Post Your essay

Colleges and Universities A-Z University of Chicago ✅
161

<p>doesn't harry potter have "super powers?"</p>

162

<p>I don't think so, he's a wizard so he's got a wand. I guess that's like Bruce Wayne in his batsuit. Harry isn't Superman or anything. AdComs won't reject your essay because of that, cause superpowers refer to superheroes, and Harry isn't one by any means.</p>

<p>Great essay by the way.</p>

163

<p>hah</p>

<p>my essay (option four)
takes place in the world of periodica where elements interact as we do
(i kind of adapted flatland to chemistry, lol)
My tale is one of a certain H atom on an epic adventure to find someone special to bond with. He eventually bonds with a 117 Uus created at fermilab
its cheesy, but i enjoyed writing it and i hope the admission staff enjoy reading it!</p>

164

<p>Chicago professor W. J. T. Mitchell entitled his 2005 book "What Do Pictures Want?" Describe a picture and explore what it wants.</p>

<pre><code>Wandering through Old Town Alexandria on a sticky July afternoon, there was nothing more we wanted for ourselves than a double-scoop ice cream cone. Zach, a Wisconsin native with little tolerance for summer heat, and I, a lifelong Arizonan who cannot go a week without ice cream, had barely left the tapas restaurant where we had eaten lunch before we mutually agreed that we needed to find an ice cream parlor.
Where I’m from, ice cream parlors are as omnipresent as gas stations; one cannot go far without finding some kind of business establishment that sells something frozen and delicious. As we soon discovered, this was not the case for Old Town Alexandria; an hour later, we had passed a Lilly Pulitzer boutique, a wig shop, and a run-down movie theater – twice, and still no ice cream parlor.
“Look, there’s that little French bakery,” I pointed out to Zach.
</code></pre>

<p>We entered a virtual oasis of chocolate-covered pastries and Parisian caf</p>

165

<p>Essay Prompt #4. I was admitted EA.</p>

<p>As I scan through the weekly periodical Table of Elements, a brief news report captures my attention. </p>

<hr>

<pre><code> The Invisible Hand of Ancient Times

What exactly happened to the indigenous inhabitants of Earth, our home, in the decades leading up to the mass extinctions of half a millennium ago? Thought to have been caused by excessive procreation and expansion, the sudden extinction of humans shocked the robot community, creating an outbreak of “short circuits.” This week, the Table of Elements reports a new explanation for the disappearance of humans and the rise of the First Robot Empire. According to E4E5, head ventriloquist at the University of Chicago for the Gifted and Talented Drones and Androids, the “Invisible Hand” is the probable cause of the Great Turmoil of 2017. “The ‘Invisible Hand,’” explains E4E5, “is the arrogant materialism that struck the human race beginning in their ‘Modern’ Era.”

According to the researchers, humans were not always materialistic. Before their “Modern” Era, humans were fascinated by the world around them, but they did not attempt to take control. As proof, the ancient discovery of the Pythagorean Theorem, a crowning human achievement, came out of the desire to understand, not to dominate. Eventually, however, the conceit of the human race led it to apply the theorem incessantly on every meritocratic assessment and to create covetous love triangles that ended up disintegrating. Another example of human vanity can be found in pointillism. Initially a harmless art technique, pointillism goaded the pride of the human race into an insatiable fondness for pixilation during the “Modern” Era.

“Widespread pixilation really led to the beginning of the end for the humans,” explains E4E5. “This transformation led humans to crave being digital.” According to E4E5, humans became digitalized through the so-called “two door” conjecture – that is, their living material became encoded into 1’s and 0’s. “Another problem,” points out E4E5, “was the concept that students in the society should be labeled with a digital ‘score’ after completing an assessment with a ‘number two pencil.’” According to researchers, fossil evidence suggests that this system of meritocracy did little to promote student-parent “jeong.” Society became so covetous of “the digital score” that it became known as the SAT, or Society-Assigned Triage.

“Obviously,” concludes E4E5, “materialism festered in human society, leading to the final meltdown prior to extinction.” In fact, the President of the United States, the leading materialist in these ancient times, is quoted as proclaiming “And yes I said yes I will Yes…[take over the world]!!!” (He was, unfortunately, unable to complete his celebrated Ultimate Declaration of Dominance, because the ‘Invisible Hand’ emerged to shove a shoe into his mouth).

</code></pre>

<hr>

<pre><code> As I finish reading, I put down the Table of Elements. What a tragic mistake those humans made, I beep to myself. I fold the leaflet deftly into a paper airplane, chuckling to myself as I throw it out of the window, into the barren landscape.
</code></pre>

166

<p>isleofthedeep is a living god</p>

167

<p>Ok some of you might've already seen this, but in the interest of the greater good, here goes.</p>

<p>Admitted EA.</p>

<p>Disclaimer - this essay does not make much sense outside the context of the prompt. I think.</p>

<p>Modern improvisational comedy had its start with The Compass Players, a group of University of Chicago students, who later formed the Second City comedy troupe. Here is a chance to play along. Improvise a story, essay, or script that meets all of the following requirements:
• It must include the line “And yes I said yes I will Yes” (Ulysses, by James Joyce).
• Its characters may not have superpowers.
• Your work has to mention the University of Chicago, but please, no accounts of a high school student applying to the University—this is fiction, not autobiography.
• Your work must include at least four of the following elements:
• a paper airplane
• a transformation
• a shoe
• the invisible hand
• two doors • pointillism
• a fanciful explanation of the Pythagorean Theorem
• a ventriloquist or ventriloquism • the Periodic Table of the Elements
• the concept of jeong
• number two pencils </p>

<p>JUST ANOTHER DAY IN OFFICE</p>

<p>“Mr. President.” It took me a moment to realize he was talking to me. After all, I’d only been 18 hours and 3 attempts on my life into the job. “Mr. President,” he repeated.</p>

<p>I turned around awkwardly, the way you turn around when someone finds you in the middle of a deserted Houston office-hallway decorated with statues and renaissance paintings of unclothed women. The Secret Service guy stood there, the one I didn’t like very much. Perhaps he’d be able to tell me what I was doing alone in said hallway at 8 pm with no personal bodyguards.</p>

<p>“Sir, we have some…ah, good news, and some bad news.”</p>

<p>An especially bad way to begin a conversation with your boss.</p>

<p>“They’re called the…er…Invisible Hand, sir. These guys are neo-Nazi, pro-Jihad fanatics. And…er…we’ve finally figured out the pattern with their bombs.”</p>

<p>I considered telling him that CNN could have done it faster with billions of dollars of American taxpayers’ money, but refrained.</p>

