The Hopeful Beginnings of Inspiration_Week 31

Well...

That’s what I say to myself when I can’t think of any other way to express my complete disgust with, really, anything of sorts.

Black and white- the very colors my life seems to revolve around these days. My mind is full of twenty- six letters and innumerable words, but my fingers are unable to move a pen in a way that makes the ink form my thoughts onto paper.

The rain quietly knocks on my window pane and leaves behind bitter tear- stains as I observe the grey world outside my little box of a home. Behind me, Pond arches her back and curls her duster- like tail outwards. She delicately places one paw in front of the other, and leans her head in towards my outstretched hand.

Darn cat, I think. Her blue eyes look searchingly into my own, almost as if she’s questioning my sanity. I had sat at my computer, journal in one hand and pen in the other, for the majority of my Friday night, attempting to write something- anything. But I couldn’t think of one thing, not one, that was worth wasting my time writing about. I was frustrated, I was tired, and I was really not feeling this whole “collegelifeisthebomb” thing at the moment.

I observed the books strewn at random across the jean quilt that lay on my bed. In between their pages lay romance and heartache, death and life, love and loss, mystery and intrigue, curiosity and boredom. My eyes were sore from skimming over the printed words again and again in my desperate search for something similar to that of inspiration. I wanted to find things, explore, discover. I wanted an epiphany of sorts, but I was standing on the edge of a broken bridge with a spark of hope that I could still cross over to the other side. What the other side had to offer to me, I really had no idea. Maybe it offered sympathy, compassion, or just an explanation.

I needed someone to tell me something I didn’t already know.

What I really needed was a sign- not the miraculous kind, but the literal kind. The kind of sign that hangs in the window of a store and blinks neon red lights.

Letters of the Mind_Entry 1_Week 30

For thirty weeks I have been faithful to writing on this blog.

For thirty weeks I have literally felt the need to rip my hair out in frustration.

And for thirty weeks I have yet to produce something actually worth reading, and something worth sharing.

Something that I feel is a tangible and a realistic part of who I am, what I think, and why I do the things that I often do. But I can't seem to put into words every idea that has ever crossed the vast universe that is my mind- I have trouble putting into words situations, relationships, feelings, emotions, and the very essence of life itself.

I hate that more than I could ever explain with twenty- six letters and an innumerable amount of words.

Perhaps I should write about what I have learned over the course of this week? Since it is only Monday, I will backtrack to my weekend adventure in the woods.

I went hiking with two of my friends, and halfway to our destination point, we came across a lone puppy who had been separated from its owner. We dialed the phone number on the dog's tag, and got in contact with a young man by the name of "Slava". As we were about to exchange addresses to return the dog, Slava's roommate walked by and realized whose dog was with us. The roommate's name was Alex, a young hippy who wore a tie-dye shirt and a straw hat adorned with a wild flower. He thanked us for our kindness, and proceeded to take the puppy back in the general direction of the national forest's parking lot.

I'm not sure what one can learn from such a story, except that puppies are the cutest creatures known to man, and that hippies apparently have roommates whose name sounds like "saliva".

Virtues_Entry 1_week 29

Sometimes I look up at the sky and wonder about what lies ahead of me. I think about the world and the people that live in it. I think of how people fight to be independent of society and each other when, realistically, they were already born as individuals- not cloned robots. I think of how every little occurrence can later become a conspiracy or a regret or a simple memory. I think of the past and what I did and look into the future with a faint heart and a conscience that is telling me that nothing is as it should be.

My parents told me that when I first came into the world, all I did was smile. I did not cry and I did not try to fight the world. I took it all in- the doctors, the bright lights, the room, and my parents. If I had been a boy my name would have been Benjamin, but God decided to make me a girl that would one day question the reason behind her existence. Born into a Christian home with Christian values can make any child inwardly rebellious and angry at the world when it tries to shape and mold her into someone she does not want to be.

In middle school, we were assigned an art project that involved researching the meaning behind our names. My friends were christened as a “pretty flower” or “beloved” or even a “princess”. According to the dictionary, I was “son of Kenneth; prince”. Of all people, why did my name have to mean that? After that mortifying experience, I was sure that my life was some sort of sick joke.

Society claims that our name and our appearance is what defines our identity. Sex and drugs and alcohol and parties and lies and cheating and failure and money is what this generation has been slapped in the face until our lips are crusted over with blood and our eyes are painted black and blue.

Our generation has become numb to all of our senses. We are helpless and only have one concern: ourselves. We are unable to sympathize with the emotions of others. We do not know how to help or support them. We have forgotten how to be honest and instead fill our mouths with lies and spit repulsive words into each other’s face.

I want that to stop.

Rid yourself of hate and anger and the desire for revenge. Replace it with empathy so as to be able to give consolation rather than misery.

Learn to accept rather than to despise your body along with your flaws because there will never be another you.

Always respect yourself. Do not bother to poison your body with drugs and alcohol and profanity and sex. I am not here to tell you what you can and cannot do with your body- it is your property. But remember that you can never get another one.

Glorify the successes of others rather than your own victories. One day you will receive the reward that comes from hard work alone. No one has bragging rights. Remember that people will see your talents through your actions and will be deaf to your words.  

