Visual Art for a Visual World

Jared Seff takes Habersham students beyond paper and pencils, teaching each one to express thoughts and ideas in a truly beautiful way.

Often, when someone visits her high school three years after graduation, she will find that not much has changed. I, however, cannot claim this experience. When I walked into The Habersham School this February, I was walking into a different building, run by a tripled staff, and filled with an ever multiplying student body. The school now has two campuses, with the Rhetoric School hosted by Habersham Hall--a tall, slim structure, complete with a tower and courtyard. The class period is changing as I climb the steps to the art classroom, and the staircase is teeming with students grabbing different books from their lockers—I spy a few carrying portfolios and follow them into the third floor art studio.

           

            On the last day of the trimester, Studio Art I students are busily completing final projects, and hanging their stunning drawings on the lime green wall. There is a sense of cheerful camaraderie in the room, as freshman, sophomores, juniors, and seniors work together to finish their tasks. At the center of it all is Jared Seff, the Visual Arts Instructor; an unimposing man, wearing a fleece jacket over his shirt and tie, his long dark hair pulled back tightly, as his sharp eyes take in everything his busy students are doing. He never gives an order, and yet every student listens attentively to his instructions, which are framed as friendly suggestions. I have found the source of the camaraderie in this room.

"Jailhouse Courtyard"
David Miles, 10th Grade

Seff, who received his BFA in Painting with a minor in Drawing from Savannah College of Art and Design, is constantly approached by students wanting his opinion on their work. He gives each his undivided attention; it is this patient and caring attitude of his that has inspired the hours of hard work by his students. An accomplished artist himself, his portrait of President Bill Clinton hangs in the Clinton Library, and his portrait of Sir Paul McCartney was signed by the man himself. Seff has an infectious enthusiasm for what he teaches, inspiring every student that comes through his class--even the ones who “don’t like to draw.”

Jack Gibney, a senior, was one of those students. “He was a joke when he came in!” teases Seff “He was like ‘I stink!’ and then look what he did—things that don’t stink!” Gibney then showed me one of his drawings from the class—his friend’s hands. He had poured hours into that piece and was eager to share what he had learned. He explained: “Art is very meticulous, and it takes a lot of patience. Hands… you take them for granted. You don’t really appreciate the hand until you have to draw it, and study the hand, absorb it, take in all the detail. You start to see the objects around you better…It’s a good way to appreciate God’s creation, and to see how things come to life.” Other students have had similar experiences. When asked what she would take away from the class, freshman Elizabeth Reed told me: “I’ve started to see things in more depth, to notice how complex something is, to think about how it was created.”

Truly, Seff is teaching something deeper here than methods of creating Visual Art. When I asked him why we should think Visual Art is important for every student to learn about, his eyes lit up. “That is his very favorite question to answer—look—he’s like ‘Yes! I was waiting for that!’” quips Gibney, glancing up from his drawing. Seff grins at him, and turns back to me. “Classical education is an education that forms the whole person. We live in a visual world, full of visual stimuli, and if visual art is taught appropriately it teaches us how to order visual things—not only that, but how to appreciate beautiful things. It teaches us to slow down and observe things more completely. Visual art is inextricable from beauty, and they both find their source in God.”

"Blues"
Francis Langley, 11th Grade

 It is made abundantly clear to me how The Habersham School’s mission (to teach students to question, investigate, dialogue, and create, with all teaching rooted in the immovable truth of Christ,) has made its mark in every class it offers. Daniel Copetillo, a senior who has attended The Habersham School since it opened its doors in 2012, gave me his take on the value of visual art. “We’re surrounded by art, and God is the ultimate artist, the ultimate architect who created everything around us. So much of what we draw in our art class, in any art class, is creation. Beauty is something we can understand better through art—really what makes us humans is our ability to create beautiful things. Animals can create something, but part of what makes us human is intentionally creating something beautiful.” All of this was explained as Copetillo put the finishing touches on his detailed drawing of Habersham Hall’s bell tower. Observing the detail that went into his work made me pause and give the tower a longer look on the way out.