<p>“They rigged all the places you were supposed to sit today, sir – the park bench at your residence, 8am; the leather chair at the Oval Office, 10am; the toilet-seat in Air Force One, 2pm. We think they’re trying to…er…they’re after…ah…”</p>

<p>Intelligent, but inarticulate. I’d have him replaced tomorrow. Still, I tried to give him a hand. “You think they’re trying to blow up my behind,” I suggested. He nodded. This wasn’t good. First day at work and already the butt of the joke. “What’s the good news, then?” I ventured.</p>

<p>“Er…That was the good news, sir.” </p>

<p>I could see ‘long day’ written all over this.</p>

<p>“The bad news is that we’ve had to cut off all your security, sir. They couldn’t have gone so far without somehow infiltrating us. So you’re effectively on your own.” – I nodded, understandingly – “We can’t risk bodyguards. I’d advise we continue randomizing your position every ten minutes. And at any cost, Sir, please do not sit down anywhere. We think the methodology is important to them. So as long as you don’t sit down anywhere, you should be – ARGH.”</p>

<p>Famous last words. He collapsed to the floor, a South American poison-dart stuck in his neck. I ducked down and crawled beneath the windows and into the nearest doorway, alert to the fact that the dart hadn’t blown in with the breeze. It was some sort of locker room. I hurriedly undressed and wore a smelly blue janitor’s outfit I found, over my Kevlar. The pockets contained the Guardian crossword, a nail clipper, a number two pencil and some change. I paused for a moment to think through the situation. So this ‘Invisible Hand’ was on my case, eh? Well, I’d show them my invisible hind and just how elusive it could be. While I made a mental note to give the guys at Intelligence a big budget cut, a real one flew in through the window in the form of a paper airplane. I picked it up and unfolded it.</p>

<p>Nice idea with the disguise, Prez.
(And such clean underwear! Your mother would be proud…)
– A friend.
P.S. Don’t forget the bucket. It’s got soap-water.</p>

<p>I ignored the jibe. It was ok…at least someone wanted to see me alive through all of this. I was going to need all the help I could get. I picked up the bucket in question and reflexively checked my seasoned ‘senator’s smile’ in the mirror. I liked the transformation – that was one smart janitor. Happily, I walked out the door, whistling the way janitors whistle, living the American Dream. I stepped over the Secret Service Agent’s corpse and into the hallway. A couple of guys with black ski-masks and Uzis hurtled round the corner. “He went that way,” I yelled as they flew past in the direction I indicated. I promptly headed the other way. The hallway turned and I came face-to-mask with…more Uzi guys. Only these were better. They recognized me and raised their submachine guns. I took a quick inventory of my armory: a sponge and a bucket full of soap water. No, I had to use something a little more…effective.</p>

<p>“DON’T!” said the statue next to me as the guns went up. “DON’T do it.” They froze, baffled. The statue went on to hurl a volley of Arabic insults with utmost spite.</p>

<p>The Uzi boys fled. I smiled to myself. They hadn’t made me President for nothing – I’d actually made it through 18 hours and 21 minutes of the job. That left only around…four years. I somehow doubted things would get any simpler, and they didn’t. My loud bit of ventriloquism had alerted the first set of ski-masks and I could hear them coming back. I didn’t exactly have time to booby-trap the place, so I splashed the soap-water onto the marble and legged it. Two corners later, I heard pandemonium as they slid around, knocking things over. At the third corner, I stopped laughing, because I crashed into a wall.</p>

<p>Massaging my nose, I analyzed this latest problem. The bad thing about this wall was that it was a wall, not a corridor with a staircase. The nice thing about it was that it had two doors. On my right: “Men,” and on my left: “Women.” It took me under a nanosecond to decide – Neo-Nazi, pro-Jihad guys in ski-masks didn’t look for Presidents in ladies’ rooms, did they…</p>

<p>So I walked in, calmly. The room was empty and all the lights were out – all save one small bulb above the mirror. And taped to the mirror was, I suspected, my next message from Mr. Anonymous. Nice effect. It turned out to be a baseball card; a really OLD baseball card. I grabbed the card (taking the opportunity to check my smile in the glass). Cap Anson, White Sox, 1st base. Mid 1880s, I recollected. The card itself was a beauty – little dots of RGB in a classic example of pointillism. There was a big white “Chicago” on the star’s blue outfit. If this was the original, I wondered how they’d sneaked it out of the Congress Library.</p>

<p>Image:Cap</a> Anson 0555fu.jpg - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia</p>

<p>But a moment later, I had to stop wondering, because the ski-masks reappeared, apparently having finished with their bubble bath. Ok…so my hunch about the ladies’ room was wrong. But I did the best I could do under the circumstances – I took my left shoe off and smashed the light-bulb with it. Then I hit the floor because I knew they’d do what all neo-Nazi, pro-Jihad grunts do when the lights go out – empty their magazines into the air. As expected, eleven seconds later the rattle stopped and two deadweights hit the floor. Home run, Mr. President. I lay there for a moment, thinking about what Cap Anson was all about. An anagram, perhaps? Canon Spa…Caps Anon…Caps Anon, yeah right. For what, a group of people addicted to caps? </p>

<p>I stood up, dusted myself and opened the window to let the smoke out. I then climbed through it because I heard more ski-mask guys approaching (guess they’d heard the gunfire). I found myself on a fire-escape. There was an alleyway two stories below, and beyond it, a building – one of those dingy residential complexes. It even had its own handy fire-escape within reach 4 feet away. Thank God for no-zoning in Houston, I thought. I didn’t like the office-building behind me very much. It was turning out to be a little dangerous. Besides, its hallway décor was pretty bad. </p>

<p>I decided to ‘randomize my location’ again. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, leaped across to the other fire escape, climbed two floors up, opened a window and tumbled in, a sweaty, smelly rag in a blue janitor’s outfit, wearing one shoe. Breaking and Entering – I could lose my job for this. No…worse…I could get sued.</p>

<p>At least the apartment was empty. The doorbell clanged and shook me up a bit. “Pizza!” I checked the peep-hole. It really was a pizza boy, not a neo-Nazi-pro-Jihad-freak-in-a-ski-mask-with-an-Uzi. So I figured this was my next clue from ‘A friend.’ I paid him off with the janitor’s change. Lucky strike there, because I’d stopped having to carry cash around 18 hours, 35 minutes ago. I opened the pizza box, and lo-and-behold, the pepperoni spelt “CHANNEL 27.”</p>