You will only get what you give. Remain considerate despite differing personal views and opinions because when will two people ever think alike? Humans are like snowflakes… each one has its own intricate design.

Have the courage to overcome your fears and to always follow what you know to be true. Never compromise.

Persevere despite life’s disappoints and know that there is always a lesson to be learned from your mistakes.

Always speak the truth. Lying only leads to doubt and anguish.

I am not trying to be different because I already am. If you feel like a misfit, if you feel like a nobody… know that you are somebody. Somebody that can change the world for the better.

Society can leave us feeling worthless and religion and family and friends can attempt to define who we are, but hope always remains to give us the choice to choose. To choose our own virtues as well as our own vices.

When you step out into the world, the real world, and get a taste of its bitterness, remember to always smile. Smile like a newborn that hasn’t a single clue of what is to come. Because honestly- you don’t. And besides, smiling never hurt anyone. 

Sail Away_Entry 1_Week 28

I think that, sometimes, we let the worse of us get the best of us. I know I allow that to happen too often- sometimes it's on a daily basis, and other times it only occurs once in a while. But I don't like when it comes around, because it comes in waves caused by an ocean of emotions and self- hatred. A tsunami of self- inflicted pain and guilt rages inside of me, and oftentimes I am not quite sure how to deal with it... at least in a healthy manner.

I want to be happy, loving, and kind, but I feel that I am incapable of such things because of my eating disorder, my depression, and my self-harm/ suicidal tendencies... even if I have taught myself to get through such things. It is not an impossible feat to accomplish- it is just difficult.

I'm not putting my story out there to receive pity or sympathy- I just want you, me, really anyone- to know that you will be okay. And I am not referring to the kind of "okay" that just magically occurs from doing nothing- you have to do something; you have to have the desire to heal and to persevere through whatever you are going through in order to crawl out of the hole you are in. Once you've hit rock bottom, the only way out is up- we just have to be willing to climb.

We all deal with some form or another of a storm in our life- but I encourage you to never put up the white flag of defeat. The only flag you should ever allow yourself to put up is the sail on your ship that directs you towards safety, and a happy life.

Because, sometimes, we need to know when it is time to sail away.

The Handmaid's Tale: Passage Analysis (Tone, Part 15)_Entry 1_Week 27

Margaret Atwood implies that Offred, among many others under the authoritarian rule of the regime, have been brainwashed into viewing death and escape as a dangerous concept. They are made to adapt to murder and solidarity, and are to view it as an everyday thing- a normal thing. Atwood views it as repulsive, but she also refuses to believe in hope. She believes that “faith is only a word, embroidered”, and nothing more. It is just another concept.

“I consider these things idly. Each one of them seems the same size as all the other. Not one seems preferable. Fatigue is here, in my body, in my legs and eyes. That is what gets you in the end. Faith is only a word, embroidered.

… Behind me I feel her presence, my ancestress, my double, turning in midair under the chandelier, in her costume of stars and feathers, a bird stopped in flight, a woman made into an angel, waiting to be found. By me this time. How could I have believed I was alone in here? There were always two of us. Get it over, she says. I’m tired of this melodrama, I’m tired of keeping silent. There’s no one you can protect, your life has value to no one. I want it finished.”

(Page 292- 293)

The Handmaid's Tale: Passage Analysis (Part 10) _Entry 1_Week 26

            Offred, in the years previous to the new government, had experienced the changes made regarding the workforce and how paper money was transformed into the value of plastic cards and then the Compubank. The alterations were minor, and hardly noticeable, but they occurred for a certain reason. People were meant to be oblivious to the fact that the current government was slowly deteriorating, and a new authoritarian was rising up, leading civilization towards the society she is forced to live in at the present.

“All those women having jobs: hard to imagine, now, but thousands of them had jobs… It was considered the normal thing. Now it’s like remembering the paper money… You had to take those pieces of paper with you when you went shopping, though by the time I was nine or ten most people used plastic cards.  Not for the groceries though, that came later. It seems so primitive, totemistic even, like cowry shells. I must have used that kind of money myself… before everything went on the Compubank.

            I guess that’s how they were able to do it, in the way they did, all at once, without anyone knowing beforehand.”

Graduation Speech ( I am really hoping this is my last and final draft Lord help me)_Entry 2_Week 25

I tugged nervously on the sleeves of my shirt and clasped my hands behind my back. Don’t look them in the eye- just look above their heads. I struggled to remember what Mr. Burge had advised me to do when it came to public speaking. As I began my persuasive speech for my sophomore English class, I fumbled my words within the first paragraph. In my anger, I accidentally let a little too persuasive of a word roll off my tongue and into the listening ears of my classmates. Mr. Burge’s jaw hit the floor in shock, and by that point I had persuaded myself that it would be best to hide under a rock.

            The truth of the matter is, we have all made mistakes at one point or another in our life. Yet, despite our shortcomings, we were accepted. Our teachers and our school saw something special, something different, and something wonderful about each and every one of us. They saw the potential that some of us couldn’t see in ourselves, and they gave us the opportunity to be a part of one of the best educational and vocational programs in Northern Nevada.

