Jasper Johns, a famous twentieth century pop artist, once said, “Art is much less important than life, but what a poor life without it.” [1] What would my life entail if I were to completely extinguish my fiery passion for art?

I relentlessly scrutinized this question as I began to put the puzzle pieces of my life together. The answer came to me when I added a crucial piece to that puzzle: the day I disregarded my parent’s wishes and secured my space at UT as a Sociology major in the College of Liberal Arts. 

Me Hugging The UT Tower During My Tour

The feelings of pride and despair overtook my body as I stood at the mailbox and read the letter indicating that I was accepted to UT as a student in the Liberal Arts School. I was unsure of how I felt about this letter. I had my heart set on going to the University of Texas to study Art History. This bittersweet feeling was the product of a particularly embarrassing moment I experienced one week before I checked the mailbox. I sat in the Undergraduate Advising Office at the Art School for an interview with the Art History advisor. I was a nervous and anxious high-school senior who observed her peers being accepted into the program days after they sent in their application. I scheduled the appointment in hopes of proving to the Department that I was qualified to study Art History. Thirty minutes into the interview, I was informed that I was rejected from the program two weeks after I applied, but the department forgot to send me the rejection letter. I was crushed.

My Boyfriend and Me At My Graduation, Before I Embark On My Future.

The feeling of rejection and failure did not subside when I received my acceptance letter into UT for Sociology and later decided to become a longhorn. That feeling constantly resurfaced in the months ahead when being attacked by my parent’s for not attending SMU to study medicine.

That impromptu decision led me to realize that the puzzle of my life would not exist if it were not for my love of art and art history. Art is the fire within my soul, and if I were to extinguish that fire I would have no purpose; I would be one of those who “lose their way, every step they take…They are ever in alarm or in transport.”[2]

My decision to attend The University of Texas despite the crushing realization that I was not admitted to the College of Fine Arts, is comparable to the complexity of an impressionist painting. When viewing the painting up-close, it is impossible to distinguish the subject in its entirety. However, when you view the painting from a distance, and look at the whole composition, the overall effect is cohesive. My decision to attend UT is just a broken brushstroke of unmixed color in comparison to the meaning of the entire painting: my pilgrimage to study Art and Art History.

            I realized that studying Art and Art History is how I am going to make my impression on the world after considering the most trivial of events in my life as “many things at once as one whole…referring them severally to their true place in the universal system…understanding their respective values and determining their mutual dependence.” [3] The seemingly inconsequential recollections of my unified past have induced the rekindling of this passion. 

My Dad and I at the Lake

I did not have a typical childhood. I was the product of a generation not inundated with tranquilizing, technological remedies that replaced creativity and imagination. I spent a majority of my time cavorting outside in Michigan: making snowmen and igloos in the snow, playing hockey and building architectural skyscrapers using pebbles, dirt and sticks. I used boxes to make forts and would go on adventures in the forest behind my house. Being the only girl in the neighborhood, I was overwhelmed with the prospect that the sports were the treasured pastime. I was taught at a young age how to make a lay-up, how to shoot a soccer ball, how to catch a fly ball: I had this uncanny ability to be able to pick up a sport as though I had been practicing for long periods of time. My Dad encouraged me to participate in sports, for he thought that was my strength. Like any parent, he only wanted to see his child succeed. Sports became the glue that held our relationship together.

The only art I was exposed to as a child was what my Dad considered to be the art form of sports. However, when I was in third grade, the dilapidated shack that was a sorry excuse for my school finally hired an art teacher. To this day I can remember the first time I brought home my painting of a koala bear and gave it to my mom as a gift. She framed it and hung it in her office. This outwardly irrelevant moment in my life contributed to the sequence of events that led me to discover my passion.

