could not live like that. I could never come up with an answer of what I had done wrong. If there is anything I have gained from living in a single-parent household, it is an intense appreciation for my mother who I would likely go as far as to say, is the most influential person in my life. In my childhood, my mother worked long shifts, sometimes starting as early as five in the morning. She would wake me up at four and drop me off at my babysitter's house so that I would still be able to get to school even when she could not take me. Other times, I would stay in the break room at her job until her shift was over because she refused to let me stay home by myself. On weekends, she would take me to art and dance classes to encourage the creative passions and buy me art supplies and devices with what she had to help me advance in my skills. These acts of encouragement are what eventually led me to apply to and attend the High School of Art and Design in New York City and commit myself to the professional pursuit of the arts in the future. In childish ignorance, I did not truly realize how much my mother did for me growing up; it was simply my life and I did not know any life unlike it. That was, until a few years ago when she would get into a car accident that changed her life. Requiring multiple surgeries, hospital visits, and physical therapy, the accident had handicapped her in ways that still continue to fester into chronic pains and medical issues that will likely continue to hinder her for the rest of her life. She was forced to quit her job and has since been unable to return. Outside assistance such as social security and disability have been the main---if not, sole---source of our income, forcing us to adopt a new lifestyle to suit our budget. Despite all of this, however, my mother still does it. She enjoys herself when she can, she upkeeps the household, and she still supports me. Every day I grow more amazed by the strength she has to still look after me in spite of it all. Whenever I feel hopeless, I think of her and how she has persevered as inspiration. Now, in my senior year of high school and as the time to decide my future slowly runs out, I feel a lot of pressure about what is to become of me after graduation. While I have contemplated not attending college altogether to avoid the financial and mental burden, my mother has been there to reassure me that everything will work out and that she is sure I will make it big one day with my creations. It is my hope that what she says is true. After all, it would be a great disservice to her to let all of her efforts and encouragement be for naught.

I remember it vividly. I was brought into a room that was nearly empty aside from a bed with a lifeless frail figure atop it that stared at the ceiling with big, bulging eyes. What lain in front of me was not a corpse but, rather, my grandmother. She wasn’t dead, at least not yet, but it felt as though she was. Her body was alive but I couldn’t see her anymore, as if her spirit was gone. As an eight-year-old, it hurt me to see a woman who was once so full of life in that state. Through my childhood she danced, painted, and laughed, but most importantly, she told stories. I loved to visit her house a road trip away from mine and listen to her entrancing tales of far-off worlds. She spoke with such passion that I would believe anything she told me, no matter how ludicrous. When my grandmother finally succumbed to her cancer, it took a while for me to grasp the concept of her death. Years of treatment at a center and the false hope given by doctors didn’t prepare me for what was seemingly inevitable. Deep down, I must have known it was coming, but I rejected the fact for weeks. Instead, I opted to comfort myself with stories of my own creation, just like the ones she told. Sometimes I would imagine that her soul was off in a magical land where she was joined by fairies and spirits, dancing with vigor. Other times, I would feel her around me. During storms, I would ask her to send me a sign by stopping the rainfall and surely enough, the droplets would slow their pace ever so slightly. Ignorantly, I took that as definitive proof. Maybe she was surfing on shooting stars in space or was an angel in the clouds. A new day offered a new theory. I don’t recall how, but one day the realization hit me that she was truly gone and my world came crashing down. I spent that night crying, feeling all of the pain I had unknowingly harbored. Feeling delusional for my ignorance, I began to feel angry; angry about the treatment center’s inability to save her, angry at her good-for-nothing husband whom I overheard my family criticizing, and angry at myself. Though I refused to indulge in my fantasies of her any longer, my love for storytelling never faltered. I found myself creating new ones—not ones about my grandmother, but instead, about characters I made up or watched in cartoons. I viewed stories as an art form. With inexpensive sketchbooks and pencils, I dedicated my time to primitively drawing the concepts I envisioned. Although I was not very skilled then, I persisted. As long as I was creating, I felt fulfilled. Fantastical tales about robots, warriors, fairies, and monsters had manifested themselves as a part of me. Even now, through ups and downs, burnout and self-doubt, stories continue to be the main source of my inspiration, making it almost impossible to imagine life—or art—without them. Over time, I’ve grown to accept my grandmother’s passing although I still get choked up whenever she is the topic of conversation. As I’ve matured, I find solace in returning to my previous “delusions.” In them, I’ve allowed myself to have a final memory of her more dignified than her lying lifelessly on her deathbed. The ability to imagine and create has helped me in times of darkness, brightening my world when life seemed bleak. Although it never occurred to me at the time, perhaps my grandmother’s influence was to blame. Even in her absence, she has always been with me and will continue to be through college, adulthood, and likely for the rest of my life. I often wonder how she’s doing now, dancing amongst the fairies and the spirits with their shimmering wings and flowing hair. She makes the most beautiful fairy.

