I have positioned the lamp on the right side of my desk to bounce light off the walls so it gently lights the petals of my birthday flowers. It is not lighting anything on my desk - the exact opposite of what it is designed to do. Instead, it is creating patterns and folds between light and dark against the white wall that stands before me. The city is busy, but with sounds of sports cars and sirens instead of the weekend puking and screeches of the puker's girlfriends.
For my english class we had to write an artist autobiography. I received an email today from my professor asking for a digital copy of my piece for future class examples because it "made (her) laugh" and she thought I was a very "advanced and talented writer." Since this blog is all about me, I thought I would promote myself shamelessly with this award winning autobiography about my journey to becoming an artist. (I will warn you that if you are an avid reader of Verbaledudette you will notice a few pieces and parts from previous "coming of age" posts. I did not cheat, I just took my best and put it with some new bests. Get over it.) Also, I promised my Parents that I would send it to them - this is the easiest way to do that (And this way Grandmother can get it too. . . love you Granny!)
The
Chronicles of the Sketchily Challenged
My
first image-taking device was a plastic red and yellow, two handled,
Playschool, 35mm film camera, received in 1996. Before I could put one foot in
front of the other, my nimble fingers knew how to control the shutter release
button. The first roll of film developed were artistic blurred landscapes, over
exposed close ups of my Mother’s smile, and abstract designs of my Father’s
ears.
I
grew up in a home where creativity was just as important as eating your
vegetables. In the morning I was awaken by Macy Gray’s classics on the stereo
system and put to sleep with Pink Floyd’s “The Wall” vinyl album rotating
slowly on the turntable. The hours in between were marked with cardboard finger-painted
cars, beaded ankle bracelets, and avenues filled with sidewalk-chalked
rainbows. Christmas gifts were macaroni noodle headbands. Valentines had
lopsided cut out hearts pasted with glue, glitter, and Goldfish cracker crumbs
fallen from my focused mouth. And my family always looked forward to my annual
birthday portraits that resembled more of Van Gough without an ear than my
Mother with a flower.
Uintah
Elementary School was the only educational experience that promoted fantasy
over actuality, through its school colors of neon purple and the unicorn mascot
leaping for the clouds on the cover of our shiny planners. Naturally, I was
eager to show my school spirit in the state wide art competition. I won first
place in fifth grade for Photoshopping my little sister’s face on my old
english mastiff’s head. The piece was titled: “My Favorite Things.”
It was in sixth grade I found love. I
spent the entire year with that cute silver point and shoot Canon. We were
always together. He never left my hand, practically glued to my palms (except
when I was doing the monkey bars at recess.) He captured the awkward moments of
our ruling over the students in grades one through five. We documented life as
a twelve year old trying to understand the difference between boy cooties and
worms, the science behind the kindergarteners having their own playground, and
why Mrs. Fraughten’s last name changed every summer before returning for the new
year. All these collections, memories, and friends were put into a film for the
end of the year talent show. After raving reviews, the thirty-minute movie was
played at graduation while parents cried, my classmates giggled, and Canon and
I watched our love story unfold publicly.
After
feeling like a star in elementary school, I figured that Clayton Middle School
would accept my artistic talents with open and appreciative arms. That was not
the case. In eighth grade, Ms. Owen took my final project in her hands. The
piece was an oil pastel mountainous landscape with rivers of violets, sky
blues, and grassy greens, running through purple tipped cliffs, and beige
cumulus clouds. She ripped the piece, slightly off centered, in half. The
tattered valley falling to the linoleum as her chapped charcoal lips muttered,
“It was a mistake allowing you into advanced art.” As I bent down, my shaking
hands grasping the pieces, I decided to go back to photography.
East
High was nothing but locker room make outs, Arizona Ice Tea’s, and Zac Efron
enthusiasts asking for a tour of the famous “High School Musical” school. Moral
of the story, my dark room developments were not greatly appreciated compared
to the latest Justin Beiber break up. Not being able to really relate to the
subjects discussed at lunch, I turned to the internet to try and find the
perfect school for me once I graduated. In order to find that ideal match I, naturally,
Googled my two favorite things: Italia and photography. There, in my search
results, listed a school called Firenze Arti Visive. Call it physic powers or
an seventh sense, but I knew this my school. I emailed the head of the
photography department, with my childhood “hippychics93” email address, and
told him that I was interested. Maybe it was the fact that I spelled “chic(k)s”
wrong that made him question my talents, but his week late response was a bit
reluctant and had a lot of phrases that summed up to: “you have to be over
eighteen,” “you have to be recommended by a college professor,” “you have to be
a graduate student,” and “I am sorry.” I read these words a few times, let them
sink in, ate a few Skittles, and took this rejection as a challenge.