<p>Who on earth was sending me these clues and why? Maybe it was my future self, like in ‘Paycheck.’ Whoever they were, they sure weren’t being direct about it, but they were a lot better than the lame ‘Invisible Hand,’ more invisible by far. I turned on the TV. It was all the way up on Channel 98. Some drama was playing, and a lousy one at that. I’d forgotten how to change channels – an unfortunate side-effect of my old job. While I fiddled with the remote:</p>

<p>“Oh Cynthia…if only you knew how much I loved you…”
“Derek, I’ve told you this, and I’ll tell you again. I’m engaged. To Ryan.”
“How did he ask you, Cynthia, love? What did he do that I didn’t?”
“He took me out to the Fisherman’s Wharf. And he told me I had eyes like the moon…and asked if I would marry him”
“And you said…”
“And I said yes! I said….yes, I will, yes!”
“Oh if only I were Pythagoras – all would have seemed fair and square and this triangle so very right!”
“Stop it, Derek. You’re annoying.”
“What’s a ‘Noing’?”</p>

<p>Thankfully, that was all I had to endure of this drivel because I’d miraculously figured out which buttons I needed. But, rest assured, somebody at the FCC was going to hear a few questions coming from the Avenue tomorrow.</p>

<p>Channel 27 turned out to be the news, complete with a newscaster with a Texan drawl. I figured I had to watch for my next clue or something, so I decided to make the most of the pizza’s presence. Chomping Pepperoni, I parked myself on the couch – almost. I only ‘almost’ parked myself on the couch because right then a little pillow I was about to sit on became a cloud of feathers in a very tiny explosion. Very funny. It was the Invisible Hand, reminding me ever so subtly that they were still around.</p>

<p>The story I was looking for came on. It had nothing to do with Cap Anson. In fact, it had everything to do with what was written on his shirt. I watched as I ate Pizza, living the American Dream.</p>

<p>“In our next story, the Polar Bear run at the University of Chicago attracted an unprecedented number of streakers this year…” The newscaster continued as a helicopter shot showed hundreds of figures running down a patch of white. As I finished my third slice of pizza, still standing in one shoe, the newscaster finished and switched stories. “And in recent developments, 37 are injured in Washington D.C. as riots mark today’s swearing-in ceremony of President –” Here the TV went off. It went off because my other shoe now lay inside it.</p>

<p>Fuming, I left the remaining pizza on a table and went outside. I had my next clue, but there was nothing in this hallway that could help me with it. Speaking of hallways, this one was a lot better – just doors. Lots of doors and no statues or paintings of unclothed women. Except for one between the elevators – no, it wasn’t an unclothed woman; it was a polar bear. Thank you, Mr. Anonymous. I pushed the ‘up’ button and, while the system kicked in, took the frame off the wall to find a note taped to the wall:</p>

<p>Did you study your chemistry, boy?
-A friend</p>

<p>And with it: a modern periodic table. This was not funny anymore. It was ridiculous. But it was still better than facing the Uzi boys in my socks, so I decided to go with it. I scrutinized the paper. Some of the elements had been circled. Mo, Ba, K and O, to be precise. That was pretty random, so I went for my favorite approach – anagrams. Bamoko. Moboka. Omboak. No…I was missing something very simple here. It hit me as the elevator arrived on my floor.</p>

<p>KABOOM!</p>

<p>When I say it hit me, that’s exactly what I mean it did. A fireball erupted behind me as a grenade (I suspect) blew up one of the doors in the hallway and a little legion of ski-masks rushed out with their Uzis. Damn. Now I wished this hallway did have statues. In their absence, I had to resort to the ol’ one-two: I raised my arms up in the air and took a leaf out of Bruce Lee’s book, from the page that read: “KAYAAAAAAAAA!”</p>

<p>While the Invisible Hand bozos stood back in surprise, the doors closed on me and I went up. Yet another victory for the new President. Two floors later, the doors opened and an Asian woman stood there, talking on the phone, living the American Dream. I indicated to her that I was going up, not down. She wasn’t especially excited about the smelly janitor standing in the elevator with no shoes and a blue outfit engrossed instead in her own conversation:</p>

<p>“No, Pop. Can’t do that. We’ll raise the money, but I just won’t sell the diamonds. They used to belong to Mumma. No, you do not understand, Pop. It is not just sentiment, it is jeong…” </p>

<p>Sigh…the love…it’s what makes our Land a Nation… I wanted to listen in so I could draft my next speech around this phrase, but the doors closed and I resumed my upward climb. Just when things were getting pretty boring, there was a voltage spike. The lights fused and the elevator trundled to a halt in no-man’s land. Well, POTUS my boy, your luck had to run out some time. I braced myself for an explosion, gunfire, anything that suggested that the Invisible Hand was going to throttle me. Instead, I got this on the elevator’s emergency telephone:</p>

<p>“Hey, sorry for the glitch, Mr. President. We’re fixing things here. Oh…and congratulations, sir. You passed the test in flying colors. You have officially joined the long line of Heads of State of our Great Land. We even think you broke the internal record…just gimme a sec while Jim here adds up your score. What? Of course it was a test, sir. Standard recruitment procedure in the office. Yeah, part of Placement and Orientation and all, you know…No…no, you weren’t supposed to know, sir. No, sir, they aren’t really dead. We collaborate with Hollywood for the smoke and gore. Yes, sir. Very realistic…We even got some incredible footage of you in action, sir...Yes, sir, especially the Kung Fu bit.” – guffaws sounded at the other end – “Oh, by the way, we’ve got a convoy waiting downstairs, sir, and Air Force One is ready on the runway…”</p>

168

<p>Too late to edit - but I also happened to include all the elements.</p>

169

<h2>Ehhh, I'm iffy about this one. But I submitted it RD and I'll post the result when I get it.</h2>

<p>“The next painting on our tour is the Mona Lisa, started in 1502 by Leonardo da Vinci. This painting symbolizes the….” The curator’s voice became fainter and fainter as the group of tourists and art aficionados moved on to the next exhibit. When the last clip-clop of flip-flops faded away I was left standing in the gallery. </p>

<p>‘What is this supposed to be, a cow?’ I thought, squinting at the mess of paint-on-canvas. Art wasn’t what I would call my hobby. I preferred books to portraits and a pen to a paintbrush. ‘Still,’ I thought, ‘you have to admire how much time and effort this must have cost.’ </p>

<p>It always bothered me how curators confidently told people ‘the meaning’ of the piece, as if there was only one interpretation. How could they know? After all, they didn’t paint it. People tend to focus on what a picture says to them. I preferred to wonder what the painter meant.</p>