In many ways, the nuclear family dynamic has been seen as the standard of American life and the American Dream: a suburban house with a picket fence, a husband, a wife, and two or three children who all smile contently, knowing their life is perfect. Despite this widespread idea of perfection being perpetrated everywhere we look, many of us do not have the privilege of experiencing this kind of dynamic. Without a picket fence, without siblings---but most importantly---without two parents. I can vividly recall times where I would wonder to myself why I could not live like that. I could never come up with an answer of what I had done wrong. If there is anything I have gained from living in a single-parent household, it is an intense appreciation for my mother who I would likely go as far as to say, is the most influential person in my life. In my childhood, my mother worked long shifts, sometimes starting as early as five in the morning. She would wake me up at four and drop me off at my babysitter's house so that I would still be able to get to school even when she could not take me. Other times, I would stay in the break room at her job until her shift was over because she refused to let me stay home by myself. On weekends, she would take me to art and dance classes to encourage the creative passions and buy me art supplies and devices with what she had to help me advance in my skills. These acts of encouragement are what eventually led me to apply to and attend the High School of Art and Design in New York City and commit myself to the professional pursuit of the arts in the future. When I first learned about the High School of Art and Design, I felt like my world became brighter. I had always been fascinated with art but did not truly understand that there was future in the arts for me until I stepped into the doors of the school for the first time and was surrounded by other creatives who shared my passion. It was an overwhelming sensation full of an unsavory mix of emotions that filled my stomach with butterflies; anxiety, fear, hope, excitement. Over the next few years, I would grow as a person and as a creative with the help of my peers and mentors, guiding me on the path to furthering my education. I believe that had I not attended the High School of Art and Design, I would not be who I am now. Now, in my senior year of high school and as the time to decide my future slowly runs out, I feel a lot of pressure about what is to become of me after graduation. While I have contemplated not attending college altogether to avoid the financial and mental burden, my mother has been there to reassure me that everything will work out and that she is sure I will "make it big" one day with my creations. It is my hope that what she says is true. After all, it would be a great disservice to her to let all of her efforts and encouragement be for naught.

