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Emily Cieminski
Professor Vaughn
Intermediate Composition
20 September 2018
The Annotated Guide to My Literacy

Her smile is enigmatic and her gaze unwavering, she lives in luxury in one of Paris’

finest buildings. People venture thousands of miles to be jostled and swarmed amongst her other

devotees. What draws in these masses? Is it the coy smile, the air of mystery, or just the legend

of her? Men have been arrested for trying to get close to her, with the threat of stealing her from

public view. She’s been lost and damaged, but has never once been anything less than a global

icon. She is the most famous woman in the world, yet we know little of how she lived or died.

The ​Mona Lisa​ is one of the most recognizable images in the world. However, her larger than

life persona is diminished by how small she really is. The canvas is a meager 2’6” x 1’9”, hardly

able to be seen through the constant mass surrounding it. Yet it is the mystery of her story that

draws us in. Her gaze captivates us, making us question her origins. Her origin story is as murky

as the landscape behind her. This air of mystery only furthers our devotion.

As an Art Historian, I believe every painting has a story. All art was created with a

purpose and something to be expressed. Art is made to capture the human experience through the

way people interact with it and the emotions it generates. My job is to read and translate art for

the common man. Not everyone is able to look and analyze a piece to understand fully what the

artist is saying. Artworks are riddled with symbolism and hidden meanings, thus in order to

understand these masterpieces you must be literate in Art History and know how to read a

painting. For instance, ​The​ ​Last Supper,​ another Da Vinci masterpiece, is not only a visual feast,

but a symbolic one as well. Some light reading into ​The Last Supper​ and you will see that Judas
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is at the lowest position in the painting, showing his lack of morality and hinting at his betrayal,

people are grouped in threes, a symbolic number in Christianity, and the vanishing point goes

just behind Jesus’ head, making sure he is the focal point of the painting and giving him a light

glow. All of this is an example of how to read a painting, a complex activity that could not be

done without art literacy. Additionally, you have to understand the lives and backgrounds of the

artists themselves. Just looking at a work is like watching the movie version of a book. Yes, the

main points are able to be understood, but the depth and intricacies that come from reading the

text are not present. Art literacy is a skill requiring lots of reading, research, and visual

interpretation, and it is a literacy I have spent years crafting.

My journey to being literate in the fine arts began in a dusty studio classroom at my high

school. My teacher, a sporadic, eccentric woman with red curly hair almost as unruly as her

classroom, would come in everyday with disorganized slides featuring 250 of the greatest art

works ever created (as deemed by the College Board). Inevitably, lecture notes would be lost, so

we would just discuss the piece, what we noticed and how it made us feel, the mainstays of the

conversation. I loved the class. It was the first class I ever took where I actually wanted to be

there. Shuffled through state mandated curriculum, my schedule was bogged down with classes

like Physics and Biology, topics that were about as exciting as watching paint dry. It was in that

bright studio where I came alive discussing people who were long dead, made me feel very much

in the present. Come spring time, the school offered a trip to Chicago to go tour the city’s art

scene. Thirty-five art mad students jammed themselves in the seats of an aged coach bus for a

five hour drive to go look at an expansive collection of art. Finally, we arrived in the city and

were dropped, rather ungracefully might I add, in front of a towering Neoclassical structure lined
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with snarling stone lions, ready to take on any intruder that dared to disrupt their collection of the

best expressions of humanity. We were spending two days immersed inside the Art Institute of

Chicago. For the first afternoon we were instructed to wander on our own and explore the

museum without the disruption of others. I ambled through rooms stuffed with bronzes and

Greek sculptures, past Baroque paintings overflowing with grandeur, and Medieval friezes

depicting the holiest of images. Finally, I stumbled into a quiet room with walls jagging in and

out. It was there I read a painting for the first time. It was Edward Hopper’s ​Nighthawks​ (Fig. 1),

a relatively famous piece, depicting a couple late at night in an empty diner. To the average

viewer it is a quiet diner scene, perhaps a

couple escaping the traffic outside. However,

I knew better. I had literacy, and I could see

beyond the haze of the bright diner lights.

Hopper was showing us isolation in America.

It was painted in 1942, the height of war

anxiety and isolation principles. The streets are empty, the people detached and unfeeling. We

are not welcome to the scene, simply passing through in this nondescript diner, in a nondescript

town, looking at nondescript moments of daily life. We might not have lived this moment in

actuality, but the environment crafted by Hopper makes us feel as if we did. That’s what I got

when I read that painting. To read the painting I had to know the background of the artist and

era, look at the details of the piece, like the abandoned streets and darkened windows, closely

investigate the scene inside the dinner (no one is directly engaging with one another, even the

couple doesn’t touch), while having a background on other pieces of Hopper’s works. These are
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just some of the skills that contribute to having art literacy, and some techniques I have worked

to improve upon over the years. I didn’t need a small description carefully crafted by a curator to

tell me what I was looking at because I already knew. It was from here, that I knew I was in too

deep. I fell in love with pastels, plaster, and paint and going back was no longer an option.

