Just as Bobby the new artist’s “lines began to unabashedly disregard the rules of depth or tonality,” so too did art slowly—from the playful light of Monet’s Impressionism, to the square faces of Picasso’s Cubism and the complete abstraction of Pollock’s expressionism—care less and less about how realistic it was and more about the message it conveyed.Tags: Senior Thesis UmichResearch Papers OutlineInteresting History Research Paper TopicsCapstone Project TemplateWrite Comprehension EssayHow To Write Business Plan For StartupAt Skrive Et Godt EssayDissertation Research Questions HypothesesAustralia Working Mans Paradise Essay
Indeed, not only does this essay document Bobby’s development from child to young adult, but Bobby’s art also matures from something orderly and superficial to something abstract and deeply meaningful.
What separates Bobby’s essay from a well-written story, however, is the subtextual narrative it provides the reader.
No, it was not so clean and not so white and not so nice.
But I have drawn—rather, lived—in this studio for most of my past ten years.
Indeed, it was the realm of disorder and messy studios and true art—a place where I could express the world like I saw it, in colors and strokes unrestrained by expectations or rules; a place where I could find refuge in the contours of my own chaotic lines; a place that was neither beautiful nor ideal, but real.
No, it was not so clean and not so white and not so nice. ___ REVIEW Perhaps the most prominent facet of Bobby’s essay is the use of imagery.
I started to look into their other releases, eventually immersing myself into the complete punk discography. Luckily, as I transitioned from a private school to a brand new public high school, I got to clean the slate.
My mother, having grown up in a racially segregated New York, was more likely to listen to Stevie Wonder than Stevie Nicks. So while my compatriots indulged in the music of Taylor Swift, One Direction, and Lady Gaga, my tacky Hot Topic headphones blasted Green Day, Ramones, and The Clash. In my girls’ prep school, the goal was to be blond and good at soccer. I bought yoga pants and found they were comfortable.
I suppose this is strange, as the rest of my life can best be characterized by everything the studio is not: cleanliness and order and structure.
But then again, the studio was like nothing else in my life, beyond anything in which I've ever felt comfortable or at ease. My carefully composed sketchbooks—the proportions just right, the contrast perfected, the whiteness of the background meticulously preserved—were often marred by the frenzied strokes of my instructor's charcoal as he tried to teach me not to draw accurately, but passionately. But thus was the fundamental gap in my artistic understanding—the difference between the surface realities that I wanted to depict, and the profound though elusive truths of the human condition that art could explore.