<p>I stopped in front of a replica of the Mona Lisa. I felt dwarfed by the painting, both in size and in reputation. This is the kind of art people admire for centuries, reprint thousands of times, and travel great distances to see. Even someone without much artistic talent could grasp that This Was Important. I put my hands on the worn, red velvet ropes and leaned in for a closer look.</p>

<p>Tick, tock, tick tock… Was the clock always that loud? I turned around and looked. No it was still in the same place, but the ticking seemed to have become louder. I shook my head and turned back to the painting. </p>

<p>TICK TOCK, TICK TOCK. I whipped back around and stared at the clock face. Were the hands moving…backwards? There was no denying that the ticking was louder; it was ringing in my ears. As I watched in mild horror, people started to zip back and forth like a tape rewound at high speed without even casting a glance in my direction. The sun set and rose in a matter of seconds. It went on, faster and faster, until I wasn’t even in the museum any more: I was following the painting. It went from hanging over a fire in a grand-looking study, to covered with a cloth in a dark storage room, to displayed in a monastery where brown-habited monks zipped about like fleas. No specific faces were discernable: everything had turned into a blur. As it went farther and farther back I saw the painting misused, forgotten, stolen, sold, and appraised. I wondered how much farther it could go until- </p>

<p>WHAM. I hit the cold, stone floor with a thump and attempted to sit up, coughing and confused. I barely had time to look around before-“Who the hell are you?” I jerked around and gaped. Sitting amongst a mess of paints, empty plates, and scraps of paper was Leonardo da Vinci himself. Far from looking like a heavenly father-of-art, his beard was uncombed and had a wild look about it, his clothes were wrinkled, and the studio looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in days. Paint pots were spilled over, broken frames of pictures were strewn about, and smell of turpentine was so strong, one would have thought someone bathed in it.</p>

<p>“Well?” He snapped. “Who on earth are you!? And what are you doing in MY studio?” I was frozen to the spot on the floor as my mind whirred frantically, trying to come up with a suitable response. I didn’t know if they had mad houses in Renaissance Italy, but that was where they would send me if I said I had simply landed here from the future. </p>

<p>I blurted out the first thought that came to mind: “I’m your father’s uncle’s cousin’s step-daughter!” Da Vinci sputtered angrily and looked lost for words.</p>

<p>“I DON’T HAVE ANY TIME TO BE SHOWING AROUND LONG-LOST RELATIONS! I HAVE WORK TO DO AND NO TROUBLESOME WOMAN IS GOING TO-“ Women. Mona Lisa. I suddenly remembered why I was here.</p>

<p>“Mr. da Vinci? Where is Mona Lisa?”</p>

<p>“Somewhere in Florence when I saw her last.” My eyes widened and da Vinci smirked. “But if you mean the painting of her, it’s over there, in the corner.” He waved me away and went back to quietly muttering at his easel, apparently deciding that angering his father’s uncle’s cousin by throwing me out would not be a good idea. I padded over to dark, dank corner where a mess of abandoned canvases and easels stood and looked for the mysterious Mona. Cursing, I looked down at what I stubbed my toe on and nearly fell over in shock. It was Mona Lisa, covered by a dirty tarp and abandoned. I gingerly picked up the half-finished piece. </p>

<p>“Why is this painting just thrown aside?” Da Vinci’s head popped out from behind his easel.</p>

<p>“That? I don’t know why you’re so fascinated by a commission piece.” He waved his hand and scowled. “I receive many commissions, and none of them are important.” Just a commission? How many people had gazed at this picture in a gallery and thought, ‘it’s just a commission’? Da Vinci ranted on, oblivious to my shock. “…and on top of that, everyone is talking about Michelangelo now. Michelangelo this, Michelangelo that, ‘will you please paint my chapel Michelangelo’? Bah! I could have done that chapel ten times better than him. And if this next painting doesn’t sell, I’ll be out on my ears! Homeless! My landlord is getting testy. Apparently five months of missed rent is too much.” So much for the image of Leonardo the Ethereal. </p>

<p>“So… why don’t you just finish the commission of Mona Lisa, obtain the payment for it, and then pay your rent?” He halted his tirade, scratched his chin in contemplation, and shrugged. </p>

<p>“Why not? I haven’t even received the sketches for that ‘Final Dinner’ scene, or whatever it is supposed to be. Bring that canvas over here.” I handed him the painting. He knocked whatever sketch he was working on off of his easel and set Mona Lisa on it. Squinting at the colors and lines, he set to work mixing paints, grumbling faintly under his breath. I cleared the stool of rags and pigment jars and sat down, watching the master at work. Despite his eccentricities, he really was a genius at his trade. He mixed pigments, selected brushes, and prepared his palette with a confident ease. One could almost be mesmerized by the rich, vivid powders tossed onto new wooden trays, the crisp, clean bristles of an army of brushes standing at attention, the-</p>

<p>“Well? Are you going to go or are you just going to gawk at me all day?” He glared. I sighed and slid off the chair, heading towards the door. Once a grump, always a grump. I was about to leave but I remembered a question I wanted to ask. </p>

<p>“Mr. da Vinci? What is the secret of Mona Lisa’s smile?” He didn’t even raise his head or stop working to answer me.</p>

<p>“She had bad teeth and refused to show them.” Bells from a clock tower were chiming in the distance. I felt the nauseating sensation of time speeding up again and felt unable to take my eyes off of Mona Lisa. I saw da Vinci finish the painting and deliver it to the man who commissioned it. I saw it pass down through his family, sold to a string of wealthy buyers, and countless other events until-</p>

<p>Time jerked to a sudden stop. I tottered on my feet and looked around, hands pressed against my ears to shut out the ringing of Renaissance bells. I was back at the museum, standing in front of the replica once again. “Miss? Miss?” I looked up to find the tour guide gesturing to me from the next room. “Please stay with the tour group.” I reluctantly followed, casting a glance back at the painting. </p>

<p>“Now this is a copy of Michelangelo’s David, demonstrating the Renaissance ideal male form. Michelangelo and Leonardo da Vinci were bitter rivals, but respected and constantly influenced each other’s work...” I clapped my hands over my mouth to stifle a laugh, remembering da Vinci’s ‘respect’ for Michelangelo. After a brief summary on the history of the statue, the tour group moved on. I, however, held back.</p>

<p>As I looked up at the famed sculpture, I realized that it wasn’t the picture that wants anything at all. But the artist behind every picture has something he wants his audience to see, and that can be different from what the audience wants the painter to say. In this case, each person wants something different from every picture.</p>

