My Mean Old Art Teacher Essays -- Personal Narrative Writing

My Mean Old Art TeacherMr. Arnold stands smugly by his classroom door between classes, with his weaponry proudly cross over his chest as trails of students trample past his stratagem room each day. Many of the passers-by recognize this man simply as the scary art teacher. Those who have experienced Mr. Arnolds art class first-hand regard him otherwise. I had heard many stories about Mr. Arnold before entering his grueling class. Most people dont uniform him, some warned me. Others commented, Ive heard his class is really difficult. I net remember my first day in his art class clearly. I entered his room a timid freshman with unpleasant expectations. Maybe I was even a little more than timid. The concept of high school frightened me, and having a teacher with a bad reputation didnt ease my fears. I was a sheltered fourteen-year old girl a girl who had been babied most of her life. I entered room 28 for the first time on a warm late-summers afternoon, as the suns rays attempted to soothe me through the windows. The poignant smell of oil blushing mushroom filtered through the air, nuts classical music drifted from his office and impressive artwork decorated the walls. Mr. Arnold always insisted, much to the students opposition, that, Classical music puts you in the right mind set to bring forth art. It will not distract you, it will force you to focus. The shelves juggled piles of aged art supplies and half-filled canvases doffed the edges of the room. Mr. Arnold loomed in front of the class with his pointer, a man with frosty argent hair and an undeniable bald spot, unraveling his list of arduous requirements. Art is not an easy B, he smirked, making reference to a sign on the wall, and squinting at us with his sharp icy eyes. Furt... ...der his tutelege. Mr. Arnolds guidance has made me realize that if I deeply and genuinely love what I do, I can succeed. Art has wisked me into lands of creativity and imagination I never knew. Ive learned to expand my b oundaries by setting sail on risky bodies of water. I may be somewhat of a timid person, but when I create art, I can fly. Mr. Arnold has helped me gain more of the confidence I so desperately undeniable to break loose. I spent four years in that same room, a room where I grew to love the familiar smell of oil paint and the sound of classical music, listening to Mr. Arnold holler, narrate, criticize, instruct and laugh. I do know an art teacher, different from the one who stands smugly by the door of his art room, with his arms proudly crossed over his chest, and I will never forget him because his teaching has shaped me as an artist, and as a person.