As a senior at the High School of Art and Design, the past few years of my life has strategically and specifically prepared me for a future career in the arts. While many of my peers have strayed from the path, some, like myself, have decided they would continue their creative studies in the upcoming academic year. While we students have already gotten a glimpse into the world of artistic academics---with internships being available with big companies and teachers who help nurture student passions---a whole new world awaits us once we graduate and take our first steps onto college campuses. Art schools, while all individually different, allow for an exploration of possible career paths with the helps of professors and working professionals in their field of interest that can only rarely be found in a self-guided manner. It is for this reason that I, after many college tours and nights of intensive research, have decided I will pursue a Bachelors in Fine Arts---majoring in Illustration---and a Masters of Arts in Teaching so that I may be able to one day help inspire the next generation of young creatives with my own publications and teachings. Unsurprisingly, I have been given many strange looks and criticisms from family members and peers when I tell them I want to go into the arts as a career. I could have been a doctor or a rocket scientist but I chose art. There is undeniably an instability associated with creative professions and I know that better than anyone, being told over and over again as reasoning for me to reconsider my choices. I have observed a shift in the art industry; one that has recently took to favoring generations from artificial intelligence over the creations of hardworking professionals. Many artists have suffered layoffs and lack of appreciation for their work in the midst of this rapid change in the industry and it has left many of them wondering the same thing: what's next? I believe now, more than ever, the world needs artists to stand their ground and show the masses that they are not going anywhere. This is why I want to be an entrepreneur. I want to be on the forefront of the reestablishment of the arts as a worthy and important part of our society. The world will always need innovative thinkers and designers to create their buildings, advertisements, media, and fashion. No matter what new technology is available, generators and for-profits can never replicate the heart and soul present in every brushstroke. I want to be able to make an impact, whether that is in making my own company or being able to sustain myself on my work alone, as long as it gets the message across that we are here to stay. While this instability is a very valid fear that has forced many to back down, I refuse to suffer such a fate.The awards, honors, and medals I have been received are a testament to my dedication to the arts as they inhabit almost every aspect of my life. I have already made so many connections with working professionals through the internships and mentorships I have participated in and know that they will help guide me on the path to success, using their industry knowledge for the better. I know the road ahead will be difficult but I have come this far and will not be giving up any time soon. These obstacles are only bumps in the road to progress and whatever lies in store for me in the future, I am ready to take it on.

For as long as I can remember, I loved to draw. While other interests I had only remained fads, soon passing as I grew up, drawing is one of the few that truly stuck. With cheap sketchbooks and markers, I would draw to my heart's content, often replicating the cartoons I saw on my television screen and envisioning myself in the future as a creator of such media. My passions for art only grew as I matured and began to take the idea seriously as a career path, my mother encouraging me along the way. Such passion is what eventually led me to attend the High School of Art and Design in New York City where, with the help of teachers and industry professionals, I would learn more about the opportunities in store for me as I progress as a creative. It is my hope that after my high school graduation, I will be able to continue this path at an accredited institution where I will receive my Bachelors in Fine Arts and Masters in Arts of Teaching so that I may be able to help inspire the next generation of creatives in ways I once was. Undeniably, there has been mixed reactions when I tell people my educational goals moving forward. Many people believe that there is no future to be had in the arts and that I will only be wasting my time. The level of uncertainty associated with such unconventional academics, while undeniable, has been used by people around me to put me down and, unfortunately, it has sometimes worked. There have been times in my life where I have reconsidered what I wanted for myself, giving into the negative ideas people have put into my head; and yet, here I am. For all the criticisms and odd looks I have received from those around me, there is a glimmer of hope I feel for every person that believes in me. This hope is something that has motivated me whenever I have found myself in a place of seemingly-inescapable worry and guided me as I continue my studies. It is this hope that has allowed me to receive medals and awards from alliances and organizations, make connections with industry professionals from large companies, and find community with people who share experiences with me. I believe I should receive this scholarship because in spite of all the obstacles and criticisms I have received, I have the strength to keep pursuing the path I have set for myself. While most people would back down and settle for a career that they are not happy with, I am self-determined enough to trust that the skills and knowledge I have built up over my life time will take me where I need to be. The only issue that remains is unfortunately a financial one. With my single mother being unable to work because of injuries that have disabled her and the cost of tuition growing exponentially over time, the feasibility of my dream begins to seem farther out of reach. It is scholarships like these that, like the supports I have received in the past, represent a glimmer of hope for the future. No matter how small the glimmer, I intend to follow it. After all, it would be a great disservice to my mother, to my supporters, and myself if I were to give up now.