The significance of my first exposure to art became slightly evident when my love for sports dwindled with the move to Austin, Texas. With the constant injuries and the increasing competition, sports were no longer enjoyable for me. As much as I hate to admit it, sports were the only bond that connected my Dad and me. Playing ball was his all-encompassing passion and I desperately wanted to be a part of that, but the glue that held our relationship together weakened and was replaced with the idea of me going to medical school. From then on, I concentrated on doing well in school to make him proud and to fill a void in my life that once had been filled with soccer practices and basketball tournaments. I did very well in school but the stress became overwhelming for me. Reflecting on this aspect of my life, I realize I “gave greater weight to one aspect of [my] identity.” Because of this, I would eventually begin to “shortchange what [I] have to offer one another.” [4]I tried too hard to be perfect and I had no outlet. My body couldn’t handle the mental pressure I was putting on myself, so I became susceptible to viruses and spent a majority of my schooling sick at home. It was during that time of sheer boredom that I began to draw and color. It was a feeling that I had never experienced before. Drawing was something that released me from the boundaries and expectations that seemed to suffocate me; it was invigorating and personal. When I was drawing I found “tranquility even in the midst of trauma.”[5] I finally found balance in my life. I was hooked.

I immersed myself in art. I took as many art classes as I could sign up for: print making, mosaics, pastel, drawing, photography, acrylic painting, and oil painting. I learned the basic techniques that would become my shining light in the dark, chaotic world and would, coincidentally, illuminate the hearts and souls of others, without my knowing it.

At the time, art was something that I did not want to share with others. It was too personal and I could not handle the harsh criticism that I had previously received in school and sports. My parents supported me in my decision to pursue art as a hobby, but only as a hobby. My Dad had his heart set on me attending medical school, because he regretted his decision to not pursue his dream of becoming a doctor. My Mom was ecstatic with the idea that her daughter would follow in her footsteps and become a doctor. Their seemingly outward support of me accomplishing my dreams was a masked misinterpretation of their true intentions; they would support me if I were to accomplish their dreams. The decision seemed unanimous and set in stone: I was to become a doctor.

In retrospect, I was stuck in a predestined path and was unaware of it. I knew I needed a change, but I did not know how to go about changing. I took an impartial approach to my life. I did what I was told, and waited for unlikely results that I hoped would drastically fill a hole in my life. I did not see the world the way Andy Warhol did when he said, “ They always say time changes things, but you actually have to change them yourself.” [6]The determination I instilled within myself to become a doctor slowly withered away with the passing of time and the spontaneous choices I made for my own educational benefit.  My junior year was the beginning of a whirlwind that would force me to examine my beliefs and myself: I finally confronted my fear of getting to “know thyself.” Under no circumstance did I discover what I was willing to die for; I simply came to understand what made me feel most alive. I realized that “even if we may momentarily be secure in our chosen roles, they can still impede the quality of our service at the deepest level.”[7] I could not fulfill that longing within me to serve others because I was blind and therefore could not serve myself. My calling was not medical school. I convinced myself for a while that it was what I wanted; it was the ultimate way to serve those who were in desperate need of my help, but all of my hard work did not give me a feeling of accomplishment. I was not reaching my potential.

I found my calling when I wandered into the stark white, freezing classroom that would be my safe haven for the year. I sat in one of many available desks next to fifteen girls who had dazed and confused looks on their faces. An unbelievably tall, white-haired woman draped with bright colored clothing and foreign jewelry plopped a twenty pound stack of papers on my desk as she gave the class an unforgettable warning: “if you can’t handle this, leave now and don’t waste my time.” I thought to myself, “Why am I taking this class? I could be taking a study hall!” I couldn’t walk away from a challenge. I had no clue what AP Art History was, but I accepted this as a mission that I was going to overcome.

The flickering of light that I had previously experienced when drawing or painting became a powerful flame when I was studying Art History. It became part of me: Art History was transforming. It changed who I was, and what I stood for. I became passionate about something that was not considered a chore for me.  The knowledge I acquired through Art History altered my outlook on life. For the first time, I saw things that I never saw before; I became an observer. Art history seemed to be incorporated into my other areas of study from history to religion to science.  I could see it all around me. My education became “ a habit of mind which lasts through life, of which the attributes are freedom, equitableness, calmness, moderation and wisdom.”[8] However, I felt reluctant to accept this calling because I was convinced that I would have no future if I were to dedicate my life to the study of Art and Art History. I was ignorant of the endless possibilities those fields of study offered. Little did I know that my artistic talent and my love for Art History could evolve into a future dedicated to God through volunteering.

