Ink Blurb
When I came to Hotchkiss, I was a well-rounded, hardworking student. I enjoyed school and was passionate about learning, especially in history and English. When I was signing up for my courses, to satisfy my art requirement, I was forced, reluctantly, to pick Visual Arts. The first day of art class was awful. I hardly had any experience with drawing or painting, and all I did was convince myself of my inferiority to the people around me. Art was not fulfilling for me at all, and my self-esteem was very low.
As the year went on, I began to develop as an artist conceptually, which continued to be my strength—as opposed to pure artistic talent and skill. At the end of the year—slightly more comfortable, but still struggling—I decided to keep trying through my Lower-Mid year. Things continued on as before… until somewhere around the Third Marking Period. In a self-portraiture project, I combined my gradually improving skill with a strong personal narrative. This personal aspect gave the work meaning. Art became everything. I loved it. And at the year’s end, I had decided I wanted to devote my entire life to it.
However, with this raging passion came something new—books. When I read Ken Kesey’s One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest in Mrs. Repass’ English class, my mind began to change substantially. Kesey’s writing—and the counterculture movement—resonated with me deeply. In constructing my end-of-the-year Visual Arts project, I read Allen Ginsberg’s poem “Howl,” using it as inspiration for my artwork. Reading “Howl” is the most important thing that’s ever happened to me. I fell in love with Allen Ginsberg. I fell in love with Jack Kerouac. I fell in love with the Beats. In this way, Hotchkiss saved me.
Through the summer and into Upper-Mid year, I started reading and writing quite a lot. I was addicted. It became, and still is, a distraction. Thankfully, I am taking a poetry class with Mrs. Kinsolving, through which I can channel some of this passion. I wasn’t as lucky, however, with art. Being my sixth class, on top of five other challenging courses, standardized testing, extracurricular activities, and writing, I was forced to drop it in the beginning of the year.
Ginsberg (and writing in general) continues to be a fantastic wild solitude inferno in my mind, a fire that doesn’t let me do work, a fire that doesn’t let me socialize with people—but nonetheless a fire that I am uncontrollably and inexplicably in love with. It is this fire I am forced to suppress when I study and when I talk to people and when I play sports and when I do other things.
Hotchkiss—and the stresses and obligations of the impending college process—continue to suppress my passion. And yet, Hotchkiss helped me find a part of myself. Hotchkiss saved me.