In many ways, the nuclear family dynamic has been seen as the standard of American life and the American Dream: a suburban house with a picket fence, a husband, a wife, and two or three children who all smile contently, knowing their life is perfect. Despite this widespread idea of perfection being perpetrated everywhere we look, many of us do not have the privilege of experiencing this kind of dynamic. Without a picket fence, without siblings---but most importantly---without two parents. I can vividly recall times where I would wonder to myself why I could not live like that. I could never come up with an answer of what I had done wrong. If there is anything I have gained from living in a single-parent household, it is an intense appreciation for my mother who I would likely go as far as to say, is the most influential person in my life. In my childhood, my mother worked long shifts, sometimes starting as early as five in the morning. She would wake me up at four and drop me off at my babysitter's house so that I would still be able to get to school even when she could not take me. Other times, I would stay in the break room at her job until her shift was over because she refused to let me stay home by myself. On weekends, she would take me to art and dance classes to encourage the creative passions and buy me art supplies and devices with what she had to help me advance in my skills. These acts of encouragement are what eventually led me to apply to and attend the High School of Art and Design in New York City and commit myself to the professional pursuit of the arts in the future. In childish ignorance, I did not truly realize how much my mother did for me growing up; it was simply my life and I did not know any life unlike it. That was, until a few years ago when she would get into a car accident that changed her life. Requiring multiple surgeries, hospital visits, and physical therapy, the accident had handicapped her in ways that still continue to fester into chronic pains and medical issues that will likely continue to hinder her for the rest of her life. She was forced to quit her job and has since been unable to return. Outside assistance such as social security and disability have been the main---if not, sole---source of our income, forcing us to adopt a new lifestyle to suit our budget. Despite all of this, however, my mother still does it. She enjoys herself when she can, she upkeeps the household, and she still supports me. Every day I grow more amazed by the strength she has to still look after me in spite of it all. Whenever I feel hopeless, I think of her and how she has persevered as inspiration. Now, in my senior year of high school and as the time to decide my future slowly runs out, I feel a lot of pressure about what is to become of me after graduation. While I have contemplated not attending college altogether to avoid the financial and mental burden, my mother has been there to reassure me that everything will work out and that she is sure I will make it big one day with my creations. It is my hope that what she says is true. After all, it would be a great disservice to her to let all of her efforts and encouragement be for naught.

If there is anything I have learned in the past few years of going to school in New York City, it is that it is incredibly easy to get entirely focused on yourself. In such a uniquely fast-paced environment, it is every man for himself. Many choose to ignore those in need--whether that be the homeless or the impoverished--instead, going into their own little world to ignore what is happening around them. I would be lying if I said I had not also gained the habit of choosing to turn up the music in my headphones to ignore the drug addicts just a couple seats down from me on my commute home or the preachers at the bus stop trying to convert the masses. In these moments you sometimes miss the opportunity to help others and this fact was made no clearer to me than one day in the train station as I was making my way home from school. After a particularly bad day of classes, I entered the train station hoping to speed through and get on the next train home as fast as possible. Teachers and assignments filled my head and overwhelmed me to the point I simply wanted to return to my bed and rest once more. Upon entering the turnstile, however, I stopped at the sight of a woman with a stroller asking for help. Although clearly stressed, few people gave her a second glance and chose to walk right by her. Although I could have just pushed the idea of stopping aside and hoped for someone else to step up to the plate, I could not bear the sight of seeing her ignored despite her distress and so, I approached her. The woman was looking for directions. The train she needed to get to was on the other side of the station and she didn't know how to get there. Luckily, since my train was in that direction, I knew where to go and said I would show her the way. Her baby was asleep in his stroller and the only way to get to the train was down an escalator, through a small space, and down two flights of stairs where we would finally reach the platform so I offered to help her carry it. Through the station she would hold her baby in his carrier while I carried the stroller attachment down the stairs, balancing it on my knee. Once we finally reached the platform, the woman thanked me profusely and wished me well. As I watched her board the train and travel down the subway line, I felt a warm sense of accomplishment fuzzily growing inside of me. Any bad feelings I had harbored from the hours prior had dissipated and I was left content. I may have arrived home later than I wanted that day but I didn't care anymore. Knowing that the mother and her young son were able to reach their destination when nobody else would help them made the delay worthwhile. And while it may seem overly optimistic, I sometimes hope that we may one-day cross paths again in the train station. I only hope that when we do, I won't be too caught up in my own little world to notice.