170

<p>miss silvestris i like yours. clever</p>

171

<p>^ Thanks a lot JohnC :)!</p>

172

<p>Here is mine!</p>

<p>Essay Option 5:</p>

<p>“Truly wonderful, the mind of a child is.”
-Yoda</p>

<p>There is no time in life quite like childhood. Every experience as a child is amplified, and becomes bigger, brighter, louder, scarier, or funnier than at any other point in our lifetimes. Our memories as children serve as reminders of the innocent hyperboles of the past. Tell us about a point in your life—a moment in your childhood that will resonate with you forever, serious or humorous, and present it with all its exaggerations intact. </p>

<p>Die Schlechte Reise (The Bad Trip)
My parents said it would be fun. They said that the airlines would treat us right. That everything would go smoothly, and that time would fly by while we were in the sky. However, these were the same parents who once told me that the Tooth Fairy was real, and Mountain Dew would stunt my growth. For these reasons alone, I was already doubtful that my flight from San Francisco to Germany would go as well as it had been promised, but I tried to be optimistic about my situation. I could never have foreseen just how horrendous my flight would be.<br>
It was the summer of 2000, and my family just stepped foot into San Francisco International, the biggest airport I had ever seen. My two cousins and I were preparing to embark on a voyage unlike anything we had been through before. We were on our way to Romania, the Motherland of my family, and the place where my cousins and I were going to spend our summer. Unfortunately, the path to this new and exciting country would be paved with the rotting corpse of my childhood.<br>
There were two reasons why I had never experienced a journey quite like this before. First, the only ones partaking in this daring expedition would be my two cousins, Timea and Pika, and I. Pika was in second grade, I was in fourth, and Timea was in seventh; needless to say, we weren’t at the best ages to be sent halfway around the world without adult supervision. Second, the flight to Germany would take over nine hours. When I first heard this, I was in shock. I didn’t even know airplanes could stay up in flight for that long. I thought that after the eighth hour of flight time, irreparable brain damage due to sheer boredom occurred. Yes, the flight would test the limits of our sanity, but we were willing to press onwards in order to reach the green pastures of Romania. Nevertheless, when Judgment Day finally did arrive, none of us were prepared for the horror that would ensue.<br>
On the day of our flight, the lines to the ticket counter were unusually short, security didn’t hassle us much, and we even had time to have some pizza for lunch. Considering that it was the middle of the day on a Saturday, we had an airport experience that most travelers could only hope and dream of. Little did I know that this absence of frustration was only the calm before the storm. When it was time for the plane to be boarded, my cousins and I were the first ones allowed to enter the plane because we were unaccompanied minors. For once, being young finally paid off. When we pierced the passengerless veil of the massive Boeing 737 and walked to our seats, I was in complete awe at how amazing our accommodations were. We each had a multi-channel radio in our armrest, a large window to the right of my seat, and three huge television screens in front of us. To top it all off, because our seats were located in the front row, we had the kind of legroom that only legends are made of. This wasn’t just an airplane; it was a child’s dream-world. By the time I had soaked in the pure “awesomeness” of our seats, all the passengers had boarded the plane as well, and we were only moments away from takeoff. Only moments away from the finest travel experience of my life, and from true airline greatness. But then the calm I had grown to love over the past few hours, gave way to a storm of immeasurable frustration.<br>
It began with a little tap on the shoulder from one of the stewardesses. She then uttered the words that will forever resonate in my memory: “Excuse me, would you three be willing to exchange seats with this lady and her family? She is six months pregnant, and would really appreciate the extra legroom.”
I considered this proposition very carefully. On one hand, I could help an uncomfortable, pregnant lady steal three luxurious seats from their rightful owners. On the other hand, I could say no, and guiltlessly enjoy the rest of my flight. Before I could turn to what most would consider the “Dark Side,” the stewardess said the one thing that every adult knows will grant them a moment of complete cooperation from a child. She played the “C Card,” that is, she said that she would give us candy if we moved. Everyone knows that candy offered to a young child can never be turned down. It is like offering liquor to an alcoholic, food to a beggar, or a bribe to a crooked politician. The deal, along with our fates, was sealed.
We never saw that stewardess again. After we carried our massive luggage from our original seats to our new ones, we realized that we had just been swindled. If our previous seats were the “Ferrari of seats,” our new ones were Ford Pintos. Our new seats’ legroom would have made a Cirque Du Soleil acrobat cringe at its compactness. We didn’t even have a window. Only an empty area that coldly reminded us of the greatness we once felt. In fact, the only windows near us were solely for the row in front and behind of us to enjoy. The cherry on top of our rotten cake was a little German boy seated right in front of us, who had already started throwing Gummy Bears at us. I could feel the complete desperation and hopelessness of the passengers seated in this area. Luckily, a glimpse of hope was on its way: dinner was being served.<br>
A flight attendant handed me a small, lukewarm box covered in tin foil that had the word “Dinner” printed on the top of it in bold red letters. Underneath the pseudo-warning label, was a piece of chicken that looked exactly how I felt: absolutely miserable. Out of the necessity of survival, I ate the food that looked like it was prepared for a prisoner of war (so I guess it was fine for a passenger in coach too). Needless to say, this “meal” was not the redeemer I thought it would be, and things would only get worse as the flight carried on.
Through an act of pure mercy on my body’s part, I slipped into a deep sleep for a few hours after “dinner.” I must have been dreaming of what life would have been like if I were still in my original seat, because I wasn’t even angry when I was awoken by a rogue Gummy Bear slung from the boy seated in front of me. My counterfeit happiness soon subsided, as the projectiles began to increase in size and velocity over the next few minutes. It began with Gummy Bears, upgraded to Lemon Heads, and finally escalated to full sized dinner rolls. It felt as if I was starring in a WWII movie. Eventually, much like the Allies did in the “Great War,” I had to retaliate against my German aggressor. My cousins and I began assaulting the row in front of us with everything around us that wasn’t bolted down. The “German Blitz” soon died down, and the boy ceased fire. As I basked in the glory of victory, I soon learned that I had just won the battle, but not the war.<br>
The German boy was not alone; he had his mother seated next to him. Few things in life are as terrifying as an angry German mother. She fed off of our fear and became stronger with each passing second. I must admit that I was quite a meal for her. As if my cousins and I had just attempted to throw her son out of the aircraft, she began screaming at us with more might than a Nebelwerfer. My cousins and I just closed our eyes, and tried to go to a happy place (our original seats) while we waited for the verbal lashing to subside. The war was finally over, and both sides pulled back to count their casualties. Hour five had passed, and life still wouldn’t get any easier.<br>
I wanted to sleep, but I had no idea what time it was. I wanted to eat, but there was no food. My sanity had officially left me, so I just stared into the dark void of the passenger cabin. After a while, I decided to take a peek outside for a hint of what time it was. I couldn’t open the back window because a passenger was sleeping on the flap. At this moment, my worst fears were confirmed: I would have to trudge back into enemy territory in order to be granted the small satisfaction of seeing the outside world once again. The German mother had fallen into a deep sleep, and was snoring like a tranquilized hippo. When trying to open the window, one small slip could mean disaster. I gently slid my hand over toward the window flap, and slowly began to raise it. By the time I got it halfway up, I began to see a small glimmer of the sunset. It truly was something amazing. Yet, with great beauty, comes even greater ugliness. As if Death himself had lunged for my hand, the German woman awoke to see me trespassing in her territory. She instinctively grabbed for my fragile little hand, and with a colossal bellow, she threw my hand back and yelled, “Nein!” There was no time to nurse my wounds, because the captain was announcing what I had been waiting for ever since the flight began: “We will soon be landing.”
Even the word “soon” turned out to be a disappointment. It was another hour and a half before we hit the tarmac, due to a stalled plane on the runway. Like a final nail in my child-sized coffin, the delay caused us to miss our connecting flight to Budapest. I wasn’t even surprised when I realized that I would be spending the next six hours of my life stuck in Berlin.<br>
We eventually did get out of Berlin, but by then I was so exhausted, that I slept for the next thirteen hours. By the time we reached Romania the next day, I realized that I had become a new person. I entered the plane to Germany a joyful, young boy, but exited it feeling like a bitter, old man.<br>
Not many people can claim to have ever gone through what I did on my flight to Romania, let alone do it all at the age of ten. The trip made me a little wiser, yet also a little more insane; because every time I see a Gummy Bear, I get war flashbacks. Looking back on my trip I have learned one fundamental truism: never trust flight attendants.</p>