We have worked hard to be where we are at now, and after four years, we are finally at the finish line of our high school career and the starting line of the rest of our lives. As a class, we have created community service projects, received hands- on experience through internships and job shadowing, and have competed in various organizations such as SkillsUSA, ProStart, HOSA, FFA, and NASA Rover. As individuals, we have endured thirteen years of emotional breakdowns, inadequate pencil stubs, crumpled up pieces of paper, and have struggled to stay awake long into the night just to finish an assignment.  

             We were considered to be the “different” kids- the ones who would rather repair an old bike than buy a new one; the ones who prefer to spend their Saturday night learning how to bake; the ones who were determined to change the future.  We were the kids who weren’t quite sure what we wanted to do, or if we could even do it, but we knew we wanted to do something. Something great.

            Life isn’t always going to be easy- and it never will go exactly as you planned. But that’s alright, and you’ll be alright. Just remember to always do what makes you happy. Remain different, remain curious, and the rest will fall in place.

I wish each and every one of you the best of luck. Not only are we the graduating class of 2014, but we are the kids who made it.

Moving_Entry 1_Week 25

Moving equates to:

1. Creating boxes out of cardboard by way of folding and the assistance of duct tape. Then place inanimate objects into box. You realize that you never really had any use for them in the first place, but are hopeful that perhaps in the new place you could find a use for said objects.

2. Stress. Enough said.

3. Anger. Refer back to stress.

4. Exhaustion. Refer back to boxes, stress, and anger.

After the entire moving process is finally over, you finally get to sleep in your new room. New wall placements, new window placements, new closet placement, and new hallway placement. You think you will be fine- it's nothing new that you haven't experienced before. Then once the lights are turned off, and you're snuggled under your covers, that is when you begin to notice things. Such as the shadow in the corner that looks like a monster out of the Scooby- Doo cartoons, or the sudden creaking of the wooden floor panel in the hallway. Your mind begins to play tricks on you, and you begin to wonder if your house or even the neighborhood might be haunted. You spend the half the night worrying and the other half trying to fall asleep.

As the insanely bright rays of the morning sun shine through your new and spotless windows, you realize that you have survived your first night.

And. It. Will. All. Be. Fine. From. Here. On.

P.S. I do not know how to feel about moving this upcoming weekend, considering the fact tarantulas and scorpions are going to be my nature- neighbors.

P.P.S. Call an ambulance in advance in the unlikely case I will have a heart- attack upon coming across a nature- neighbor.

Thinking_Entry 2_Week 24

I think I think too much because my thoughts tend to overwhelm me and I can't think straight. At all. I would really appreciate it if I was not one of those people that has conspiracy theories and memories and ideas and stories and images and words transmitting through electrical and chemical signals from neuron to neuron at 100,000 per second in my brain.

 It just feels like too much at times.

I hate the kind of days that feel like an eternity. They don't only look gloomy and dark, but it also feels that way. Kind of like you're in a cage that you can't escape, because the bars are invisible and there is no key to turn in the lock. But you can still feel the enclosed space. You only have so much air to breath in and breath back out through your heart and to your lungs.

I feel like a game piece that keeps receiving the wrong card, and the dice, which are my fate, are continually directing me to the wrong spot on the board. Maybe my life is another version of the Game of Thrones, minus the hatred, blood, and love affairs. I suppose I can only relate to that show in the sense that nothing works out the way it should, and everything is more complicated than it should be.

And, speaking of complicated, I would really appreciate it if certain people took the time out of their day to explain to me certain situations. For instance, more than half the time I cannot and will not understand a subtle hint. You will have to spell  things out for me if you really want me to understand the gravity of this... thing. I don't even know what to call it. Should I even consider giving it a title?

And this is why I hate days like this. I think too much for my own good.

Graduation Speech (Final Draft?)_Entry 1_Week 24

I tugged nervously on the sleeves of my shirt and clasped my hands behind my back. Don’t look them in the eye- just look above their heads. I struggled to remember what Mr. Burge had advised me to do when it came to public speaking. As I began my persuasive speech for my sophomore English class, I fumbled my words within the first paragraph. In my anger, I accidentally let a little too persuasive of a word roll off my tongue and into the listening ears of my classmates. Mr. Burge’s jaw hit the floor in shock, and by that point I had persuaded myself that it would be best to hide under a rock.

            The truth of the matter is, we have all made mistakes at one point or another in our life. Yet, despite our shortcomings, we were accepted. Our teachers and our school saw something special, something different, and something wonderful about each and every one of us. They saw the potential that some of us couldn’t see in ourselves, and they gave us the opportunity to be a part of one of the best educational programs in Northern Nevada.

We have worked hard to be where we are at now, and after four years, we are finally at the finish line of our high school career and the starting line of the rest of our lives. As a class, we have created community service projects, received hands- on experience through internships and job shadowing, and have competed in various organizations such as SkillsUSA, ProStart, HOSA, FFA, and NASA Rover. As individuals, we have endured thirteen years of emotional breakdowns, inadequate pencil stubs, crumpled up pieces of paper, and have struggled to stay awake long into the night just to finish an assignment.  