While I am at a point in my life that I would consider decently well-off, being accompanied by friends that I have made over the past few years and discovering myself in new ways, there remains a problem that I have battled with consistently that is impossible to ignore. For the latter part of my life, I have suffered from feelings of intense distress and fears about the world around me that I could not name, nor could I deny. While my peers partied and socialized on a regular basis, I would stay within the confines of my bedroom, only getting glimpses to what I was missing out on from social media posts that only brought me more worry as I scrolled through them for hours on end. These experiences were only recently granted a name by my therapist after years of wondering what might have been "wrong" with me: Generalized Anxiety Disorder. I remember sitting there as I first read those three words, bolded under "diagnosis". At first, I didn't know what to think; whether I should be relieved or scared. On one hand, I finally knew I was not alone in my struggle. On the other, it confirmed there was something "wrong" no matter how many times I attempted to psyche myself into thinking it was all in my head. The two emotions fought with one another in my head for weeks, dictating my mood in sudden swings and panic attacks. I soon began to lose hope for recovery as weeks turned into months and I failed to see any progress. And, yet, I continued. I continued attending therapy sessions and forcing myself out of the house and while I couldn't see it at the time, I was getting better. My friends, family, and therapist could see it and, in time, so could I. As I begin to approach my high school graduation, many of these past fears and feelings of distress have returned in ways I could not have imagined. At times, I have found myself back at square one. However, I know now that the path to progress is rarely ever straightforward and these feelings are only temporary. The crippling fear of living my own for the first time in my life is one that has made me reconsider attending a college out of state, however, I believe that it is a necessary step in my progress. Being able to take care of myself in spite of my fears is an ability I will need to gain in order to achieve my professional and personal aspirations. While I would be lying if I were to say I am not scared for the future, I am ready to take on that fear and refuse to let my disorder get in my way.

Over the course of my academic career, there have been very few teachers who have made a profound impact on me even after I had stepped foot outside of the classroom. While I have always been an honor roll student, I often found myself lacking excitement to learn. That is, except for when I was in the classroom of my eighth-grade English teacher. One morning, our class was told that the topic of discussion for the upcoming unit would be the work of Edgar Allen Poe. I had heard the author's name in the past, however, I was never really acquainted with his work until that point. Over the next few weeks, we read and discussed several of Poe's short stories, one in particular that thoroughly captured my attention: The Masque of the Red Death (1850). The intimidating figure of the personification of a deadly disease was a visual I could very easily picture in my mind when I read and thought back on the tale. It wasn't until my junior year of high school, however, that I would finally make something out of these visuals and put pen to paper. In my rendition of The Masque of the Red Death, the Red Death–an unexpected and unwelcome guest–looms over the wealthy party-goers in attendance and takes hostage the gathering until every last attendee falls dead as twelve strokes ring from the clock’s brazen lungs. It is a chilling scene that I recall rereading over and over when I had first been introduced to the story. This chill–this horror–is something I wanted to make apparent throughout my piece within the twisted faces of the socialites facing their own mortality, through the architectural figures overseeing the massacre, and through the dark presence of the Red Death itself. In the creation of this scene, I took inspiration from Venetian and historical masquerades which I believed to suit the gothic origins of the story. In addition, I was inspired by the art nouveau pieces created by impactful artists such as Alphonse Mucha. Although my artwork lacks the pale colors and foliage, which are defining characteristics of the movement, the inspiration taken from nouveau works is seen in the borders containing each of the five figures, representing the many columns and rooms that decorate the party’s halls. The edges of the borders feature Corinthian-inspired architecture as an homage to the plant life in such pieces. In a way, I believe this twist on past art movements to fit a grimmer subject matter allows the work to feel more personal to me and my interests. Now that I am growing closer to my high school graduation, I have had a lot of time to reflect on the past few years as I look deeper to figure out my goals. I believe I owe a lot to my English teacher. His passion for teaching all those years ago inspired me to feel more excited about literature in a way other teachers failed. Recently, I have taken the initiative to email him and thank him for his efforts and we have since remained in contact to discuss life after I’d graduated middle school. I hope that I will be able to thank him and update him on my accomplishments and strides as I transition from a high schooler to a college student and, eventually, a professional working in the art field–wherever that may be.

