A change of scenery helps to sort things out. Portland, a green city and much more laid back than the San Francisco Bay Area was just what I needed. It gave me the space to ponder and to think more like an artist and less like an art historian. Even as I seriously tried to develop projects, write grants, and act as though I was still into it, the art history part, I wasn't and as it turned out, I wasn’t successful doing anything in Portland but gardening and raising chickens, signs that I needed a change. I didn’t like my university art history classes. I often fell asleep and woke up with a glare of disgust on my professor’s face as her eyes singled me out from the other ninety-nine students in the lecture hall. I was easy to recognize, with my huge glistening Afro. The truth was, I followed this path of extended education and loans for someone else, but not for me. I only wanted to be an artist. I was determined to make a change. Now, I had to dig myself out of a deep slippery mud-filled ditch. I couldn't get my footing; I often wondered how I could climb out, how I would backtrack or even move forward when life kept pulling me into an art historical comfort zone. Reality check, Cameron, my youngest son, was still in an expensive private university. His tuition kept me awake at night. …show more content…
The Internet saved me. Virtual space became my best friend and hope out of a bad decision. In virtual space, I focused on my creative self and I ever applied for an artist residency to help dig my way out of a
Sandy Skoglund has been in the forefront of contemporary art in the United States, as well as overseas, for nearly two decades. Her dramatic impact to the art world didn’t begin overnight. After sheer dedication to art education she received her BA degree in Studio Art in 1968 from Smith College, Northampton, Massachusetts. Upon getting her BA, she pursued further education at the University of Iowa where she received her MD. With her remarkable educational background, Skoglund decided to expand her horizons by teaching. Her teaching career grew at a rapid pace and she found herself teaching at the University of Hartford from 1973 to 1976. In late 1976, she was offered a position at Rutgers University, New Jersey, and has been teaching there ever since.
The Atlantic’s article “Rewriting Art History” by Jacoba Urist, discussed the change of the AP course, art history, to revise the racial and cultural bias’ found in the art world. The author elucidates the racial divide in AP art history is caused by the lack of significant cultural artworks. The College Board held a meeting to ration the art history curriculum, instead of a largely Eurocentric focus, but target on more substantial art cultures. This leaves more opportunity for teachers to discuss the “definition of art, how it changes, and why particular artworks acquire meaning”, all subjects that are required by higher college courses. Jacoba Urist reminds the reader women and colored artists aren’t usually in history
Watts, Steven. “The Young Artist as Social Visionary” The Romance of Real Life. Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1994. pp. 49-70.
Scottie Everett is in her last year of University to be an Artistic Curator as her mother wanted. She dreads wasting her years studying a subject she wasn't passionate about.
Art is a form of human expression. Art portrays various ideas, feelings such as love, happiness, boredom and sorrow. But sometimes, art is only considered as an extra elective within the school curriculum and just a waste of time. So here today at Palm Beach State college is an irritated professor, who also teaches at Palm Beach State college, Samantha Salzinger gave a speech on “The Importance of Art, ” presented on November 4, 2015, and she argues that art is an important subject and should deemed as a core class. Salzinger begins building her credibility with personal stories and reputable sources, convincing statistics and facts, and successfully engages the audiences
sing the hard work in art shows inspired me to come out of my shell. Still I often find myself getting knots to my throat and getting waves of nausea it when talking in class. I was convinced the world was coming down around me. My anxiety devoured me but
Unfamiliarity, in the broadest sense, can evoke a feeling of fear or anxiety. However, my unique cultural upbringing has made me comfortable with unfamiliarity, and eager to embrace differences among people with compassion and tolerance. I am the product of a cultural infusion—I was born in the United Kingdom to an English father, but was influenced by the Turkish customs of my mother. While living in England, I grew up eating dinner on the floor, listening to Turkish music on the radio, and waking up to a poster of Kemal Ataturk. I spent every summer living in Turkey where I learned the language, saw the way different people lived, and became familiar with the practices of Islam. At 14 years old I was immersed in yet another culture when I
Every fear I had resolved itself and for one of the first times in my life I felt I was in the right place. Then the question came back, what are you going to do with this degree? I thought about teaching, and remembered how the moments I spent in the art room left a lifelong impact on my life. That was it, I believed my purpose in life was to teach youth about the powers of art and signed up for a semester full of teaching courses. Half way through the semester I was told by a professor, “the arts will be cut from public schools so don't waste your
At the age of seven, my life changed forever. I was no longer living in my native country; I was now a fragment of the millions of immigrants who come to the United States in search of the American Dream. At the time, my father had recently lost his job and my mother was unemployed, which caused incredible financial stress for my family. My father decided to risk his life crossing the Rio Grande River for our family to have a better life and greater rewards.
Personal Narrative: The World The world is a messed up place and we are all stuck here until our lives are through, or until we choose to leave. It's strange that I go along with everything everyone tells me, such as that I should wear certain clothes or listen to certain songs. I often wonder why I do the things I do, but then I just realize that's who I am. People are confused about why they are here, and they don't understand what life is supposed to be about.
I was fifteen when it all began; the laughing, taunting, teasing, the confusion. It wasn’t always like this. I used to be happy.
I was sure that I had used my pencil to create the next Mona Lisa at the end of those seventy minutes. Yet, years later when my family cleaned out my art folder I couldn’t even tell what the items I was supposed to have drawn were. The picture looked as if it had been drawn on a boat in the middle of a storm having its curved lines in place of straight lines. It was as if the pencil had a mind of its own and what I intended for it to do just wasn’t on the agenda for that day. During my time in art class I continued this cycle. The cycle of not thinking that I could draw, to having an epiphany moment, to realizing that what I actually created was worthless. When I began to climb the mountain of hardships involved with music and acting I had to push my failure in art class to the
Witherbee, A. (2013). Counterpoint: Education, the Masses, and Art. Points Of View: Arts Funding, 6. Retrieved April 19,2014 , from http://search.ebscohost.com/login.aspx?direct=true&db=pwh&AN=12421040&site=pov-live
I am by myself wearing my blue jeans and an old flannel shirt. It is cool outside but I decided to leave my gloves at home, feeling comfortable with my warm shirt and my sturdy boots.
Tapping my fingers rigorously against my steering wheel to the beat of my song of choice, a sense of peace already starts to consume me. A long drive followed by the calming sounds of nature is exactly what I need after such a strenuous week I have previously endured. Though it’s relaxing, the music playing throughout my car is no match for the repetitive thoughts I have going through my mind. I’ve just lost my best friend, who has been there for me through 3 years of trials and tribulations of my life. I have no clue how to contain myself in a world where I’m without my other half, someone who has regularly proven to me that they know me better than I know myself. Someone who I thought I actually knew just as well. The amount of pain in my heart is unbearable, I feel as if I don’t know who I am anymore, like I have to create and build myself all over again. Letting all of your guards down to someone can be the most euphoric experience, in the sense that you have someone who understands you for who you really are. In contrast, it is probably the riskiest thing you could allow yourself to do. Letting my guards down is something I’ve always shown to be terrible at, my parents consistently trying to pry into my mind to find out what I’m even feeling or thinking about. I cruise around the windy road that oddly resembles my crazy life, each bend bringing out a new set of emotions and memories that put another crack in my soul. As I finally make it to the straight shot to Dawes Arboretum, I start to question why I ever thought I could completely open my heart to someone.