In the midst of the chaos that surrounded me, I found God hidden in the pages within my Art History book and for the first time I felt free. From the stained glass windows exemplifying the omnipotence of God within Gothic Cathedrals, to the works of the abstract expressionist, Jackson Pollock: I could feel God’s presence. It was when I found God I had this urge to want to use my talents and knowledge of Art to help others. Originally, I used my artistic talent for simple volunteer projects. However, as I became more involved, I began to use my knowledge of Art History to make more drastic changes to the world around me. I embarked on a mission to save the world through my art and my knowledge of Art History.

The first experience I had using my art for the betterment of the community came with a farfetched idea that was the product of spending endless days at the Children’s hospital, tagging along behind my mom as she visited her patients and went about her daily work. I mentioned one day that the entire Children’s Hospital was painted a nauseous shade of beige: the one color that was specifically designed to crush a man’s soul. After much deliberation with the board members, I was given permission to paint the wings of the hospital. Bright blues, reds, yellows and greens illuminated the walls. The patients painted the ceiling tiles and the nurses began to hang up drawings that their patients had created. The hospital no longer resembled a prison. 19

I joined the Spina-Bifida Organization of Central Texas and was dubbed “face painting girl.” I showed up to every picnic and party and painted the faces of patients. It was not a tremendous accomplishment, but I began to feel an “intuitive awareness- that links us most intimately to the universe and, in allegiance with the heart, binds us together in generosity and compassion. This resource of awareness can give us access to deeper power, power to help and heal.”[9] It was fulfilling enough to get a hug from a child who was so overjoyed with the rainbow I drew on her cheek.

My involvement in the community became geared towards my love for the history of Art once I realized that I had the potential to affect people’s lives through something as arbitrary as Art History.  At mass one Sunday, I heard an announcement for the Afghan School Project. I was intrigued and attended the meeting. The program was designed to raise money to

Me Working On the Afghan Banner

promote the education system in Afghanistan, especially the education of women. Within months I helped raise money to buy one thousand water bottles and had volunteers decorate cards to put in every water bottle for every child at the school in Afghanistan. My mom and I became very involved in the project and within a year of attending meetings the members asked that I use my artistic talent to create a nine foot banner to send to Afghanistan. It was all my own doing. I picked out the fabrics, the colors, the design. I used the knowledge gained from Art History to finish the banner: I found images that were non-offensive and were universally understood and incorporated them into the overall composition. I received letters written in Dari from the teachers in Afghanistan along with pictures of children hugging the banner. Through the commotion of life and the pressures I was experiencing, the sight of Afghan children hugging my banner brought me to a level of calmness and peace that I had never experienced before.

That calmness and peace were the weapons I used when confronting my parents in the battle of my future. I did my research and found schools with amazing Art History Programs. I researched the incomes of various jobs incorporating Art History and tried to instill the idea that receiving that kind of education would be “a great ordinary means to a great but ordinary end, that aims at raising the intellectual tone of society, at cultivating the public mind.” [10]To my astonishment, my parents were reluctant but supportive of my decision to study Art History. However, they wanted me to major in Art History while preparing for medical school.  It took a few failed biology tests and a particularly horrible college trip experience for them to realize that I refused to follow the path of least resistance: their path.

Two weeks before the application was due, I realized that the University of Texas had the best Art History Program of any university in the nation. It was in front of me the entire time but I did not see it. For the first time I became completely determined to accomplish a goal: I felt as though I needed the adrenaline rush that Art History gave me, and UT was that drug.

As stated in the beginning of my essay, I was not accepted into the Art History Department at UT. It was one of those situations where I had to “keep in the mind the idea of letting go. As thoughts or sensations, images, memories, whatever, rise into awareness, notice them, witness them, and then let them go. Keep letting go again and again.” [11]My parents assured me that they would refuse to pay my tuition for UT if I was not accepted into the Art History program by the end of my freshman year. And yet, I would rather take that chance of failure than never try to accomplish my goal.