It is undeniable that to succeed, one must pick themselves up after they've fallen down. At least, that's what we were told growing up. Whether it was after falling off your bike after taking the training wheels off or because you were crying that your favorite toy had been sold out, it is that unremarkable phrase that has been engraved into our minds by our guardians whenever we were discouraged. You have to keep trying, to bounce back—to persevere. The events in our history books, the businesses down the street, the transportation ridden to work; all would be nonexistent had perseverance been nonexistent. Although commonplace in childhood, very few truly take the notion to heart. My inability to do so has hindered me in making the right choices, staying on the ground after falling. It is for that reason I never learned to ride my bike without training wheels. For the latter part of my life, I have struggled with feelings of inadequacy and mental anguish that I can remember as far back as the age of nine. Starting high school, the problems only grew in strength until they required assistance from therapists, counselors, and psychiatrists. Initially, I thought more positively about my situation, believing I was on the right path to improvement. In time, however, that outlook faded in the wake of a new struggle. The most difficult part of my battle with depression was the lack of understanding of why I experienced it. While I may have had the strength to get myself out of bed, to find myself something to eat, or to go to school at the start, over time I began to lose sight of what I was fighting against. It's a difficult task to fight a foe you cannot see. Just when you think you’re able to strike, you feel it claw itself into you from a completely different angle. My grades began to slip, I stood home from school frequently, missed my therapy appointments, and laid in bed all day in a state of inescapable numbness. It soon became noticeable to those around me; my parents, my friends, even my teachers. This persisted for months, causing me to doubt my ability to continue on. And yet, I did. I spoke with my teachers about my struggles and made up my missed assignments little by little. I continued attending therapy sessions no matter how much I detested them. I got myself out of the house even when my brain begged me to stay in my room. Every small effort chipped away at the weight I bore on my shoulders even if seemingly insignificant. Eventually, I began to feel a little better. I started to laugh with my friends again, made it back onto the honor roll, and started to feel the little bits of joy in my day-to-day life that I'd lost. I still continue to struggle as I make my way through life, fluctuating between horrible days to tolerable ones, and although I often find myself in what seems to be an inescapable pit, I know these feelings will not last forever. The path to progress is rarely ever straightforward and I look back on my previous experiences as a reminder of that fact. I know now that if I had been unable to persevere despite the circumstances, I wouldn’t have been able to live to see a brighter day. It is this notion that I hope to carry with me as I transition from high school to college and as I get atop the seat of my bicycle once more this summer.

As I've solidified myself in the pursuit of an education and career in the arts, a question I have begrudgingly become familiar with is just that: "Why art?" I could have been a doctor discovering the cure for cancer or the head of an aspiring corporation but I chose art; why? While I have detested the question ever since I first heard it, I believe this repetition has forced me to internalize it and ask it for myself in recent years, instilling a certain sense of doubt and worry in my mind that perhaps I have been misled and overly optimistic. From a young age, rereading the children´s books that filled my bookshelves, I found much solace in art. I replicated what I saw with cheap sketchbooks and markers and, after time, hoped to one day be alongside the artists creating for the public's viewing pleasure. As I've matured, my interests have changed but it is undeniable that my goal never has. Instead, I've only found more reasons that I believe art to be a worthy career, no matter the uncertainty and hardship that come with it. I don't believe there is anything I could see myself doing besides creating. It is the reason I auditioned for and attended the High School of Art and Design after years in a charter school. It is the reason I decided to become a representative for my school on our senior committee. And it is the reason I have won medals and awards from the School Art League and the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards. I have allowed art to involve itself in every aspect of my life and, naturally, I would like it to remain that way. Art, of course, extends far past cartoons on bookstore shelves. It is the cause of revolution and innovation. It is a byproduct of change and ideology. It incites emotion, violence, and inspiration. There is nothing more versatile in its influence than art in all of the many forms it has and will forevermore continue to take on. In many ways, I wholeheartedly believe the world we know today would not and could not exist without its presence. The world keeps changing and so too will the artistic endeavors of creatives inhabiting it as it does. There has been plenty of fear about the state of the industry at this given time and what is to come in the future with the rise of artificial intelligence and theft that has succeeded in convincing even the most perceptive of individuals of images and realities that simply aren't there. Layoffs and disregard towards artists and their passion projects by higher-ups have disheartened many hard workers that there is no future for them in their field of interest. I believe that now, more than ever, the world needs artists; their visions, their voices, their passion. This is why I am committed to my craft. I refuse to stand by in a world that throws aside personal and passionate creations in exchange for that without heart or vision. I want to be able to inspire the next generation of young artists the same way I once was inspired through publishing my own work professionally. I hope that my efforts in pursuing this passion of mine won't be for naught and that I will, in some way, make a difference. Whether that be through spreading a message, inspiring others, or showing that there is success to be made, I am ready for it.