173

<p>ava4penn, hahha i LOVED your essay!</p>

174

<p>They say one or two pages...is that single spaced or double spaced? I think single spaced...I might end up with a page and a half...with the topic I'm writing on now.</p>

175

<p>This is a pretty sweet thread! Doesn't seem like anybody really chose the Borges y yo essay this year, I applied EA and was accepted...I may as well bump this post up too!
TOPIC:
In Jorge Luis Borges’s Labyrinths, he writes a parable entitled “Borges y yo,” which translates as “Borges and I.” In it, Borges writes about “the other one,” his counterpart, who shares his preference for “hourglasses, maps, eighteenth century typography, the taste of coffee, and the prose of Stevenson,” but is not the same as he. “The other one” is the famous author; “the other one” is the one “things happen to.” He concludes this parable with the line “I do not know which of us has written this page.” Write a page. Who has written it?</p>

<p>I smell the life in an old book. I approach the book, looking for a personal escapade, but the book refuses to let me continue. It is not waiting for me: it is waiting for her. She begins to devour novels, paper, and ideas. She accepts Nietzsche and criticizes Twain. For her, time has no meaning or purpose. She sees and absorbs everything simultaneously; she watches the past, pauses the present, and fast-forwards through the future. My stomach plummets as I watch her leave behind the edge of my earth. In awe of her strength, I pursue her to the depths of the underworld and to the unreachable heavens.
She looks behind one last time, seeing through my facade, and persists with her trek. “She walks in beauty, like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies, and all that’s best of dark and bright meet in her aspect and her eyes.” I fade away into the timeless sky and follow her.
* * *
Suddenly, a fork on the path appears. I do not know her thoughts, nor she mine. I shy away from the decision. She finds herself in the forefront, intently stares for a moment, and then chooses a path. I obediently follow, while she gracefully assumes the role of a virtuoso and acts with bravado in each step. I stubbornly cling to past dreams. I leave the remains of my fears behind in the ashen cornfields. We continue through the dark hours; she leads with a solemn flame. She walks barefoot through treachery and murky bogs without an inkling of fear. I lag behind her, observant of everything surrounding the two of us, alone on a solitary trip. I purse my lips and attempt to focus upon the destination; only she is able to see that the journey has now become the purpose.
She comments less and less as the days go by, and I mention nothing more than the essential. Our relationship is becoming a black hole, an indefinable chasm, a drained space that cannot be refilled by any emotion but stillness. The growing rift between us causes an unpleasant lingering silence, broken by snapping branches and leaves, crisp and tender moody hues. She pauses to pick up a leaf and stands there, stunned by some force that I cannot feel.
As we continue down her path, I realize that I cannot say that I know the difference between the two of us. She compels me and inspires me when I am fearful. She is everything that I am not and can never be, but she is also everything that I think of and believe in. She looks behind her, and I am gone.</p>