From there I decided to become an Art History major. I knew it seemed like a death

sentence. Money is not found in museums, everyone knows that. Art might be expensive, but the

people who care for it certainly are not given a high value. Yet, I didn’t and don’t care. No

boyfriend, rollercoaster, or scary movie makes my heart beat as fast as a simple canvas does.

Thoughts of art consume me. My beloved copy of ​The Annotated Mona Lisa,​ every Art

Historian’s essential guide, is highlighted and adored. I devour the words and lovingly read every

details from Rembrandts to Rodins. However, my decision to study Art History came with a

catch. My parents were supportive, but only if I double majored. I needed something a little more

sensible, something with a guarantee. They recommended business school, where there was a

promise of a job and a middle class life.

While I know business will pay my bills, I yearn for more, something that will allow me

to utilize my art literacy. As Sandra Cisneros describes she wanted her work and her passions to

be seen as valid, not only in the eyes of her father, but the general population who she describes

as “publicly trying to woo,” (2). Like Cisneros, I too want the justification and validation that

comes with people accepting and celebrating my work. I desperately want someone to realize

that what I am doing matters. How can they not appreciate me? I spend countless hours decoding

paintings, so they too may share the joy of feeling understood by someone you have never met.

This is perhaps the greatest burden of my literacy, the idea that this is faulty or a less than
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literacy. Since my literacy does not have a tangible output, it only gives people emotional value

not monetary value, it does not qualify as a useful tool. This sense of general apathy regarding

something I am so passionate about can be the most infuriating aspect about it all. Yet, I will

defend the validity of my work and the merit of my literacy until the bitter end. However, I have

had to overcome a few moments of doubt about the validity of it.

For instance, I have had countless conversations with fellow students who do not quite

understand what I am devoting myself to. They do not see the power that my literacy holds, so in

their confusion they feel the need to tear it apart. An example of a common conversation piece is,

“What will you do with that?” I have to physically restrain myself from snapping back with a

snarky, backhanded remark. “What will I do with that?” Well, I will introduce you to works that

will make you feel things that transcend borders, language, and time. If Stephen King proclaims

that “writing is telepathy” than art is therapy (103). Writing might connect people over words,

but art connects people through feelings. If my literacy and my analysis of these works are not

enough to explain to people that it matters, then I do not know what can. I did not spend

countless nights reading and researching art and painters to sharpen and expand on my literacy

for just myself, I did it for others as well. For when we feel understood and a connection to

another being, we can all feel a little better about ourselves. Some of the most famous artworks

are not well liked because the merit of their craftsmanship, but rather the way they make the

audience feel. For example, the ​Scream​ by Edvard Munch is beloved because we have all felt

that terror and need to just scream into the oblivion. Art is the therapy and the group care that

while requiring a bit of understanding can establish base feelings all across the globe.
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The time when I valued my literacy the most, was when I needed that special art therapy

myself. My first semester at UC was rough to say the least. I lived with an OCD roommate who,

quite frankly, did not want me there, I was in a new city, away from my hometown, I did not like

the classes I was taking, and it seemed as if everyone else was blooming at college, whereas I

could not even sprout. Yet, I had one treasured little item that seemed to make everything okay.

Right before I left to move into my dorm, my dad took me on a special trip to Nashville. While

there, we saw my favorite painting of all time, ​A Cafe Terrace at Night​ (Fig. 2) by Vincent Van

Gogh, immortalized in the form of a nightlight. My dad impulsively purchased it, saying we

could all use the extra light at certain point in our lives. I needed that light in the darkness and

confusion of my first semester. The warm glow coming from the lightbulb seemed to illuminate

the terrace, the gentle yellow light lovingly painted by Van Gogh seemed all the more real with

the extra illumination. At night, after particularly long days or

a nasty fight with the girl sharing the cramped boxed room

with me, I would switch the little nightlight on. If I believed

enough I could be in that cafe in the south of France, laughing

and drinking with the locals, far away from the troubles found

in Cincinnati. Using my own literacy, I knew that the cafe

terrace served as a safe place for Van Gogh as well. Van Gogh

dealt with a multitude of struggles in his own life, yet when he

was sitting on this tiny terrace they seemed trivial. I too felt that sense of serenity when I

switched on the light. My literacy does not just serve as a vehicle to help others, but also as a

means of helping myself.

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I became literate in the arts because I fell in love with them more than anything. My art

literacy is more of a result of obsession beyond anything else. I was and am obsessed with

knowing the meaning behind all the pieces in museums and galleries. To think that a person

spent so much time lovingly crafting this object, and then to walk by it without a second thought

appalls me. I have only continued to grow my literacy, and I doubt it slows any time soon given

that I now study it at a higher level. To me art is the means to creating meaning in life, and

through my literacy, I hope to make others feel this way as well. While the world might seem

troubled and dark, there is always a small cafe terrace in the south of France ready to shine a

little light on all of us.

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Works Cited

Cisneros, Sandra. “Only Daughter.” Writing about Writing: A College Reader. 3rd ed. Ed.

Elizabeth Wardle and Doug Downs. Boston: Bedford/St Martin’s, 2017. 102-104. Print.

King, Stephen. “What Writing Is.” Writing about Writing: A College Reader. Ed. Elizabeth

Wardle and Doug Downs. Boston: Bedford/St. Martins, 2011. 305-307. Print.