I was six years old when I stared into the fire of Turner’s painting The Burning of the Houses of Lords and Commons. I wandered in the atmosphere of it, in the mist that washed over the sky and water. The burning buildings of parliament were peaceful in painting; they stopped time. It seemed as though the glow from the flames kindled something within me that was waiting to be set alight.
I have been a part of the arts my entire life. They have been a part of me. I took classes at the local art museum before starting kindergarten. The classrooms are in the back, and I walked through the galleries to get to them. Every afternoon I would fall in love with pieces I passed. Something foreign about them when I was younger became a little more understood each time I saw the brushstrokes, the exposure, the clean lines or shaded edges. My mind, still fresh, became saturated with the form of communication that hung on those walls. It was a language that would never leave me.
In school, I was set apart because of my ability to draw. I was special, I was exotic, the six-year-old who could capture perfect contours of living things. I am still asked all the time how I draw, how I paint so quickly. I can’t answer really, because it has always been within my ability. It is less a craft to me and more a dialogue: I find eloquence to be something easily found, whether in English or in charcoal. Art gave me my voice before I found it, and assured me of my value. I participated in language arts and literature competitions all through elementary and middle school; it was what I loved and I was good at it.
As I have become older, the role that art plays in my life has changed, whether I am creating, appraising, reviewing, or planning. I found other students like myself. I found students who were faster at making art. They were better. But then I asked, and still ask myself, are they? A childhood of uncompetitive creativity and self-exploration strengthened me. The relationships I formed with my peers changed how I viewed others. I saw their layers and their worth.
Communicating the depth with which I connect my appraisal of art to my appraisal of myself and others is hard. Craftsmanship is how much effort I put forth. It is the measure of my conscious drive to be better, to do better. Symbolism is faith, it is desire. Â Medium is who I was born and where I am. Acrylic is malleable and mistakes can be swiped over. Watercolor is temperamental but beautiful. Oil is mature and romanticized. Photography is candor and intimacy. We are art. I look at someone and I do not label them; I try to understand them.
Art is not my only interest. It simply ties my interests together. Some people look for the structure among disciplines. I look for balance, for feeling and expression. In chemistry I see the exchange of energy. I see that the natural direction of the universe is toward greater entropy, greater disorder. What is the natural direction of humans? Do we parallel the universe? Do we contest it? I see the behavior of the stars in the swirling orbs of Kandinsky. Psychology is human interaction broken down into terms that we attempt to quantify. Language and literature are a doorway into another world, into the lives of others.
Art teaches us about our world. Art is more than my passion. Art is my diplomacy, it is my direction, it is vulnerability and the strongest protest. Â It is my pursuit of truth, my pursuit of connection, a desire to show others what I see and interpret through their eyes. It is how I have grown and I will only continue to grow.
Bio:
Chloe McWhirt began her gifted education in first grade at WINGS, and continued through middle school at Central through the SSP program. She graduated this past year and will attend school at Macalester College. Gifted education was a valuable resource available to her through her earlier years. Chloe states that gifted education “directed me toward my strengths and taught me to come at my own mental processes from a point of both understanding and curiosity.”