The spontaneous decision I made to attend UT constantly resurfaces in my mind and makes me reconsider my motives and intentions. I am realizing that nothing is black or white. My decisions are as faceted as a diamond; I make certain choices for a certain outcome, but the outcome I receive is not always what I expect. For example, I thought the only obstacle I had to overcome was my fear of rejection and my fear of the unknown. While at UT, I have realized that these concepts are not the only obstacles I have to overcome. I have been confronted with this newfound fear of feeling “stuck.” Recently, I have felt stuck in the school of Liberal Arts with a major that is completely uninteresting to me in a University that does not personally attend to the needs of its students. I have felt stuck not being able to maintain balance in my life. I have felt stuck having to jump through hoops and yell to have my voice heard in an institution that regards me as a lower-class citizen in the hierarchy of the University.

Although these obstacles continuously punch me in the face, I still feel as though I have made the right decision. In retrospect, these obstructions are preparing me for the future and making me a stronger, well-rounded person. I came to that conclusion as I sat in Professor Bump’s office, tears streaming down my face, embarrassment flooding through my veins, as I confronted him about this paper that he brutally butchered. It was the first time I had ever received a grade lower than a ‘C’, and was the first time I had written something personal about myself. The built-up emotion that exploded like a volcano made it impossible to accurately and concisely express my feelings. I felt like a small child in the midst of a tantrum. Although the experience was a disaster, my Mom pointed out that it was the first time I was courageous enough to be confrontational instead of remaining passive, and the first time I openly displayed my feelings about something I was passionate about. The University of Texas has taught me valuable lessons that are making me take an active approach to my own education. That was a gift I did not know I would receive while here.

My “Sense o Place” At UT: A Picture Of My Friends.

22

Me at the Creek

I am slowly but surely realizing that I cannot control every aspect of my life like I once tried to. The puzzle pieces in my life will not always fit the way I want them to: but at least I’m attempting to put the puzzle pieces together. I know that I have a purpose and I feel the adrenaline rush and that everlasting flickering of the fire as I venture through the UT campus. I feel free to find myself and am not constrained by the boundaries of my own self-consciousness. I don’t know if I am going to be able to study Art History at UT, but it does make me thank God every day that I able to study here: regardless of how long that will actually be. As Ram Dass and Paul Gorman so vividly stated, “As frequently as this occurs, as much time as we spend not knowing, we might as well make ourselves at home there. We’ll be that much less likely to burn ourselves out looking for what’s beyond us.”[12] I cannot predict the future, but I feel comfortable not knowing and I feel as though UT is that “sense of place” I have been looking for while I wait for my future to unveil itself.

[1] Altman, Scott. “Artist Quotations,” The Painters Keys,” 2006. http://www.painterskeys.com/auth_search.asp?name=Jasper%20Johns.

[2] Newman,” The Idea of a University,” in Explore Texas Anthology, ed. Jerome Bump, 177.

[3] Newman,” The Idea of a University,” in Explore Texas Anthology, ed. Jerome Bump,176.

[4] Dass, Ram and Gorman, Paul. “How Can I Help?” in Explore Texas Anthology, ed. Jerome Bump (NewYork, 1987), 25.

[5] Dass, Ram and Gorman, Paul. “How Can I Help?” in Explore Texas Anthology, ed. Jerome Bump (New York, 1987), 101.

[6] Altman, Scott. “Artist Quotations,” The Painters Keys,” 2006. http://www.painterskeys.com/auth_search.asp?name=andy+warhol

[7] Dass, Ram and Gorman, Paul. “How Can I Help?” in Explore Texas Anthology, ed. Jerome Bump (New York, 1987), 26.

[8] Newman, “The Idea of a University” in Explore Texas Anthology, ed. Jerome Bump,174.

[9] Dass, Ram and Gorman, Paul. “How Can I Help?” in Explore Texas Anthology, ed. Jerome Bump (New York, 1987), 94.

[10] Newman, “The Idea of a University,” in Explore Texas Anthology, ed Jerome Bump,175.

[11] Dass, Ram and Gorman, Paul. “How Can I Help?” in Explore Texas Anthology, ed. Jerome Bump (New York, 1987), 103.

[12] Dass, Ram and Gorman, Paul. “How Can I Help?” in Explore Texas Anthology, ed Jerome Bump (New York, 1987) 106.

[13] “author’s own photo”

[14] “author’s own photo”

[15] “author’s own photo”

[16] “author’s own photo”

[17] “author’s own photo”

Word Count: 2681 (including subtractions 2494)

New Word Count: 3470

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