Strokes of genius
My life is a painting, small yet vivid,
a mass of twisting shades. At first glance
it seems abstract, the shapes and colors
meaninglessly thrown together to create a
piece semi-pleasing to view. Most people
take one look, assume theyve seen it all,
and move on. A few will pause a moment,
squint, feel as if they can make out a mes-
sage amidst the hazy greens and vibrant
yellows. Well, if they ever find it, that
meaning hidden amongst the muted violet
and pricks of bold scarlet, please, let me
know.
I stand near the painting, observing,
sometimes making changes, perfecting
details. I attempt to add a carefully placed
dot in one of the corners, leaning in and
squinting to make sure I get it just right.
Just as the hairs of the brush touch the
canvas, my hand jerks to the left, leaving
a dark streak in place of my precise detail.
I wince and step back, trying to take in the
bigger picture, but my eye continues to be
drawn to individual areas, small details and
patterns that make up the bigger canvas.
Other artists surround me in this studio,
working ferociously, paying no heed to my
own humble work in progress. They dip
and mix and splash with such certainty and
vigor, not noticing the drips and drops that
splatter from their manic waves of brushes
onto my own piece. Sometimes their flung
color works, an unexpected complement to
my darker shades. But more often, the hues
mix together to create a deep, ugly brown.
Ive considered setting up a boundary
between our work spaces, but these oc-
casional jewels that come from our palettes
mixing make me hesitate to do so.
I know there will come a time when
my lifes work will be moved to a gallery
or living room somewhere, to be looked at
fondly by those who come after. A legacy
in a gilded frame to keep up on the wall;
untouchable, removed. A time when the
paint has all dried, when there will be no
more additions, no more dabs of pigment
to perfect my masterpiece. Who can tell
now what the finished product will look
like? Will it match my sketches, my careful
planning? Or maybe it will take on a life
of its own, something I never could have
predicted with only a sheet of paper and
a pencil, a few daydreamed ambitions.
Theres a ways to go yet; I have a lot of
blank space to fill up with swirls and dots,
precise details, careless stripes, radiant
colors, and perfect, flawless, immaculate
mistakes.
- Tess LaLonde, South Burlington
Tag yourself
We may flatter ourselves that we are
any one of many intriguing, individual
styles of art: landscape, splatter-paint, tes-
sellation, pointillism, and fundamentally
self-portraiture.
But none of us are freshly created,
independent works, and to think we are is
the highest vanity we, a superlatively vain
species, can indulge in.
None of us would exist without other
people, and we have all been influenced
by thousands of people. We derive from
our culture, piecing together pieces of
other people and peoples to form our-
selves, something new.
We are all collages.
- Sammy Leo, Huntington
Young Writers Project receives hundreds of submissions on young-
writersproject.org from students across Vermont, the U.S. and beyond.
Each week we select the best work for publication in this newspaper,
and in The Voice, on vpr.net, vtdigger.org and more. This week, we
present responses to Art: Think of your life as a piece of art. Whats in
the picture? & Gym: Write about your most memorable experience in
gym class. Read more at youngwritersproject.org.
About the Project
Young Writers Project is an
independent nonprofit that engages
students to write, helps them improve
and connects them with authentic
audiences in newspapers, before live
audiences and on web sites, young-
writersproject.org, vpr.net, vtdigger.
org, medium.com & cowbird.com.
YWP also publishes The Voice, a digi-
tal magazine with YWPs best writ-
ing, images and features. More info:
youngwritersproject.org or contact
YWP at (802) 324-9537.
Photo of the Week
Another perspective Interactive
Art is a delicate thing.
It can show your feelings through its many
mediums and textures,
all of its colors and shadows.
I dont know what kind of art Id be.
All I know is that Im on the other side of it,
watching my life just sort of ... happen,
watching the colors blend into each other
getting mixed around and blurred,
watching each brush stroke come to life,
each piece of glitter shimmering through
those shadows that have been created.
Or maybe its shadows,
just many pencil strokes sprawled along
the paper
getting smudged every time a finger some-
how finds its way there.
Maybe its full of blacks and browns,
grays and whites,
or maybe yellows and purples and pinks
or maybe ... there is nothing,
and my life is a blank canvas waiting to be
drawn on or painted,
collaged or to be made into perspective.
All I really know is that Im on the other
side, watching my life get created.
- Anna Phelps, Wolcott
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If you would like to contribute,
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Special thanks this week to
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Madi Cohen, Jericho
If I were a piece of art, Id want you
to look at me and think. Yeah thats it, just
think. Think about love and life, some
happy times and some sad ones, too.
If I were a piece of art, Id want you to
listen to the song and quiet your mind, just
let it relax for a while. Dont think about
anything, let the silence float through your
empty brain.
If I were a piece of art, Id want you to
touch me to understand my textures, my
rough curves and my smooth edges, a liv-
ing contradiction.
Touch me so you know that each part
of me is different. So you learn to navigate
every crevice and crack of me.
If I were a piece of art, I wouldnt sit
still, I would move about in the world,
interacting with everyone. Id be that
interactive exhibit where people can add
their ideas, put a sticky note on the wall
with their thoughts, connect one string to a
million different pegs to show the different
parts of themselves.
If I were a piece of art, I would repre-
yelling and winning and losing.
sent the worlds people and how diverse,
and beautiful you all are.
- Wren House, Essex
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Middle school
Dodgeball,
the game people either love or hate,
where the small kids lose and get battered
with balls
and the athletic ones show off their throw-
ing hand,
the game where girls huddle up and squeal
and run away as soon as a ball gets close to
them
and gossip about the dumbest things.
Theres something special about holding a
crisp, squishy ball, and throwing it as hard
as you can,
something liberating.
Funny
how a game so simple can almost capture
the essence of middle school.
Theres the pride in being the lucky fellow
who catches the ball, who bathes in his
brief ten seconds of glory and fame.
And the horrifying position of being the
last one on your team,
the whole class watching you and hoping
you dont get hit.
The brief pain when you get hit on the side
of your face,
and you can taste the blood in the side of
your cheek.
Its fun
because in the real world you cant throw
things at other people
and laugh at them when they get hit.
When the game stops everything goes back
to normal,
but before that, its a jungle of hitting and
And its great.
- Anna Huener, Burlington