             We were considered to be the “different” kids- the ones who would rather repair an old bike than buy a new one; the ones who prefer to spend their Saturday night learning how to bake; the ones who were determined to change the future.  We were the kids who weren’t quite sure what we wanted to do, or if we could even do it, but we knew we wanted to do something. Something great.

            Life isn’t always going to be easy- and it never will go exactly as you planned. But that’s alright, and you’ll be alright. Just remember to always do what makes you happy. Remain different, remain curious, and the rest will fall in place.

I wish each and every one of you the best of luck. Not only are we the graduating class of 2014, but we are the kids who made it.

Sonny's Blues_Entry 2_Week 23

Sonny's Blues- a short story by James Baldwin, depicting the lives of two brothers who are polar opposites in the way they think and go about their day-to-day activities.

The eldest brother, whose name is never stated, is an algebra teacher with a wife and three children- one of whom dies unexpectedly at the young age of two. He fought in the war and made something, at least according to him, of his life. His younger brother, Sonny, is a different story. He is like a lost puppy wandering aimlessly around, attempting to find something that will make sense to him- that will bring him peace. Sonny believes that peace can be found in music, specifically the genre of the blues, hence the title of the story. But in order to feel "alive", Sonny feels that he still needs something more, and he turns to drugs as an outlet. His life spirals out of control and takes a turn for the deep end, making his older brother realize just how much Sonny has been and is still going through- that the internal civil war within his heart is slowly poisoning him.

The two brothers fight- a lot. They argue over what Sonny is doing with his life, what is reasonable and unreasonable, and how heroin is affecting his life negatively and why he turned to it in the first place. The older brother just can't seem to understand why Sonny does what he does, and he can even cope with himself at times. But when Sonny convinces him to watch him play the blues with his band at a local nightclub, only then does the brother begin to understand the pain and loss Sonny and himself have felt throughout the years, and he became aware "that the world waited outside, as hungry as a tiger, and that trouble stretched above us, longer than the sky".

The Exit_Entry 1_Week 23

It is like a distant yet distinct exit sign, the bright red light piercing through your eyes into the inner recesses of your mind, letting you know there is a way out... but you don't exactly want to make the effort to leave. You always have the option of walking down the steps and opening that door to a whole new realm, but the thought of it is both slightly disorientating and terrifying.

You can't seem to find beauty in life anymore- in living. Everything is black and white and all of the incandescent colors have faded. The background of your existence makes you want to switch off the light so you don't have to look at it anymore and observe the scratch marks placed sporadically across the surface of the personal mural that is everything you are and have done.

I know what it's like to stand in the middle of the kitchen at 3 p.m. in the afternoon, and to just stare with a numbness inside of you at an open drawer of knives, trying to decide which one will end it all the quickest. I know what it's like to beat yourself up and to wrap your fingers around your neck, wondering how much longer the oxygen will refuse to stop passing through and out of your lungs to keep your glass heart from breaking. And I know what it's like to walk back and forth on the boundary line that separates idealism from realism, making you wonder what is worth believing in.

If anything, you are. You are worth believing in yourself, because you truly are more beautiful and more wonderful and more extraordinary and more worth it than you could ever fathom in your life time.

So, please, don't measure your chronology by determining the hour it should be cut.

You. Are. Worth. The. Fight.

The Last Night of Camp_Entry 2_Week 22

It was the last night of camp, and all of the kids just weren't feeling the whole “Jesus thing”. I know I certainly didn't.  I just felt like giving up for a lot of reasons, and I didn't feel like anything would work. Well that night, one of the youth leaders had us stand out in the field away from all of the lights, and he had us look up at the stars. He recited a passage out of the Bible about how God knows the name of each star, so how could He possibly not care about us? And then suddenly this kid next to me started crying- and he had acted like one of those cool and tough guys the entire time. I was literally shocked. They started praying over him, and then I started crying my eyes out and I didn't even know why. Then the youth leaders started praying for everyone, and I was just standing there hugging my best friend, Kelsi, and crying on her shoulder. I hadn't told anyone but Kelsi about my issues, but I felt the need for prayer and healing. She was able to get a youth leader’s attention, and then everyone circled around me and asked me what was going on. I finally told them what I had been going through for years, and they just prayed and prayed for me. It was like a burden had been lifted off of my shoulders. My youth pastor asked me how I felt after they had finished praying, and without even thinking I said that it was the first time I had ever felt loved in my life. And I didn't even realize that I had felt so broken. We all just kept praying, and then one of friends suddenly saw a group of angels standing nearby, and two others saw this gold flash of light fall off of a girl’s back as she was being prayed over. And then at one point I looked up, and I saw a shooting star- but it left an emerald streak across the sky. And God’s throne has an emerald color on it, and some people even saw the sky itself turn that color.

Basically it was a night of healing, and it was the first time I ever felt loved. It was literally the best night of my life. 

Do Not Panic_Entry 1_Week 22

40.
45.
50.

Oops. I was, once again, speeding over the limit. I know it is against the law to speed (obviously), but it can be so exciting, too. When you are driving on a long stretch of road, with hardly any cars around or sign of life, the last thing that you want to do is to drive like your 70 year- old and legally blind grandma in a traffic jam. It is very tempting to press down hard on the gas pedal and watch as the speedometer slowly rises as the wheels pull you forward faster and faster.

