"Whoso Would Be a Man, Must Be a Nonconformist" - Ralph Waldo Emerson: My reflective poem

Man

I, the man you think I am,

have yet to place a reaching hand

to the window of conformity.

Here is where I look through smears

of how I'm to appear

to be called a Man by those who view.

Though I value all I am,

Award a prize for myself I can,

Yet I know I am not what you want me as.

I'm cutting corners in your eyes

I'm who I want to be, to your surprise.

Not conforming to your rigid line.

Toss me to and fro,

Hope I do as you've told me so?

No, my sail will catch a different wind.

This man I'm becoming now

is who I've sculpted, with a furrowed brow,

burdened by pressure of who I could never be.

Conforming is that older brother

who wants his sibling to be another

clone of brothers past and brother's chore

Nonconforming is the younger boy

who follows what his heart enjoys

who walks without a backward glance.

Let me shatter the glass of norm

even if I cause a storm

I'll take that jagged window frame.

Set it up, I will, to a different of view

where people will enjoy the new

Man behind the picture pane.

2 Paintings. 0 Relation.

Perspective. Oil on masonite.

Janvier. Acrylic on canvas.

First "art gallery" showing: Artwerks

Throughout my high school career, it had always been my goal to show at our monthly school art show, the Artwerks Gallery. Before you envision some white room with student art hanging pristinely on the walls, I'll break it down for you: There's a small, square hallway that leads to the emergency exit from our library, that was good-heartedly converted into a small but respectable gallery space. Usually, two artists with framable art will show on either sides of this space, getting their own walls, and students with ceramics may also show at the same time. The art department hosts an open house one day at lunch, which has the oh-so-tasty dry cookies and chemically awkward fruit punch at the refreshment table. I'd never been to one of these open houses before, but had browsed at the art from time to time during my trips to the library. But this year, not only did I get to spectate, I got to exhibit (the first show of the year, nonetheless)!

But you see, the way I came about this exhibition is kind of not how I'd hoped for. One of the best artists in Utah, Lester Lee, was a teacher at Woods Cross for several years, and I along with the rest of his students really loved him and his classes. He encouraged any type of creativity and innovative thought, guided students down the right path with a few trick-up-his-sleeves, and honored students' talents by complimenting and constructively criticizing their work. I had taken two painting classes from him sophomore and junior year, which led me to his abrupt retirement announcement. This was so unfortunate, because I'd planned on taking A.P. Studio Art my senior year, and couldn't imagine anyone else as my instructor. Lee was the art department -- all the artistic energy that our school had once had, was drained by my senior year. No one was excited to take art classes anymore, with the two other art teachers begrudgingly taking over his classes (thanks, budget cuts!). I had always had a vision of me being his next golden-child-senior artist, like several of my peers had been, but that was shattered (that's assuming it would have even happened -- I'm definitely not the best artist at my school).

But I did not give up my passion for art, so I took AP Studio and am still currently working on my portfolio. The teacher, Ms. Swann, desperately needed two artists to fill the first Artwerks show, so by default she chose the two seniors she had experience in teaching, me and my main art-adversary, Emily (who is great by the way).

So I didn't have my portfolio looked at by my idol, Mr. Lee, to gain a spot in the show. I didn't have to apply, struggle, or defend. I was just given the spot, the first showing. This was kind of disheartening because I wanted time to work on my portfolio to really put forth pieces I could be fully proud of. But in the end everything turned out fine, I got to show some of my favorites, and maybe even a few duds. But I really appreciated the turnout and my peers complimenting my stuff. I am far from popular, far from the norm, far from sticking-out. The cloak of invisibility was removed for one lunch period to reveal what I really am, an artist.

Shady Lane

My memory of this shady, shady lane

I was placed at its end, that house,

Where no one saw, they didn’t see

The same leaves I saw out my window frame

I can drive down this lane, either end,

Feel the feeling of that oh-seven spring

Though the leaves betray their branches, bare,

I will feel the embrace of my paved friend

When I’m ready to free my sickly potion

Of suspended thought in a moody solvent

I drive to Shady Lane, pour it down

Its autumn gutter, and trees applaud my motion

‘Cause memories can’t be wiped away

Like the drops pulsing on my windshield

For the memories are the drops themselves

Can’t help but notice the few that stay

Down this shady lane.