As I've solidified myself in the pursuit of an education and career in the arts, a question I have begrudgingly become familiar with is just that: "Why art?" I could have been a doctor discovering the cure for cancer or the head of an aspiring corporation but I chose art; why? While I have detested the question ever since I first heard it, I believe this repetition has forced me to internalize it and ask it for myself in recent years, instilling a certain sense of doubt and worry in my mind that perhaps I have been misled and overly optimistic. From a young age, rereading the children´s books that filled my bookshelves, I found much solace in art. I replicated what I saw with cheap sketchbooks and markers and, after time, hoped to one day be alongside the artists creating for the public's viewing pleasure. As I've matured, my interests have changed but it is undeniable that my goal never has. Instead, I've only found more reasons that I believe art to be a worthy career, no matter the uncertainty and hardship that come with it. I don't believe there is anything I could see myself doing besides creating. It is the reason I auditioned for and attended the High School of Art and Design after years in a charter school. It is the reason I decided to become a representative for my school on our senior committee. And it is the reason I have won medals and awards from the School Art League and the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards. I have allowed art to involve itself in every aspect of my life and, naturally, I would like it to remain that way. Art, of course, extends far past cartoons on bookstore shelves. It is the cause of revolution and innovation. It is a byproduct of change and ideology. It incites emotion, violence, and inspiration. There is nothing more versatile in its influence than art in all of the many forms it has and will forevermore continue to take on. In many ways, I wholeheartedly believe the world we know today would not and could not exist without its presence. The world keeps changing and so too will the artistic endeavors of creatives inhabiting it as it does. There has been plenty of fear about the state of the industry at this given time and what is to come in the future with the rise of artificial intelligence and theft that has succeeded in convincing even the most perceptive of individuals of images and realities that simply aren't there. Layoffs and disregard towards artists and their passion projects by higher-ups have disheartened many hard workers that there is no future for them in their field of interest. I believe that now, more than ever, the world needs artists; their visions, their voices, their passion. This is why I am committed to my craft. I refuse to stand by in a world that throws aside personal and passionate creations in exchange for that without heart or vision. I want to be able to inspire the next generation of young artists the same way I once was inspired through publishing my own work professionally. I hope that my efforts in pursuing this passion of mine won't be for naught and that I will, in some way, make a difference. Whether that be through spreading a message, inspiring others, or showing that there is success to be made, I am ready for it.

