All of my childhood memories have to do with art in some way shape or form. My mother, an avid artist herself would always make up projects for me to do. In our small Chicago apartment, we would make paper-mache masks of our faces or collage chairs with color newspaper cartoons.
Then we moved to Paris- center of all things beautiful, magical and opulent. My mom took me to the Louvre, the Centre Pompidou. I fell in love with Picasso. I thought that life was only about art and all things pretty.
Passerelle des Arts- the most beautiful bridge in Paris
Demoiselles by Picasso
When I moved to Warsaw I became a painter, I invested all my free time to finding inspiration for new shapes, forms, and colors. I drifted towards abstract art; it appealed the most to me. I found solace in dripping paint and bizarre figures- they reminded me of dreams.
I only really started sketching for my art class junior year of high school. I was forced to keep a journal to record my progress. In reality I hated it, because it was so different from painting. My hands felt alien to the pencil as opposed to the brush. As I got used to the task, I found myself loving portraits more and more- particularly, portraits of old men and women. I don’t know why, but I enjoy it.
Coming to this class I had very little background in drawing, no teacher had ever told me about all the techniques that drawing required from an artist. After learning these techniques though, I can see how it is so crucial to any type of art. I also find it so immensely satisfying that you can turn a blank page into a complex image just by using a pencil and an eraser. I can see myself sketching in the future when no canvas or paint is near.