Essay 1

Breaking Free

From the moment I picked up a pencil, I knew there was something different about me. I don’t mean to sound vain about myself, on the contrary, I feel very shy and timid about revealing my talent to strangers. I guess I feel like I will still be put into a stereo-type... you know, one of those groups that people automatically see you coming from once they figure you out. It seems that all through high school I was dealing with this problem. It’s not that I was too smart or that I was ugly or that I even acted strange... I drew. Simple as that. Oddly, I had convinced myself that I belonged there... with the freakish crowd... even though I was neither odd or eccentric. 

I had been taking art classes for quite a few years and I began having this yearning of something more... something better that I could do. I mean, isn’t that what people tell us to do? Expand and broaden our talents? And just like a caterpillar in a cocoon, I needed to break free of my comfort zone and become something alternately and wonderfully different... something beautiful. The day I saw the painting my art teacher had finished under the instruction of a new Maestro, or Master Teacher, I knew exactly what I needed to work for to break free of the confines of my own inexperienced ability. I had to learn how to paint.  

It took months before I could convince my own art teacher to let me meet this Master Artist that she had been studying under, but eventually, once she knew that I was not going to give up and that I was insistent on learning how to paint, the belts were loosened and she agreed to let me ‘visit’ her at the workshop that month. I was so happy at her consent that I could have done backflips... considering if I knew how. My next challenge, though, was to somehow convince the revered instructor that I had talent and although I wasn’t eighteen, I was fourteen at the time, I could copmlete any challenge he put before me. Mind you, I did not know how to paint and, of course, I was just trying to psyche myself up, telling myself I could do all these things, when in reality, I really didn’t even know what oil paint was but I wasn’t going to be the one to tell him that. 

The day I was to meet the Italian Artist, I had so many mixed feelings, and above all, I was extremely anxious and nervous... I was so giddy that I jumped at everything and nothing, but i didn’t know what to expect so who could blame me? Luckily, I had had enough sense to sketch a few renaissance pieces that would hopefully impress him in my humble little sketch book that was ready to fall apart if you held it the wrong way. I determined that I would meet him and hopefully show him what I had done and he would be so impressed with my work that he would accept me then and there, demanding that I stay for the rest of the workshop. But of course, those were only fantasies in my head. I have come to figure out that nothing in life works out like you plan in your head. Nothing. And this is one of those times.

By the time I had come by, everyone was getting ready to go off to lunch for a break and I was panicking. I, like many people, have a strong will until those last few moments when nothing is going your way. And that’s what it came down to. I was about ready to give up until I saw a Mediterranean man come walking around the corner towards me with a big grin on his face, he looked vaguely familiar, kind of like Andrea Bocelli, the blind opera singer. His black hair was laced with silver and his skin was extremely dark, contrasting to everything around him. In a thick Italian accent, he introduced himself, telling me that he was Frank Covino, the Maestro. I had smiled awkwardly and shook his large hand and then just let him walk away since I was dumbfounded. It wasn’t until he had driven away and I was all alone at the workshop that I had realized that I had forgotten to show him my work, the whole reason I had come in the first place! Now I was only fourteen which means that I didn’t have a license and I had no idea how to drive in the first place... i also didn’t have a car to experiment on either, so I was stuck. It seemed, though, that I was fortunate enough to spot my art teacher from a distance as she was getting ready to leave and begged her to let me come with. Once we had climbed in her car and I had revealed the story of my meeting with Maestro Covino, she had laughed and told me to give her my sketch book and that she would take me home but that she would show him my sketch book and all that I had done. 

Later that night, as I was fidgeting with my shirt, something I always do when I am nervous or embarrassed, the phone rang. My family didn’t have caller ID at the time, so all day I had been bolting up the stairs to answer the call that was never the one I was expecting. This time was no different as I worked my short legs up to the second floor, skipping three steps at a time which was an amazing feat for me. I jerked the phone out of the holder and roughly, out of breath, tried to say hello in vain. But ignoring the stress on her line, my teacher relayed the news to me that Maestro Covino had more than willingly accepted me into his class but had said that I would have to wait until the next workshop to participate. I was barely listening to the rest of what she had to say as I went into a sort of stupor where your whole mind is consumed with one idea.  Mine was filled with paint.

From that time on, I was immediately accepted into a tight art community that is more like a family to me than anything else. And it wasn’t just because they would come over and pinch my cheeks or kiss me and tell me how cute I was all the time, it was because they really cared for me, they didn’t judge me. And they still don’t. I was so far from being an adult yet they accepted me as if I were one of them. It helped me to grow up and realize who I was and who I wanted to be as well. I have finished my eighth painting now with their full support and encouragement and they have helped me get into galleries and art shows, thus bringing me into a much more diverse community than just that of a fourteen year old’s little world. Indeed I had become that butterfly and I had broken out of my cocoon. 

Sariah Patterson