And then, from out of the corner of your eye, you suddenly see a black car with white doors and lights on-top of the roof pull out from a side street.

The first thing that goes through any teenager's mind, especially newly licensed drivers, is C.R.A.P.

You begin to go through the list of things of what you need to do when a police officer decides to turn on his lights to signal for you to pull over. 1) Keep both of your hands on the wheel. 2) Mentally locate insurance information. 3) Think of a great excuse as to why you were speeding in the first place. Basically, make up a sob- story. 4) Be really apologetic. 5) If numbers three and four happen to not work, tell the cop you should have known better because you're related to a cop. 6) If numbers three, four, AND five happen to fail, accept your ticket and do not cry until you have privacy.

Do. Not. Panic. I removed my foot from the gas and placed it on the brakes, attempting to slow down the car without it seeming too obvious. The cop car pulled up behind me, and slowly followed me down the deserted street. I gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white, panic slowly starting to twist my stomach into a knot, and then it happened.

The cop car turned into the adjoining lane, and waved as he passed by.

I sighed with relief- I barely escaped a speeding ticket.

At least I barely escaped a speeding ticket today, I thought, as I once again pressed down hard on the accelerator.

40.
45.
50...

Photography As Art: Part 5_Entry 2_Week 21

The general public slowly began to view photography as more than a simple snap- shot of the surrounding environment and of the world that they lived in. Observant photographers utilized lighting and printing to make the ordinary appear to be a “monumental structure” (Olsen, 1). However, photography was not used specifically for displaying beauty and artistic skills. It was used for photojournalism, advertisements, news stories, political campaigns, stories of the past and of the present… photos played a key role in influencing the American way of life. Pictures were used to persuade people- they believed what they saw. Photography was a snap-shot of the truth for society.        

   

“‘New media’ (video and computer) disrupt the old-fashioned divisions into painting, sculpture, and prints and drawings” (Olsen, 1). Photography has been affected by modern technology as well. Computer programs such as Photoshop and Illustrator can be used by anyone to alter the graphics of an image. A few people of current generations believe that takes away the originality and artistic feel to a picture. “My 10-year-old cousin can add some contrast, sharpen, darken the corners, and shift the colors with ease. If you put yourself through hours of this drudgery, you’re no more of an artist than the lab operator at Wal-Mart” (Thripp, 1).

Personally, I consider photography to be another form of art. It requires skill to use proper lighting, angels, and colors as well as imagination, creativity, and patience. It affects different people in different ways, and relays a message similar to that of painted art. “Photography may be the new kid on the block, but the whole neighborhood is changing fast” (Olsen, 1). 

Works Cited

Beckman, Tad. “Photography as Art.” HMC. Harvey Mudd College, 24   Nov. 2004. Web. 26 Sep. 2012.

Olsen, Chuck. “American Photography- A Century of Images: Art.”    KNPB. Kodak, CPB, PBS, National Endowment for the Arts,    The Arthur Vining Davis Foundations, and the   George Gun    Foundation. Web. 26 Sep. 2012.

Orvell, Miles. American Photography. Oxford: Oxford University     Press, 2003. Print.

The New Webster’s Library of Practical Information. New York: Lexicon Publications, Inc., 1990. Print.

Thripp, Richard. “10 Reasons Why Photography Sucks and Isn’t an    Art Form.” Thripp Photography. Richard Thripp, 20 June   2008. Web. 26 Sep. 2012.

Petition to Ban Valentine's Day_Entry 1_Week 21

Dear Whoever Decided Valentine's Day Was A Great Idea,

I absolutely hate February 14th. Every year, 365 days later, it comes around like a big slap to the face with a baseball bat. No, I do not dislike it because I'm single. No, I do not dislike it because couples do the sweetest things for each other on that day and I have to buy myself cheap chocolate. I hate that day because it singles out the one emotion that keeps the human race going. It sets it aside for only one day of the year, and then narrows down that day to "boyfriend/girlfriend couples only".

Love isn't an emotion, feeling, whatever you want to call it- meant only for two people who have romantic feelings for each other. Love can be felt between best friends, mothers and daughters, fathers and sons, grandparents and grandchildren. Why do we feel like those kinds of relationships have to be excluded? And why can't it be celebrated every day of the year? It is more special to surprise someone with something sweet rather than to have it be expected of them on that one day, and it is more sweet to let someone know that you love them more than once. Even if it's just your best friend telling you that they appreciate you.

Yes. I get that dinner and heart- shaped chocolate and over- priced teddy bears are possibly cute, but seriously, don't be surprised if I'm content with just watching Disney movies with my friends and making cookies, because that can be just as good as a romantic dinner for two.

Because love is love, and it can come in all forms.

So spread it around to everyone. Don't let anyone feel un-loved any day of the year.

