My Art

I had waited several weeks for this day with great expectations, and viola', here it was. As I stood by astound by the great desire of other students who were standing in line to display their work to the board, I was scared filled with questions of uncertainties. What was the board members gonna say about my presentation, I feared. I tried gulping back my fears, but it all came rushing back to my heart, when I presumed I was next in line. No matter what I was determined to give my best for what I believed in, I promised.

Today was tagged 'Art work day' in my school. Every student was expected to present an art work with a narration of it's representation to the judges. Winning would mean a $25 prize. The panel of judges comprised of the art board member, principal and his vice, a perfect combination of individuals who were hard to please. Among the art board members was my art teacher Mr. Tim, 'my biggest obstacle'. 'Mr. dude', students mustered under their breath when he spoke. He was considered a dude because of his stern look, chiseled face that was sharp as knives, and was skinny and fits the age of a typical 'Mr dude' so he earned the nick name. His mere presence commanded respect and gave no room for jokes. According to Mr. Tim, Art was an expression through pictures, sculptures or an appealing tangible presentation but I had a contrary view. For me, art was an expression that could be expressed through any medium. It doesn't need to be appealing or colorful to be art. It was a creative voice that could be speak to our hearts and create images in our minds. Mr. Tim had sent me out his class on several occasions with his last words hanging on my ears 'That's not art, you' aren't using the right tools. 'Willy Davis!' The principal called out from the boardroom. At an instant my heart skipped a beat. 'That's me! I screamed as I hurriedly rushed in. My palms were all sweaty, I could swear that the movement of my palpitating heart was visible through my shirt. The ground which I stood begged to swallow me in it. The stern faces before broke down every atom of courage, sending shivers down my spine. 'Good morning! I greeted, not sure of the next line of words.'Good morning Miss willy' they all responded in a chorus. 'What do you have us?' Mrs. Dickson asked with a tone of irritation in her voice. 'Where is you art work?' Mr. Tim asked abruptly. 'Ohh lord ' i muttered under my breath at the sound ofhis voice. Slowly I made my way to the big round table before the and dropped a book that was italicized " My Art" 'what is this?' The principal asked adjusting his glasses. 'My art work sir'! I replied to the disbelief of my own ears. 'This book?. He asked irritated. 'Wrutting is my art work, writing is an ar... t. I said jittering. What was I thinking? I guessed the thought. But I was determined to shoot the works. So i continued, ' As we all know, art is an expression of ideas, feelings, views', I said i with my heart in my throat. With a corner of my eye instinctively felt Mr. Tim was disappointed as always,but I'd promised u wouldn't stop Untill I had beard the lion in his den. 'Art doesn't need to have colors, curves to be art', I said sternly looking at Mr. Tim full in the face. 'Art doesn't necessarily need to be tangible to be art, it only needs to make you feel it in your heart and create images in your mind'..

'Been able to pass it's concept to its audience'. I said lowering my tensed shoulders. ' so explain your art Miss willy' Mrs. Dickson requested moving her fingers which gave away the ' go ahead ' signal. ' Writing is an art to both the writer and the reader. A medium of expression, an innovator of experiences an instrument of imagination'. 'Writi ng makes.you feel things that aren't tangible to the hands or visible to the eyes. I said giving a slight smile. "My Art" I said pointing directly to my book which lay staring at me hopefully. I continued,"My art us a book I wrote about an art that appreciates the existence of human imagination. I paused staring at those eyes that had soft before me now. U straighted up a little , letting my tightened fingers loose. ' I was doing it' the inner voice said . I continued, "My Art talks about a story of a young man whose word art had saved the mermories of dead artist un their universe '. ' At a time when the craft if art had lost it's value, when imagination, colors, sculptures painting were no longer given it's recognition.''Though it was part of their daily lives, still its existence weren't appreciated. 'Writing about it's beauty and significance brought that value'. Quickly I turned the principal smiling who was already going through my book. Mr. Tim had his head his lowered in remorse to me surprise. 'Sure I was doing it'. The inner voice came again, smiled. 'Art word by the young man was presented in a manner that everyone could see pictures. Feel the experience if the ancient art through the words they read.' I said audaciously. 'Art work had saved the day'. 'But till date ut has n't been given it's full recognition'. I said almost in a whisper. 'Writhing is painting words into the lives of people in the most beautiful form there could be.' I said with a niggling voice of annoyance to my amazement. ''Writing should alsi be recognized as an art too,' concluded. 'Very well then, thank you Miss willy, ' Miss Lilian announced with a broad smile... I hadn't seen her smile that much. As turned to take my leave, ' Miss willy ' Mr. Tim called out, I crossed my fingers 'I would live to have a copy of a published copy of your work book' he announced. I couldn't believe me ears,me. I nodded my head twice to show my approval of his request. I had won, no entitlement was greater than that for me.