“Someday I’ll wish upon a star, wake up where the clouds are far behind me. Where trouble melts like lemon drops high above the chimney tops. That’s where you’ll find me.” The five of us sang in unison as we raced down the highway from Lafayette back to campus. The wind whipping our hair from the open windows. The sun warming our arms. I reflected on the past night. The drive from Graham’s apartment in downtown Oakland to Alan’s mansion in the hills of Lafayette. Sitting on the living room floor, playing ukuleles and bongo drums, surrounded by sculptures and paintings. Five of us jumping on the trampoline – trying to keep our giggles quiet so not to wake the neighbors. Hiking through the hills at 3 AM, the threat of mountain lions present. It was all a good time, but the most important was the pointless conversation. After our hike we dragged our tired bodies back into the house. We grabbed two blankets and curled up on the deck. Ari, Alan and myself bunched together with one, Graham and Ashley tucked into the other. As we told stories, jokes, and made small talk I realized how happy I am here, how lucky I am, and how I did it all on my own.My mother worked long days at an office building in downtown Springfield. After work she had an array of different activities to partake in, the usual included seeing local bands at her favorite venue. My father worked two jobs, an English teacher by day, a newspaper editor by night. This left my brother and I. My brother is five years older than me and therefore was never very interested in what I was doing. No one in my family ever had any interest in the water color paintings I desperately hung on the refrigerator when I was five in an attempts to get their praise. No one cared to come see the mural I painted when I was 13 with a program called the “Artists Society” which my middle school put me into. They didn’t have any interest in the over 900 photos I took in Mexico, or the 18 rolls I took in Italy. And when I told them I was applying to art school, they asked if I took art seriously enough to dream I could get in.I never really thought of myself as an artist until the end of eighth grade. At the close of the year we received our yearbooks. Of course we were all giddy with excitement, making sure everyone signed them. Teachers always write the same thing – something along the lines of ‘have a great summer’ and ‘good luck next year’. Mr. McNally (my art teacher) signed mine, however he wrote something different. “Courtney, you work in an honest expression of who you truly are. Do that always and you will be great.” It took someone else recognizing me as an artist before I could myself. Up until that point I was just doing what came naturally to me, what made me happy. I used art as a way to solve problems, articulate my ideas, and clear my head.When I moved onto high school I was highly disappointed with the art program. They offered one drawing class, and two semesters of ceramics. While the majority of the student population enjoyed the state-of-the-art science labs, and fantastic math department, I struggled to find my place. I don’t hate math, I’m actually rather good at it. And I was the only junior allowed to enroll in Environmental Science, a senior course that I passed with an A+. I tried to immerse myself in my studies the way my fellow classmates did but I still felt empty. These academic courses didn’t fulfill the creative stimulation I greatly longed for. I desperately pleaded with my parents to let me go to the public high school – renowned for its photography program. I told them how important it was to me, how photography was all I could ever see myself doing as an adult and that the private catholic high school I was currently enrolled in was a waste of my time, a waste of my talent. My pleas were unheard and I was forced to spend four years of my life teaching myself.Photography is my medium of choice. I remember being a kid and staring at things – daydreaming about what I could do if I had a camera to capture the scene. I would envision how it would be composed, what would be in focus, and the way the lighting would fall. Most of what I used to photograph was of objects or places that are seemingly forgotten, or abandoned. Things I found beauty in, things I related to. Growing up I always felt a little forgotten, a little abandoned. Maybe it was because the first time I was left home alone was when I was seven. I would watch my family disperse at the beginning of the day, going their separate ways and on with their own lives, leaving me to do as I pleased. Most days I would wake up early, cook sausages and eggs and lounge on the couch watching cartoons or Maury. I would take my dog into the backyard and play with her until we were both too tired to retrieve the ball. Eventually she would take it back inside and leave me laying in the grass. As I got older I started venturing out more. I would go skating into downtown with my best friend. I saw things many people only hear about on the news. The confrontations and occurrences that I experienced on those nights are ones that changed the way I look at the world, and they way in which I photograph it.I realized the danger of going out on these adventures, but they made me feel alive. There’s nothing like coming off a rail and sticking the landing only to find out you’re about to roll straight into a belligerent drunk. Or the adrenaline rush of running down back allies from someone who is trying to steal whatever you might have that they could sell. I often wondered why my parents never seemed concerned – they knew the dangers of our city. Why didn’t they forbid me from going down there? Why didn’t they want to protect me? I asked myself these questions and many others for most of my life.Over time resentment for my entire family built up within me. I slowly separated myself from them even more – I stopped coming home at night and began dedicating more time towards photography. As I continued to grow older I realized that my family didn’t even know me. I felt guilty for not making an effort to bring us all together. I felt like all of the domestic issues that slowly surfaced over time were my fault. I should have been there. I should have tried to spend time with them – it might have made a difference. I made attempts to make myself a part of each of their lives separately but it was already too late. I went to renaissance fairs with my mom; I got dressed up and played the part of an enthused daughter. I would go to my dads new home on nights he off and watch the history channel with him, trying to force myself to find a common ground where we could relate. I attempted to visit my brother and his fiancé at their apartment 45 minutes away but my calls were rarely returned. I felt the loneliness that exists in abandoned foster homes. In order to fill this gap in my life I turned back to the one thing I love above anything else. My camera took the place of my family. With my left hand on the focusing ring and my right hand adjusting the aperture…I felt complete.“Alan let me take your portrait!” I said to the clay-covered sculptor. He chuckled in a bashful oh-so typical Alan way. I no longer despise portraits as I once did. The thought of photographing people always disgusted me. I admired those who were able to do them, who were able to convey that sense of intimacy that stunning portraits do. I think it was because I never felt close enough to anyone to want to photograph them. I didn’t feel anyone in my life deserved to be portrayed in such a beautiful way. Honest portraits are more about the inner beauty and soul than the physical subject. I never wanted to show the world the beauty in anyone because I didn’t see it in him or her myself, only in objects.My last ten rolls of film have been strictly portraits. Portraits of the same four people. The people who I spend all my time with. Graham – the handsome New Yorker who loves to talk about himself. Ashley – the photographer who is obsessed with mermaids and snails. Ari – the one who takes nothing seriously. And Alan – the one who brought us all together. And then there’s a roll of me. For the first time my face isn’t in the shadows. I’m not hiding, or out of focus. I’m staring into the camera. Opening myself up. Showing the world who I am. I’ve even begun dabbling into other mediums. Pulling all night-ers in the ceramics studios, sculpting. Or painting. I recently woke up early on a Friday morning and curbed my boredom by taking out my sketch book. For the first time in my life I haven’t loathed getting covered in clay, or having the same blue paint stuck on my hand for four days in a row, or minded being covered in charcoal. For the first time in my life I’m making art for the genuine love of art. Without worrying about if my drawing sucks, if my perspective is off. No more of – will I get an A on this? Is this as good as my peers? You can’t be a successful artist if your only worried about what others are going to think.So as I sit on Ari’s couch, her sleeping soundly next to me, Graham smoking on the balcony, Ashley drawing on the floor, and Alan cooking in the kitchen – I’m glad I’m here. I’m glad to have abandoned the world that caged me for so long and moved onto an environment that welcomed me with open arms, took me in, and is fostering my growth. My growth as a person, my growth as an artist.
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