Sincerely,

That One Weird Girl With No Life

Photography As Art: Part 4_Entry 2_Week 20

“…Many painters valued photography- but chiefly as a tool, useful to supply an image for an artist to work from in constructing a painting” (Orvell, 81). From the mid- to late nineteenth century, artists would use the view through the camera lens to mirror an image and to paint over the scene. The art of painting eventually broke away from realism and evolved into forms of Impressionism, Cubism, Surrealism, and Abstraction. Photography has been influenced by stylistic changes in painting as well as by independent inspirations (Orvell, 81-82).

            For one French painter, Paul Delaroche, he considered the art of painting to be lost since the aid of the camera to paint pictures. “From today, painting is dead,” he declared (Orvell, 81). On the contrary, photographer Alfred Stieglitz believed that photography was merely another form of art. He had a “desire to elevate photography to the level of the fine arts, combined with a belief in the democratic potential of the medium to reach out beyond the single print to a larger audience” (Orvell, 87). Stieglitz founded the Camera Work, a magazine that argued his belief that “photography should stand among the other arts an equal, publishing… the work of the major Pictorialists who were part of his own exclusive Photo- Secessionist circle, along with the work of the new French painters and sculptors whose Cubist innovations were changing the nature of art” (Orvell, 87).

It was only after the turn of the century that photography began to breach the walls of the gallery and museum world in America, and even then with limited success. Now, however, photographs can sell for six figures — not in the same league as the millions for a Van Gogh painting, but not exactly chump change either — and be presented in fine art museums, not industrial expositions (Olsen, 1).

Works Cited

Beckman, Tad. “Photography as Art.” HMC. Harvey Mudd College, 24   Nov. 2004. Web. 26 Sep. 2012.

Olsen, Chuck. “American Photography- A Century of Images: Art.”    KNPB. Kodak, CPB, PBS, National Endowment for the Arts,    The Arthur Vining Davis Foundations, and the   George Gun    Foundation. Web. 26 Sep. 2012.

Orvell, Miles. American Photography. Oxford: Oxford University     Press, 2003. Print.

The New Webster’s Library of Practical Information. New York: Lexicon Publications, Inc., 1990. Print.

Thripp, Richard. “10 Reasons Why Photography Sucks and Isn’t an    Art Form.” Thripp Photography. Richard Thripp, 20 June   2008. Web. 26 Sep. 2012.

My Second Attempt At Writng A Graduation Speech_Entry 1_Week 20

“What.” W-H-A-T. A simple, four letter word used in the English language on a regular day-to-day basis. In the fourth grade, I did not know how to spell that word, let along many others similar to it. I struggled to figure out what nine multiplied by two equaled, and my social skills were horrendous due to the fact that I was too shy to interact with children my own age. If someone had told me when I was younger that I would have the opportunity to attend the best school in Washoe County, I would have found it very hard to believe them. I thought I was an unintelligent kid who was going nowhere in life. But when I came here, to AACT, both my teachers and my classmates have shown me that I have the potential to lead, to think for myself, and to make something of my future.

             We were considered to be the “different” kids- the ones who drew in the margins of our homework papers; the ones who would rather repair an old bike than buy a new one; the ones who would rather spend their Saturday night learning how to bake a new recipe that they discovered rather than partying.  We were the kids who weren’t quite sure what we wanted to do, or if we could even do it, but we knew we wanted to do something. Something great.

We often question ourselves, wondering if we are brilliant enough, gorgeous enough, talented enough, and fabulous enough. One such person, by the name of Marianne Williamson, responds to human’s constant negative thought- process with a brilliant answer: “… Who are you not to be (brilliant, gorgeous, talented, and fabulous)? ...  As we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”

Every graduating student in this room had to endure the nerve- wracking interview process in hopes of getting accepted into this wonderful five star career- technical based high school, just so we could have a chance of being a part of one of the best educational programs in Northern Nevada. We were accepted because the teachers and the school saw something special, something different, and something wonderful about each and every one of us. They saw the potential that some of us couldn’t see in ourselves.

             We have worked hard to be where we are at now, and after four years, we are finally at the finish line of our high school career and the starting line of the rest of our lives. As a class, we have created community service projects, have received hands- on experience through internships and job shadowing, and have competed in various organizations such as SkillsUSA, ProStart, HOSA, FFA, and Moon Buggy. As individuals, we have endured twelve years of emotional breakdowns, inadequate pencil stubs, crumpled up pieces of paper, and have had late night coffee shots to help keep us awake in order to finish that one essay we only remembered to do at 11 p.m.

Life isn’t always going to be easy- and it certainly isn’t ever going to go exactly as you planned. But that’s alright, and you’ll be alright. Just remember to always do what makes you happy, and the rest will fall in place.

I wish each and every one of you the best of luck. Not only are we the class of 2014, but we are the graduates of we made it.
 

Photography As Art: Part 3_Entry 2_Week 19

“…Many painters valued photography- but chiefly as a tool, useful to supply an image for an artist to work from in constructing a painting” (Orvell, 81). From the mid- to late nineteenth century, artists would use the view through the camera lens to mirror an image and to paint over the scene. The art of painting eventually broke away from realism and evolved into forms of Impressionism, Cubism, Surrealism, and Abstraction. Photography has been influenced by stylistic changes in painting as well as by independent inspirations (Orvell, 81-82).

