Finals

Its that time. Finals. It happens every semester, and I've got to say I'm suprised at how easy mine were. As promised, I'm giving my teachers some final grades.

I've got to hand it to my painting professor. She suprised me. By the end of this semester I completed more works than I've ever done before. I'm a much better painter for it, I'd say. Because of this teacher, I discovered that I'm way more into abstract painting than anything else. For that, I don't think I'll ever forget this class. She was, next to my Sculpture teacher, my favorite this semester. And, turns out, shes a pretty accomplished artist. She showed us a slideshow of her works as the last thing we did in her class, and she is a surprising level of talented. Not only that, but she has been painting professionally since she was fifteen. I've got loads and loads of respect for this woman. If any of my readers are interested, I can give you her website. I don't know what grade I'll get in her class, because admitedly I was so overwhelmed by all my studio courses that I didn't work half as hard in her class as I would have if it were my only studio, but I'm going to give her a B+. This is my final project for her class, a triptych I was extremely excited to make.



I've hated Italian from day one. I liked the teacher, she was a total sweetheart, but I resent her for teaching me literally nothing. I didn't pay loads of money to be here to learn nothing from my teacher. So, unfortunately and in all fairness, I have to give this class a big, fat, red F. However, some of my best journal writing came out of this class, and for that I need to pat myself on the back for doing something worthwhile instead of wasting 3 and 1/2 hours every week drooling in the back of my classroom. I breezed through the final and I didn't pay attention to one word that woman said all semester. So another pat on the back for knowing Italian before taking Italian.

I used to dread Drawing class. I hated nude models. I hated that I needed to be there for five hours, drawing. The class exhausted me. I could complain about this class until I'm blue in the face, but the truth about this class is that I'd never have improved the way I did without it. I'm going to go ahead and say this class was the biggest challenge for me. I knew squat about proportions and techniques before taking this class. I'm kind of good at them, now. I discovered what mediums I like to work with. I discovered the type of style I'm good at. I learned how to draw my own face REALLY well. I may have dreaded going to this class, but guess what? I'm sort of an artist, now. Amateur, at best, but still an artist. At certain points in the semester I really hated my teacher. At other points I thought she was brilliant. I lean more toward the brilliant when I look back at her class. So, for that, I give her a B-. Here is my final project. Its in my favorite medium, in my favorite style, and its of my own face. Its really symbolic and happens to be one of my absolute favorite works this semester.



Travel Writing remained at the forefront of my classes from the very first week and in finals held the lead by a wide margin. Every time I sat down to write a paper for that class, the things I would write were amazingly diverse and improving in a big way. I read almost the entire course packet, dedicated countless hours to working on my papers, and went out of my way to do things in my life interesting enough to write about for assignments. That class confirmed something I'd been suspicious of since I was a kid-that I would have to someday become a writer. I guess I kind of already am a writer, with this awfully long blog and volumes of journals dating back to the fourth grade. When I was a kid I was obsessed with children's poetry. I used to write it all the time. In the seventh grade I wrote poetry maybe everyday in my notebook. Then I went to the 8th grade, was forced to read an entire book of horrible love poetry, and quit the practice. I wrote a poem for the first time in ages for this class as part of my final. Thank you, Travel Writing, for giving me back my interest in poetry.
Don’t know your name,
Don’t know from where you came,
Or when,
But this valley was the same.
Filled it up with hopes and dreams
Same as me.
I met the lady in the morning.
Never got her name.
We felt her supple bosom ,
and we sucked it clean.
And then we sat to paint a river green.
Told our friends and here they are,
Lookin’ for an easy lay.
She wants pay.
Today I gave her extra stars for the night.
Yeah, too bright,
Cause in the light I see your old lady.
She’s ugly, made of ash.
When the wind blows, she’ll go.
Like smoke.
A million nothings on one gust of air.
I don’t care,
Neither does she.
I wound up reading the assignment I wrote about the Orsanmichele, posted in Reconnecting with my Spiritual Side in April, at the school's final exhibition. A bunch of my friends came out to hear me read and loved what I had done. It made me really happy. Read, let me know what you think. This class gets an A+, 100%, a perfect score.

Finally, Sculpture. My soulmate. I loved this class because he taught it. My sculptor friend always makes fun of me for how desperately in love with this man I was. Not only did I turn my head toward her and say "I love him" after everything he said or did, but I found sometimes I was lost for words, staring stupidly at him when he spoke to me. He isn't even the most handsome man in the world. I don't know what it was about him, I just couldn't stop myself. I wound up seeing him out on the town kind of often and never ever worked up the courage to go where he was or say something flirty to him. I've never had a crush this bad in my life. I got to see his art on the last day. He is a Land Artist. Which makes me love him so, so much more. He works with nature to create art with rocks and trees and sculptures hes made from wood and twigs. He spent time in Spain taking apart billboard to make art with all the colors underneath. He lives in a village on the beach, making totempoles out of driftwood. Someone please explain to me why I left without telling him he was my soulmate? The class didn't matter so much as long as it was taught by him. To be an honest and fair person, I'll grade the class and give it a B. This is my final, which I'm really proud of. I had no references. I just made this man, and made him in a really short span of time, too. I call him Edgar because it reminds me of Edgar Allan Poe.



I guess thats that, then. School has finished. My semester abroad e finisce.
Arrivederci, for now.
Love, Gabby