Art Camp free essay sample

It seemed like we had been in the car forever. I was curled up in the front, my feet on the seat because the floor was entirely jammed with maps and guidebooks, my backpack, and sweatshirts. A canvas bag overflowed with staple foods like bread, marmalade, cashews, and Chex-mix. It was a bright, clear day, and we were driving, home to Pennsylvania on the last leg of the pilgrimage all high school juniors make: the spring break college tour. We had visited campuses, had interviews, stayed with family and friends, and spent hours and hours in the close confines of our car. â€Å"This summer you should really think about teaching art at camp,† my mom said, her voice making it more of a command than a suggestion. â€Å"Yeah . . .† I said reluctantly. The number of things I â€Å"should really think about† doing was astronomical. Whatever happened to hanging around, enjoying my last official summer as a high school student? â€Å"Hey, it will look good to colleges,† she explained. We will write a custom essay sample on Art Camp or any similar topic specifically for you Do Not WasteYour Time HIRE WRITER Only 13.90 / page I grimaced and squirmed inwardly at that. Lately, almost everything my mom said to me was followed by the inevitable, â€Å"It will look good for college.† Mostly, her ideas were things that spoke to my interests, like apprenticing with a painter friend, taking a ceramics course, or spending two-weeks at Penland School of Crafts. It wasn’t her ideas that rankled, it was her motivation. To my way of seeing things, the point was not to make colleges â€Å"like† me. The point was to learn, to expand, to improve at things I love and have fun doing. I wanted to spend a summer meeting new people, absorbing what they had to teach me, and using those experiences to create art and develop as a person. â€Å"Ma?† I said, â€Å"I get what you’re saying, and I’m not arguing or anything- I know it looks good on applications, but . . . I don’t do things to make people like me, I do them because they’re what I love doing, and . . . I dunno, to do what you love specifically because you’re going to get something out of it . . . just feels kind of wrong. It’s disgusting.† A rather longwinded argument followed, in which my mom belabored the point that selling yourself is often necessary, especially when you are a member of the largest class ever to graduate from high school. I am straightforward; I am honest. I do not like dressing things up or making them appear different from what they are: Mom spent half the state of New Jersey trying to convince me that selling yourself is a very large part of succeeding in the world. When I could take it no more, I exclaimed, my voice choked with frustration, â€Å"I think if you have something to offer, you should put it where people can see it, and they should do the rest. That’s the way things should be.† â€Å"Well, honey,† she sighed, sounding worn down, â€Å"it’s probably not such a bad thing. I mean, you can use that.† â€Å"Oh my God!† I howled. â€Å"You’ve just taken my idealism and turned it into a marketing point!† I huffed angrily into my hands, unsure whether to laugh or cry. â€Å"You know what?† I said, â€Å"We’re not talking about this any more.†