Four
years later, as the thought of graduation was deeply engraved in my mind and
senioritis made it difficult to attend classes, I sent another email to Mr.
Charles Loverme. This time I did not ask questions, I simply told him the
facts: “I am going to attend your school and you will benefit from having me in
your program.” The next day my inbox held a little number one with a reply. All
it said was:
Send
me your portfolio.
- Charles
Immediately
I assembled every photograph of flowers, dogs, my little sister, and my
grandmother in standard jpeg form.
I
did not hear from the school of my dreams for two months. February 4, 2011 at
sixteen hundred hours military time, I received an email of acceptation into
Firenze Arti Visive in Firenze, Toscana, Italia for the fall semester of 2011.
Before I moved to Italy I had never
been on my own. I had not been to camp and I rarely had sleepovers, always
making up excuses on why I could only stay late or calling my Mom in the middle
of the night to pick me up. I graduated from high school and leaped into a
surreal experience. I went from always holding my family’s hands, to flying my
way to a foreign country where I did not know anyone, the language, where to
go, or what to expect. I was pushed out of my comfort zone. I was scarred, but
never did I ever regret doing it.
Italy
changed my life.
Of
course the culture and aspects of a foreign country were striking and eye
opening, but suddenly I was forced to make decisions between good or bad,
motivate myself to succeed at school, fix my own meals, and wash my own
clothes. It sounds silly, but I was forced to grow up. Forced to experience.
Forced to find out who I really was. In Italy I realized what mattered, what
made who I was, what I wanted to be, and how lucky I was. I discovered, in a
school with only two other students, that without art, I would not live a satisfied
life. It was in Italy that the burning passion to pursue photography was fueled
by hours of film development, one on one harsh critiques, and pools of tears large
enough to flood the Arno River.
When
you are little you talk about what you want to do when you grow up. You draw
pictures of your dream room in notebooks, you plan your prom dress, go from wanting
to be a princess, to Hannah Montana, to a teacher. Then one day, you realize
that you REALLY can become anything. I cannot tell you the exact day I figured
out that I could be a photographer as a career, but I can tell you that once
the seed was planted in my head, I could not stop feeding it nourishment. I
kept telling myself the negatives: the lack of pay, the uncertainty, what will
people think of you choosing art as a job? Will they think you took the easy
way out? All of those are still in the soil of my ambition, but they are
pushing me harder. Prove them wrong. Be happy every time you go to work. Put
your best out there. Make someone notice. That small seed that once sat in the
back of my mind is now a tangled vine, large and ever growing. Consuming.
That
vine has now stretched from smoggy Salt Lake City to foggy San Francisco, where
I am
studying editorial photography at the Academy of Art University. I sit in
class today, a vanilla latte in
my left hand, and remember that old red and
yellow toy camera. Since
then my cameras have grown in
size and complexity, explored cities, captured
memories, endured fears, provoked and promoted
happiness, and helped develop a
profound passion. Photography, for me, is more than a hobby . . . it is
an obsession filled with deep desire and
ardor. I aim to use my photographs to please the eyes, intrigue
the senses, and
inspire reaction, while forcing the observer to question emotions. I am
hoping to
eventually work for Rolling Stone’s Magazine and shoot album covers
for my favorite musicians.
Hopefully my English teacher was not the only one who enjoyed that as much as I enjoyed writing it. If you are a follower of my instagram (@audreyrotermund) or foresquare, you may have noticed that I have been quite the concert whore. Like seriously, I have been going to at least one show a week all thanks to the free tickets I have been winning. Most of the shows I have won have been decent, a good time, enjoyable. BUT the adventure I took Kayleigh to this last week was hands down the best yet. I am pleased to annouce that I walked away with not only a handful of images I snuck from the balcony (even though they said no photography.. hee hee) but also three new favorite bands. Ladies and Gents: please check out "Dream Tiger," "Astronautalis" and "Why?" I do not know where they have been all my life.
Have a wonderful evening. xo
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