176

<p>Essey 4: </p>

<p>Looking at the block of wood, he envisioned the shining eyes, the gently smiling mouth, the upright torso, and white
and blue shoes dangling from knobby kneed legs. Most importantly, however, he envisioned the speech of the thing,
the clear voice that would soon emit from painted wooden lips. The ventriloquist wiped his perspiring forehead,
gripped his chiseling knife, and began to create.
It was a dark and chilly basement in which the ventriloquist labored day and night. The cold Chicago air
occasionally whistled through the locked door above the steps to stir the leering silhouettes dangling from the ceiling
on invisible strings. Their marionette arms and legs would collide with wooden echoes, creating the effect of human
wind chimes. Dozens of shoes, half carved human heads, and hands hoping to one day be hung from a body littered
the dusty stone floor, but the ventriloquist did not care. He sought a voice from this block of wood, for silent
marionettes offered no companionship, and thus he carved late into the night, the light from his unfailing lamp masking
the change in daylight and his anticipation blocking the human need for rest.
As the ventriloquist carved, for what may have been a day, a week, a month, (time did not exist within that damp
basement) it was as if a heavy fog descended upon him. The knife indeed moved of its own accord, the thing creating
itself as it wished. The man and his creation were alone in the fog, and, had the world around him been snatched
away as he carved, the ventriloquist would never have noticed. Nor did he.
For it was while the rustic block of wood transformed into the small exaggerated features of a miniature man, that
the human world around that dismal basement did, in fact, disappear. As the ventriloquist began to work on the
probing green eyes, discarded newspapers folded themselves into paper airplanes to fly through the streets
unobstructed. As the orange, red, yellow, and green leaves dotting the landscape like a pointillist painting became the
only life inhabiting the wind-swept city, the ventriloquist began to color the red lips soon to open. As the stiff wooden
joints became limber with copper filaments, the two ancient-looking doors of Rockefeller Chapel fused into one with
disuse. And as the University of Chicago campus lay depleted of life and human depth, the ventriloquist gazed at the
small body sitting still quiet on the working cloth and felt an understanding and compassion from it that he had never
felt in all his years. He looked at his companion. His companion looked back up at him and spoke:
Let us feel the cool city steps with our feet and the gentle wind on our skin and smell the slow decaying leaves,
the autumn musk filling our noses and eyes. Yes. Let us stand alone in the flaxen grass with our hearts open and our
ears attune to the rustling leaves. Yes, let us stand by the still waters of the pond, just you and I, alone. Yes, may we
fill the air with our presence, bring life to the cloud covered sky. Yes! Up, out the basement door you and I must run!
Yes, I live and I breath! And yes I said yes I will Yes!
The small painted doll sat quiet and still on the white cloth, his blue and white leather shoes swaying gently on
dowel legs from the fulcrum of his knees, no more human than the hypnotic movement of a pendulum.
"Let us go then," said the ventriloquist, delicately lifting his companion from the cloth.
Up the basement steps they ran. The ventriloquist paused for a moment, watching the natural light spill in through thecracks in the door, ready to greet the outside world, ready to have it admire his companion. The passage from dark
to light, quiet to the bustling city streets, would surely bring new life to his companion. He smiled and looked down
on his grinning companion.
With one swift motion he burst through the door. The light spilled in and the ventriloquist covered his eyes as they
adjusted to the brightness. The contrast between light and dark was overwhelming, and it took him several seconds
before he realized nothing had changed. The sound was the same. The overwhelming silence had not been expelled.
There was the sound of the autumn wind whipping through the city and leaves rustling, yet that deep silence prevailed.
The city was deserted. The ventriloquist stepped through the streets, holding his companion, heading towards the
university campus, all too aware of the emptiness surrounding him. His companion, however, was not concerned and
spoke:
I am here. I am all you need, you and I alone. Let us run through the cool city streets! Let us take in the bright
clouds of the autumn sky, you and I! Let us fill the fresh cinnamon air with our presence and feel the clean wind on
our skin!
But somehow the world was not so cool, and bright, and fresh, and clean when it was alone. The ventriloquist
had a companion to enjoy his world with, but yet without the hum of human voices, his world had turned dull.
His companion grinned up at him. The ventriloquist looked back and shuddered.</p>

177

<p>Essay 1: What do Pictures Want? </p>

<p>The "****" near the end is S-H-I-T (CC blocks it) This is acceptable to use in a college essay as I was quoting it from a UChicago Professor</p>

<p>Lots of UChicago admissions inside jokes here....</p>

<p>In the art museum, I drifted from one painting to the next, hoping that one of them would speak to me. Some of these paintings were especially colorful, some were very beautiful, and a select few were particularly prized and famous. Despite these vibrant, appealing, and prestigious qualities, I found no connection between myself and the images--little more to me than swabs of assorted paints on canvas.<br>
As I glanced over my shoulder, I caught sight of the green exit sign--the only genuinely satisfying sight I had seen thus far. Immediately, I found myself walking down the hallway to the rear exit and stepping out the door. As the door was closing, I took one last glance back into the museum and noticed a lone painting that I had overlooked. Despite being far off at the opposite end of the building, I was immediately able to differentiate this painting from the sea of images. Although I couldn’t see precisely what was in the picture, I could sense its inherent uniqueness.
Although not yet in focus, the colors were apparent. Lots of beige, some dabs of red, and a plethora of green, the arrangement of colors created a rather soothing feeling of a quaint setting. As I walked closer, the arrangement of colors became a picture. Of course! It’s a peaceful Monastery nestled into the English countryside. I drew even closer and the background came into view…the towering skyscrapers of a vast metropolis. A bit surprised, but ever more intrigued, I looked more closely into the picture. Gargoyles stood sentinel over the surroundings while a teeming populace busily rushed from one building to the next. Some of the more relaxed people were casually seated at a bench, coffee in hand, seemingly engaging in complex intellectual discourse.
Then suddenly, before my very eyes, the picture began to change! The green faded into a brownish yellow, and subsequently, the entire picture had been splattered with white paint. Simultaneously, the people’s clothes grew thicker and began to cover up more and more of their bodies, to a point where only a small part of their faces were exposed.
Unable to believe my own eyes in regard to how the picture in front of me had just changed, I closed my eyes for a few seconds. Suddenly, my surroundings grew very cold, and as I opened my eyes again, I found myself standing in the snow. Nervously, I took a brief glance to my side, and there, to my shock, was the very building I had seen in the painting. Stupefied, I stood motionless for a few moments as I tried to make sense of what was going on. A voice rang out from behind me: “Hey Brian! Where’s your jacket?” Apparently, these people knew me! In response to my silence, he replied with “C’mon, we’re late!” Puzzled, I hesitantly followed my “friend” to an old--but most importantly warm--lecture hall.<br>
The speaker was a skinny, wimpy-looking guy with nerdy glasses and a v-neck sweater. I was just in time for the sweeping conclusion: “CEOs often pay themselves million-dollar bonuses, even when companies are loosing a lot of money. It never really occurred to economists that this idea of ‘weak and ***<em>’ could be important!”</em> Huh??? Then, I noticed on the board: “Steve Levitt, Ro 205C, 4-1862.” Oh, THAT guy. Now this makes a bit more sense! He continued: “Speaking of weak, could somebody please help me open this super-huge mustard jar?” Being an accomplished jar opener, I raised my hand and enthusiastically volunteered: “I can do it! I can do it!”
“You can do what, sir? The museum closes at six. You’d better be on your way now.” I turned around. It was the director of the museum, who had by now grown quite impatient. I glanced down at my watch. It read “14:09” (Baker Island Time)--nearly five hours had passed since I arrived at the museum. I looked back at the painting; it was just as I had initially found it--the beige gothic buildings, topped with red roofs and covered in green ivy. Under the director’s harsh glare, I quickly exited the premises, more perplexed than ever.
As I was walking home, a more immediate issue came to mind: I was in that museum for five blasted hours and am no closer to figuring out what pictures want! That’s an inherently difficult question to understand, let alone answer. How could an inanimate object possibly want something? Perhaps the key is in the word “want”: it could mean “desire” or, alternatively, it could mean “lack.” All of a sudden, it dawned on me--the answer couldn’t be any more obvious.<br>
What does that picture want? It wants me.</p>

<hr>

<ul>
<li>Steven D. Levitt (University of Chicago Department of Economics), “Is Thug Life a Happy Life?: An Inside Look at the Economics of a Drug-Selling Gang,” TED Conference, Monterey CA, February 2004 (TED</a> | Talks | Steven Levitt: Why do crack dealers still live with their moms? (video) at 21:00)</li>
</ul>