As I've solidified myself in the pursuit of an education and career in the arts, a question I have begrudgingly become familiar with is just that: "Why art?" I could have been a doctor discovering the cure for cancer or the head of an aspiring corporation but I chose art; why? While I have detested the question ever since I first heard it, I believe this repetition has forced me to internalize it and ask it for myself in recent years, instilling a certain sense of doubt and worry in my mind that perhaps I have been misled and overly optimistic. From a young age, rereading the children´s books that filled my bookshelves, I found much solace in art. I replicated what I saw with cheap sketchbooks and markers and, after time, hoped to one day be alongside the artists creating for the public's viewing pleasure. As I've matured, my interests have changed but it is undeniable that my goal never has. Instead, I've only found more reasons that I believe art to be a worthy career, no matter the uncertainty and hardship that come with it. I don't believe there is anything I could see myself doing besides creating. It is the reason I auditioned for and attended the High School of Art and Design after years in a charter school. It is the reason I decided to become a representative for my school on our senior committee. And it is the reason I have won medals and awards from the School Art League and the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards. I have allowed art to involve itself in every aspect of my life and, naturally, I would like it to remain that way. Art, of course, extends far past cartoons on bookstore shelves. It is the cause of revolution and innovation. It is a byproduct of change and ideology. It incites emotion, violence, and inspiration. There is nothing more versatile in its influence than art in all of the many forms it has and will forevermore continue to take on. In many ways, I wholeheartedly believe the world we know today would not and could not exist without its presence. The world keeps changing and so too will the artistic endeavors of creatives inhabiting it as it does. There has been plenty of fear about the state of the industry at this given time and what is to come in the future with the rise of artificial intelligence and theft that has succeeded in convincing even the most perceptive of individuals of images and realities that simply aren't there. Layoffs and disregard towards artists and their passion projects by higher-ups have disheartened many hard workers that there is no future for them in their field of interest. I believe that now, more than ever, the world needs artists; their visions, their voices, their passion. That´s why I am committed to my craft. I refuse to stand by in a world that throws aside personal and passionate creations in exchange for that without heart or vision. I want to be able to inspire the next generation of young artists the same way I once was inspired by publishing my own work. I hope that my efforts in pursuing this passion of mine won't be for naught and that I will, in some way, make a difference. Whether that be through spreading a message, inspiring others, or showing that there is success to be made, I am ready for it. It is my hope that this scholarship will be able to aid my studies and make these dreams a reality.

As I've solidified myself in the pursuit of an education and career in the arts, a question I have begrudgingly become familiar with is just that: "Why art?" I could have been a doctor discovering the cure for cancer or the head of an aspiring corporation but I chose art; why? While I have detested the question ever since I first heard it, I believe this repetition has forced me to internalize it and ask it for myself in recent years, instilling a certain sense of doubt and worry in my mind that perhaps I have been misled and overly optimistic. From a young age, watching cartoons on cable or revisiting animated movies on DVDs that we had stored under our television stand, I found much solace in art. I replicated what I saw with cheap sketchbooks and markers and, after time, hoped to one day be alongside the artists animating for the public's viewing pleasure. As I've matured, my interests have changed but it is undeniable that my goal never has. Instead, I've only found more reasons that I believe art to be a worthy career, no matter the uncertainty and hardship that come with it. I don't believe there is anything I could see myself doing besides creating. Any other reality aside from that is one I do not believe I could live in. Art, of course, extends far past cartoons on a bulky television set. It is the cause of revolution and innovation. It is a byproduct of change and ideology. It incites emotion, violence, and inspiration. There is nothing more versatile in its influence than art in all of the many forms it has and will forevermore continue to take on. In many ways, I wholeheartedly believe the world we know today would not and could not exist without its presence. The world keeps changing and so too will the artistic endeavors of creatives inhabiting it as it does. There has been plenty of fear about the state of the industry at this given time and what is to come in the future with the rise of artificial intelligence and theft that has succeeded in convincing even the most perceptive of individuals of images and realities that simply aren't there. Layoffs and disregard towards artists and their passion projects by higher-ups have disheartened many hard workers that there is no future for them in their field of interest. I believe that now, more than ever, the world needs artists; their visions, their voices, their passion. This is why I am committed to my craft. I refuse to stand by in a world that throws aside personal and passionate creations in exchange for that without heart or vision. I want to be able to inspire the next generation of artists the same way I once was inspired, whether that be through the publication of my own artistic work or becoming an art teacher after receiving my Masters in Arts of Teaching. I hope that my efforts in pursuing this passion of mine won't be for naught and that I will, in some way, make a difference. No matter the form this may inevitably take on, I am ready for it.