            For one French painter, Paul Delaroche, he considered the art of painting to be lost since the aid of the camera to paint pictures. “From today, painting is dead,” he declared (Orvell, 81). On the contrary, photographer Alfred Stieglitz believed that photography was merely another form of art. He had a “desire to elevate photography to the level of the fine arts, combined with a belief in the democratic potential of the medium to reach out beyond the single print to a larger audience” (Orvell, 87). Stieglitz founded the Camera Work, a magazine that argued his belief that “photography should stand among the other arts an equal, publishing… the work of the major Pictorialists who were part of his own exclusive Photo- Secessionist circle, along with the work of the new French painters and sculptors whose Cubist innovations were changing the nature of art” (Orvell, 87).

It was only after the turn of the century that photography began to breach the walls of the gallery and museum world in America, and even then with limited success. Now, however, photographs can sell for six figures — not in the same league as the millions for a Van Gogh painting, but not exactly chump change either — and be presented in fine art museums, not industrial expositions (Olsen, 1). 

Works Cited

Beckman, Tad. “Photography as Art.” HMC. Harvey Mudd College, 24   Nov. 2004. Web. 26 Sep. 2012.

Olsen, Chuck. “American Photography- A Century of Images: Art.”    KNPB. Kodak, CPB, PBS, National Endowment for the Arts,    The Arthur Vining Davis Foundations, and the   George Gun    Foundation. Web. 26 Sep. 2012.

Orvell, Miles. American Photography. Oxford: Oxford University     Press, 2003. Print.

The New Webster’s Library of Practical Information. New York: Lexicon Publications, Inc., 1990. Print.

Thripp, Richard. “10 Reasons Why Photography Sucks and Isn’t an    Art Form.” Thripp Photography. Richard Thripp, 20 June   2008. Web. 26 Sep. 2012.

The Worse Graduation Speech That You'll Ever Read_ Entry 1_ Week 19

For the past eighteen years, our lives have been pretty smooth. Mom has faithfully made your chocolate-chip pancakes for breakfast and dad has been your personal ATM machine ensuring that you stay in the green. Friends have been ever faithful in keeping alive the memory of that time you got hit in the face with a dodge ball in P.E., and teachers have been even more faithful in ensuring our graduation rate is one- hundred percent.

As individuals, we have endured twelve years of emotional breakdowns, inadequate pencil stubs, crumpled up pieces of paper (at this moment Mr. Burge would normally make the statement that this could be a symbol of frustration), and have had late night coffee shots to help keep us awake in order to finish that one essay we only remembered to do at 11 p.m. As a class, we’re here. In this auditorium. In these gowns. After four years of hard, well- earned work. We came to AACT in search of a great education, and in return we now have a better chance at a great future.

A future filled with hope and dreams and accomplishments. And hot pockets. Because I highly doubt that any of us will make our first million until our mid-twenties- at the latest. But don’t allow yourself to be filled with greed for material things. Life isn’t always about getting the girl or even becoming a world- renowned film director… it is about doing what makes you happy and sharing that happiness with the people around you.

As Marianne Williamson once said: “We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? ...  As we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”

Not only are we the class of 2014, but we are the graduates of we made it.

Photography As Art: Part 2_Entry 2_Week 18

Art- so went the argument- requires the workings of the hand, in service to the artist’s imagination; it is not a merely literal record of reality. As long as photographers were using the camera to create pictures that imitated the canons and themes of the fine arts, the medium could go only so far in establishing its claim. To demonstrate that photography was an art, photographers must overcome the mechanical nature of the medium and exhibit the photographic print as a handmade object (Orvell, 83-84).

            The use of angels, lighting, and color are major contributors to the surreal feeling some photographers want to give viewers and critics alike. Pictures were first used to depict scenes of everyday reality, but now are becoming more popular in staging realms of bizarre imagery and fantasy (Olsen, 1). Similarly, art requires the use of the same techniques except in a different manner. Painters must utilize various shades of color (their use of creating “light”) in order to obtain a three- dimensional ambiance to their picture. Additionally, angels are essential to creating depth and color provides a mix of emotions to audiences. For example, dark tints of color give off a sense of evil or depression as opposed to bright colors which give off a sense of happiness or lightheartedness. Pictures demand corresponding attention of the eye when taking a photograph.

To encourage people that photography should be considered art, photographers would experiment in more ways than one to emphasize their views concerning the controversy. Photographers would use gum- bichromate to soften the surface of a print, or tone a picture that resulted in a sliver or golden hue. Certain pictures were purposefully taken to depict a dreamy, soft- focused view. The surfaces of negatives were occasionally scratched in order to look like an engraving had been etched onto the picture. Photographers believed this revealed “the artist’s hand at work” (Orvell, 84).

Works Cited

Beckman, Tad. “Photography as Art.” HMC. Harvey Mudd College, 24   Nov. 2004. Web. 26 Sep. 2012.

Olsen, Chuck. “American Photography- A Century of Images: Art.”    KNPB. Kodak, CPB, PBS, National Endowment for the Arts,    The Arthur Vining Davis Foundations, and the   George Gun    Foundation. Web. 26 Sep. 2012.

