he's a portrait {frerard}

Art, 2/1

-Arthurs point of view-

The streets of Jersey were cold like they are always are in the Fall. The usual far off police siren and an occasional alley fight or some kid running around the blocks. Itd be nice every once in awhile to casually ask someone here for help and not get your neck sliced open. But theres an occasional good side to New Jersey. Belleville just wasnt the place. Its shocking how kids cant go outside and just play by themselves at a local park all because there was a dead body dumped into a nearby lake.

Ignoring the teenagers running running by, I pulled my cardigan back up on my shoulders and bit back the chill of the wind. I walked the rest of the way up the block, letting the breeze easily flow through my hair and turn it into an even bigger mess than it already was.

Do people, parents even, wonder what kids are doing running around and getting in trouble? Or how they got sent to juvie at age fourteen? Nobody cares about these kids, these teenagers running for their lives and living every day not caring or wondering how theyll die at the end of it all. When the chase is up and youre caught smoking in the backyard of someones house or selling illegal drugs on a local church yard, it wont matter because you lived for the thrill of things. And yes, in time, you get what you deserve and a right full punishment, but you also get the joyful reminder that you did something that made you feel alive. And everyone should have that feeling.

Not should you do something that gets you in trouble or is bad, it could be something as simple as riding a roller coaster or being with your friends.

Living like you were alive. Not as if you were just someone who existed, payed bills and died.

I swung the door open, being greeted with a cool gust of air in my face and pushing my raven colored bangs out of my eyes. The room was completely different from the outside. The aroma, the color, the feeling. Everything seemed homey and comforting. I could probably stay here all day, knowing that this safe, serene feeling would be with me. The dimly lit room and color on the walls proved that there was beauty in the most simplest form of creativity. It was everywhere. Protected in the walls of this room and displayed in magazines, on t.v. and in the windows of shops.

Something I wouldnt naturally stumble into were the pictures I noticed. I wouldnt expect photography to be in an art gallery, but the pictures were beautiful. They deserved to be in here; the simple act of snapping a picture of a moment to make it last forever, then putting it in a gallery made it more special. Most people wouldnt consider it art to just take a picture and consider the job done. They think theres no real creativeness behind it. But there is. The amount you spend working on angles, lighting or even the right day for that perfect sunset and sunrise. Its easy and quick but it takes time to find that perfect spot youve been waiting for to snap something of. And the wait pays off.

I strolled around, taking in all the different art forms and letting it hit me with that creative force. It felt great to be around something that made you feel so weightless and free. Not pulled to the ground, but actually living. I think if something were to be the cause of me staying so grounded, I wouldnt be able to enjoy life anymore. I didnt necessarily take pleasure in enjoying it in the first place, but I like to leave things behind and try to continue on no matter how hard things would get. Or even how much I flip back to that memory that can easily engrave me into a whole month of self pity and sulking. And other times when my mind is too blank its as if the memory is controlled by a switch and it Im not able to stop crying until the switch gets flipped again.

Sometimes its just a mindless act of walking around and glancing here and there until something catches my eye.

I spied, not only something so drawn out creative, but different and unique than just taking a pencil to a paper, or a paintbrush to a canvas. This art was so drawn out from every other natural style of drawing, despite its dull in color. Although it wasn't colorful, like some here, it was creative like them. Even better. It wasnt just drawing out a structure or psychical feature, it was expressing it and pushing the boundaries of where your lines could go. It was like taking the laws of a land and strong structure and how much youre able to express and draw with it, but just throwing the laws in the trash. I couldnt depict just one thing, there were many which is what made it so unique. There were flowers, birds, a human, and Im probably only getting a sliver of what is actually there. I glanced down at the end of the portrait. There, in scribbled and atrocious, yet delicate and graceful handwriting, was the name Anthony Thomas.