Why I started drawing
Kayla Clanton
Professor Carlo
English 101A
Due: Tuesday, September 23rd
The Influence of Art I was fortunate enough to spend the first 11 years of my life in Grand Rapids, Michigan: home of streetcars, freezing winters, and humid summers. My family and I lived in a standard sized cobblestone house surrounded by thick bristled green fir trees that stood so tall, and wide that my father was able to build my younger sister, Erinn and I a pint-sized tree house that was pink with lime green shutters that he managed to somehow wedge in between two of the giants. I went to an elementary school up the road by the name of Endeavor; our school did not require students to take an art class until the 5th grade. Summer had soon come to an end, which meant I was on my way into art. I didn’t think very highly of art class because of all of the bad experiences that I had from the years before, even just the thought of macaroni art, or adding paper mâché over thin waxy balloons was enough to make me cringe. I even tried begging the principle, Mrs. McDowell to make an exception. I offered to volunteer in the library in place of art. Principle McDowell was a thin middle aged woman with spindly fingers, and bucket like wavy blonde hair. She had been the principle at Endeavor ever since I had been in kindergarten, she knew me well and told me that I would do just fine, and sent me on my way. I watched the day melt down until the bell rang after lunch and recess signaling the start of art. I was one of the last to enter the room that was buzzing full of excited students. The smell of wet paint, pencil shavings, and dried Elmer’s glue rushed over me while I scanned the area for any possible friends. My eyes stopped at the class clown, Christian, sticking two crayons up his nose, ensuing the laughter of a few other students. Next to him was Brianna sitting quietly at the table fiddling with her pigtails. She was the closest person to a friend that I had there, and so with heavy feet
Professor Carlo
English 101A
Due: Tuesday, September 23rd
The Influence of Art I was fortunate enough to spend the first 11 years of my life in Grand Rapids, Michigan: home of streetcars, freezing winters, and humid summers. My family and I lived in a standard sized cobblestone house surrounded by thick bristled green fir trees that stood so tall, and wide that my father was able to build my younger sister, Erinn and I a pint-sized tree house that was pink with lime green shutters that he managed to somehow wedge in between two of the giants. I went to an elementary school up the road by the name of Endeavor; our school did not require students to take an art class until the 5th grade. Summer had soon come to an end, which meant I was on my way into art. I didn’t think very highly of art class because of all of the bad experiences that I had from the years before, even just the thought of macaroni art, or adding paper mâché over thin waxy balloons was enough to make me cringe. I even tried begging the principle, Mrs. McDowell to make an exception. I offered to volunteer in the library in place of art. Principle McDowell was a thin middle aged woman with spindly fingers, and bucket like wavy blonde hair. She had been the principle at Endeavor ever since I had been in kindergarten, she knew me well and told me that I would do just fine, and sent me on my way. I watched the day melt down until the bell rang after lunch and recess signaling the start of art. I was one of the last to enter the room that was buzzing full of excited students. The smell of wet paint, pencil shavings, and dried Elmer’s glue rushed over me while I scanned the area for any possible friends. My eyes stopped at the class clown, Christian, sticking two crayons up his nose, ensuing the laughter of a few other students. Next to him was Brianna sitting quietly at the table fiddling with her pigtails. She was the closest person to a friend that I had there, and so with heavy feet