Orvell, Miles. American Photography. Oxford: Oxford University     Press, 2003. Print.

The New Webster’s Library of Practical Information. New York: Lexicon Publications, Inc., 1990. Print.

Thripp, Richard. “10 Reasons Why Photography Sucks and Isn’t an    Art Form.” Thripp Photography. Richard Thripp, 20 June   2008. Web. 26 Sep. 2012.

Sincerely, I Don't Know What To Write_ Entry 1_ Week 18

Dear Whoever is Reading This:

I sincerely do not know what to write about. My mind is like a blank canvas at the moment that is lacking inspiration and color. I could always write about anything, because words can describe everything. But, unfortunately, at this moment in time... I have nothing.

Perhaps I could write about how a crack in the wall reminds me of Doctor Who and the impossibility of time being ruptured throughout the universe.  I could write about how angry I am that my headphones are refusing to work, and that I cannot simply watch any of my favorite television series without sound. I could also write about how hungry I am and how good a burger and a milkshake sounds at the moment, but that would only make me more hungry- even though the kitchen is literally down the hallway from my room and I am too lazy to get up and make myself something.

I could write a review on John Green's book, "The Fault in Our Stars", but that requires thinking and my brain cells are currently not functioning properly.

How do authors and poets and speakers come up with the right words to say? I never can think of anything creative or thought- provoking.

Maybe it is because at least two hundred and fifty words are required for me to write for each blog, and to be honest I am not intelligent enough to hash out two hundred and fifty words of pure savvy. 

I feel like I am on a ranting rampaging. But I really am not. To be honest I am attempting to fill up enough blank space with every letter of the alphabet until this Word document informs me that I have reached my goal of two hundred and fifty. 

Oh, look, I am at two hundred and ninety- nine plus words now.

Sincerely, 

What am I doing with my life?

Photography As Art: Part 1_Entry 2_Week 17

“There are three fundamental components of what we call art. First, is the artist; second, is the medium; and third, is the art work. All three, clearly, are interrelated” (Beckman, 1).      

 

When people first hear the word “art”, they involuntarily think of the stereotypical artist wearing a beret hat holding a paint brush in one hand and a painting palette covered in vibrant colors in the other. If the word “photography” is mentioned, the general public will have an image in their minds similar to that of either a camera or photos. Do they, however, think of the significance behind those two words? Do people ever wonder how or could “art” and “photography” possibly relate? Could a photographer also be considered an “artist”?

Photographer Edward Weston said, "Photography as a creative expression - or what you will - must be 'seeing' plus: seeing alone would mean factual recording - the illustrator of catalogues does that. The 'plus' is the basis of all arguments on 'what is art'" (Beckman, 1). Beckman, author of the web article, “Photography as Art”, argues that “what the artist brings to the audience is her response to the subject and not the subject itself.” Both photography and art are not simple displays of the world, but rather are communicating a message (Beckman, 1).

According to The New Webster’s Library of Practical Information, the term “art” simply means “the use of the imagination to make things of aesthetic significance”. Photography is “the art or process of producing photographs”, and an artist is “a person who uses deliberate skill in making things of beauty” (Webster’s Dictionary, 22, 301). Is it possible to be an artist who creates art with the simple stroke of a brush and a click of a camera button? Photography and art conjointly require imagination, creativity, and the skill to create a commonplace object into a thing of beauty.

Works Cited

Beckman, Tad. “Photography as Art.” HMC. Harvey Mudd College, 24   Nov. 2004. Web. 26 Sep. 2012.

Olsen, Chuck. “American Photography- A Century of Images: Art.”    KNPB. Kodak, CPB, PBS, National Endowment for the Arts,    The Arthur Vining Davis Foundations, and the   George Gun    Foundation. Web. 26 Sep. 2012.

Orvell, Miles. American Photography. Oxford: Oxford University     Press, 2003. Print.

The New Webster’s Library of Practical Information. New York: Lexicon Publications, Inc., 1990. Print.

Thripp, Richard. “10 Reasons Why Photography Sucks and Isn’t an    Art Form.” Thripp Photography. Richard Thripp, 20 June   2008. Web. 26 Sep. 2012.

Why Does It Matter_Entry 1_Week 17

If I could honestly explain why half the things that are rolling carelessly around in my head bother me to the point I would rather walk on a tight rope across a fiery abyss than lay in my bed and think about them, I would not know what to say. Maybe it is the fact that I am afraid of facing what lies ahead of me and leaving the past behind me. Maybe it is the fact that I prefer to focus on the present, now, instead of constantly worrying about everything else that could and should and might possibly happen if I do or don’t do certain things.

For example, the idea of going to college just seems so bland to me. Taking another couple years to set aside specifically for educational purposes comes off as such a chore to me- not that I couldn’t do it, but it’s just that I am not interested. Why should I pursue something that doesn’t particularly interest me in the first place? How is that getting me to where I “need” to be in life?

Sure, that could always get me a great job that pays well so I can save up for a comfortable retirement, but in all honesty if that is what life is about- going through the same damn routine that everyone else zombies their way on through, then I don’t want any part of it.

But thanks to my dad, it looks like I will have to do it.