Graphic by Megan Eloise/The Gazele

“Pfft, don’t you just wish you were studying the arts,” an acquaintance of mine dismissively scoffed as I walked out of a theater class that ran for four hours, crumbling under the weight of three final papers, the first drafts of which were due the next day.

The only thing that kept me from flinging my bag full of fabric and camera equipment at his head was the fact that my arms were too numb from lugging said bag to and fro the Frigid Zone that is the Arts Center. I also knew that if I did indulge my temper it would simply incite an artistic temperament remark that I did not have the energy or patience to deal with at that moment.

Contrary to popular belief, kids who major in subjects such as theater, film, visual arts and music don’t just sit in class on their creatively-blessed behinds imagining things all day. They may not be writing research papers or finding the cure to cancer, but they do work incredibly hard to allow their understanding of the world to manifest in reality.

Most of the time they do this for no credit, save for the immense satisfaction they derive from watching their especially unique interpretation of the universe come alive for other people to engage with. The new Student Led Projects, more than anything else, prove this. Each time I walk through these student produced exhibitions or sit with my mouth ridiculously agape during play readings, I feel as though I have tread through a few of the minds of these passionately driven human beings. I’ve only treaded, mind you. There is so much more that lays there beneath the major surface, which I hope to be inspired by in the future.

The Arts Center never ceases to surprise me either. I am only just discovering that its meandering white-washed walls house worlds of their own, closeted within random studios. I turned a wrong door the other day, in search of the elusive coffee machine in a futile attempt to warm myself, and found myself in a room that wasn’t a room. It was an enchanted forest. Except it wasn’t, because there were nine feet tall deconstructed ballerinas that loomed eerily over scattered petals, potted trees and all sorts of strange flowery artwork. It was beautiful and creepy beyond belief. For a few minutes I was so immersed in the sketches of lips and rebel girl motifs that dominated the room, along with mangled rag dolls, that I forgot I had a Core paper due in an hour and that the coffee machine was not only on the wrong side but on the wrong floor.

My trespassing quota for the day fulfilled, I walked back to my room on a paint-and-fabric induced high, gripped with the need to suddenly draw roses — lots of them — and stick them all over my wall in a wannabe art studio attempt. I called my friend frantically, requesting her paintbrushes like most people do for food and began to dab.

With each swirl, I felt happiness inhabit my soul.

And I decided, if I have to be described, “artsy” is my chosen pigeon-hole.

Yes, I made the last two sentences a rhyming couplet just to really drive it home.