<p>Note: Professor Levitt’s jar-opening prowess (or lack thereof) is well known.</p>

178

<p>Essay 5: Make your own prompt.</p>

<p>According to the book, International Encyclopedia of Secret Societies and Fraternal Orders by Alan Axelrod, a secret society is defined as an organization that is exclusive, claims to possess special secrets, and shows strong bonds between members. Tell us about one, a few, or all of the secret socities of which you are a member and how they integrate into your daily life. Note: Do not discuss real secret societies. Use your imagination to create a few of your own. Examples include: CIA (California Internet Addicts) or CSOHP (Cheerful Society of Happy People).</p>

<pre><code> Most people know me as Alice Zhao, but few are aware of my real identity. Since on this application I must tell you everything about myself, the best way is to expose my deepest secret: I am actually a secret agent. On May 25th, 1990, I was taken away from my mother to live in a glass box for two weeks as a cover from the American Secret Intelligence Service (ASIS) to inform me of my first real assignment. As I breathed softly and drooled on my pillow, two men dressed entirely in black approached my box and whispered, “Welcome, Agent 008. Your first assignment lies here in China where you will live for the next nine years. We wish you luck.” And without another word, the two disappeared.

The ASIS never contacted me again until the nine years were over when suddenly, without warning, the men in black approached me at midnight handing me a passport and ticket to JFK Airport in New York, USA for my real training. Although I was never informed by anyone who exactly I was, I knew I was different. Strange things happened to me every day, like when I discovered I could see everything clearer through dark sunglasses after sunset.

After a few days, I arrived in New York and was transported by another secret agent, known as Dad, to my new living space – Edison, New Jersey. Within twenty four hours, I received my new assignment – to learn English in an American Elementary School. The reasons were simple; one, all secret agents know at least three languages and two, I had to attend school to appear “normal”. Since before that day, I knew nothing besides the alphabets, a special language agent, called Mom, taught me a few useful English phrases such as “BA-SE-ROO-MUH”, which happens to be an expensive and rare Chinese mushroom, for times when I need to use the lavatories.

After four years of special agent training in New Jersey, I was ready to begin working for the Junior Division in its secret location in Fremont, California. Do not bother looking it up on a map. The ASIS has purposely put a 10 mile border of a magnetic force field around the area to prevent any intruders or satellite detection. I traveled to the new quarters with Agents Mom and Dad since their assignments were to protect me until I was of legal age. The weather was distinctively different, and I must confess that I missed the snowball fights outside of my old house.

Working for headquarters was difficult, and to test my capacities, they found various ways to push me to the brink. I was first told to master a third language, French, since all Special Agents must be able to converse in at least three languages. As if this was not enough, to test my durability and patience, the ASIS removed Agent Dad’s job for an unknown period of time near the end of 9th grade and giving us only a bunch of shoes to sell at a flea market every weekend to maintain our lifestyle. This forced me to give up valuable time for schoolwork and my own activities. It was tough, but Agents must know how to endure adversity and count change at the same time. After about two years, the center of operations decided to give Agent Dad a business to run to, again, “appear normal in society.” For the last test, I was to prove myself capable of persuading others and be involved in the community to hide my real occupation. To accomplish this, I went around the Bay Area and convinced minority groups to register to vote for an entire summer, until one voter suspected that I was a member of a political party. To cover up any clues, I stopped that project and went on to planning events instead. Together with several other non-Agents, I planned Heritage Day and Emergency Awareness Program, just in case the ASIS decided to have an earthquake to terminate certain unwanted intruders.

As I have grown, my time at Junior Headquarters is about to end. I must now go to college and explore what I want to do in life in order to help develop the ASIS command post, whose location I must not reveal. The central station has given me permission to choose wherever I want to be for the next four years, and without any doubts, I have selected Chicago. It is the one place I have not yet explored. I must live up to the title of Agent 008. How better to achieve an excellent education and reputation than at the University of Chicago?
</code></pre>

<p>Now that you have read this message, it must now self-destruct…</p>

<p>3… 2…. 1…</p>

179

<p>jarnizzl, yours was kinda confusing, but I think that was the POINT of the prompt, since the prompt was JUST as confusing, if not more. So, JOB WELL DONE! :D</p>

180

<p>What do pictures want?</p>

<p>=================</p>

<p>To say that a picture has no life of its own is to say that every great work of man has been a plum waiting to be picked. Well, there’s a picture. A plum sits awkwardly on its branch, unsure as to whether or not it will be picked – considered – or fall to the ground to rot. Everyone has a different idea of what a plum about to fall off a branch looks like: what shades of purple, green, and brown mask its either juicy or corroding core. Yet a picture is an indisputable moment. Whether deeply considered by an artist or nonchalantly snapped by a tourist who thought it looked interesting, the picture has control over us. It blinds our vision of what a plum on a branch should look like and, if only for a moment, we are slaves to its cause. We must consider. There is no escape, only manipulation. </p>

<p>No matter who we are, where we live, or where we come from, the plum is the same. Whether it is written about, painted, sculpted, or photographed does not matter. It imparts on us a vision of someone’s reality other than our own; a reality of an aesthetic value judgment so subjective we cannot help but explore its possibilities for our own sake. That is to say, we as viewers are blind to others, lost in obsessions of life and our own visions of that plum. Yet pictures can free us from enslavement, if only for that brief moment of manipulation when we are stirred from our lives and forced to take pleasure in what is not ourselves. A picture is informative, yet not in a narrative or utilitarian sense. It informs us as viewers and humans of something greater. And that nonchalant snapshot of the plum tells us something equally as important as an artist’s rendering: that it has wrestled the flux of life and, for that moment, captured a perspective and a reality.</p>

<p>Yet who are we to judge what the plum tells us and render it good or bad? Without the plum, there is nothing. There is no comparative reality. No two drawings, sculptures, or essays about that plum will be the same: different angles and different words, a single experience and discontinuity of interpretation. But a picture is not our reality; it is the representation of our interpretation of it. We perceive things differently, and a picture is the living and breathing organism that translates our imaginative perception of reality into something for others and ourselves to comprehend. It is that interpretation and manner of representation that to all other viewers is unknown, and pictures are the connections between the dots of humanity. </p>

<p>So I wonder what a picture of me would want. It’s hard to distinguish between what I would want for it, and what the picture would want for itself. I suppose it would be just like a person: it would want to be seen rather than unseen, considered rather than unconsidered, pondered and not forgotten. Yet its claim would be the same for all people: this is me, this is who I am, and if only for this moment, I cannot be ignored.</p>