As I prepared to leave, I paused to look at the newly decorated wall of final projects the students had carefully hung. I saw several drawings of the bell tower, of hands, and a variety of still lifes. These are not the hastily done sketches of students trying to get an A—they are beautifully, methodically, intricately drawn works of art. All done on heavy professional paper, with sharp white borders cleanly taped off, they hold a variety of different mediums—Daniel’s tower in pale watercolor, Jack’s hands in sharp graphite pencil. These students have indeed created something beautiful, that expresses these ideas they have so eloquently explained. 

To Vaccinate or Not to Vaccinate

            Mumps, Measles, and Rubella—these are just three of the diseases that parents stopped worrying about years ago. Or have they? The controversy over vaccinations is a growing issue not only in the United States, but throughout the world. A quick Google search will yield a plethora of arguments from both sides, most of which are highly emotional. Many anti-vaccine supporters tell stories of children suffering conditions they believe are linked to vaccines.  But if you keep reading, the most compelling stories come from mothers of un-vaccinated children—mothers who are begging you to vaccinate your child.

            Stacey Hillenburg is a mother of three living in Illinois. She vaccinated her two older children following the schedule recommended by her pediatrician—but was unable to do so for her youngest. This child received a heart transplant, and will spend the rest of his life taking immunosuppressant drugs to keep his body from rejecting his new heart. These drugs suppress his immune system, and prevent him from receiving vaccines. Instead, he relies on community immunity. (Hillenburg)

            The Center for Disease Control defines community immunity as “A situation in which a sufficient proportion of a population is immune to an infectious disease (through vaccination and/or prior illness) to make its spread from person to person unlikely. Even individuals not vaccinated (such as newborns and those with chronic illnesses) are offered some protection because the disease has little opportunity to spread within the community.” (CDC) With the high prevalence of vaccinated children, the United States has a strong community immunity. Unfortunately, with the rise of the anti-vaccine movement, our community immunity is weakening. Measles spreads easily among the unvaccinated, and 2014 saw a record high of 667 documented cases reaching 27 states. (CDC)

            Parents who choose not to vaccinate their children do so because they are concerned with the safety of vaccines. They do not believe that the ingredients in vaccines are safe and effective in preventing disease. Many do not believe in the authority of the medical field or the CDC. Pro-vaccine parents believe the numerous studies that have proven the safety and effectiveness of vaccines. (Vaccine Pro/Con) Ultimately, we have a crisis of faith between the two groups—do we believe in science and medicine, or conspiracy theories and anecdotal research?

            We have two deeply different warrants at odds here, that are unlikely to be reconciled. It is a difficult thing to prove a point to someone who does not believe your evidence is real. However, the unshakeable fact both sides can observe is that incidences of preventable diseases are rising. In 2000, measles elimination was documented in the United States. Less than 15 years later, we watched an outbreak spread across the country. We know that vaccines are the reason diseases like measles were eliminated. It stands to reason that discontinuing vaccine use has caused their return.

Outbreaks like this terrify mother like Stacey Hillenburg. She writes “My son has already fought for his life while waiting for his heart transplant. I do not want him to fight for his life against an entirely preventable disease. Please, vaccinate yourself and your children, on time, every time. Do it first and foremost for yourself, but also for your community, and for children who cannot be vaccinated and are relying on you. Children like Ben, and thousands of others like him.” (Hillenburg)

Works Cited

Hillenburg, Stacey. "Why Measles Outbreaks Terrify Me - Voices For Vaccines."Voices For                    Vaccines. 2015. Web. 29 Apr. 2016.

"Measles Cases and Outbreaks." Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. Centers for                           Disease Control and Prevention, 07 Apr. 2016. Web. 29 Apr. 2016.

"Vaccines: Glossary." Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. Centers for Disease                                Control and Prevention, 5 June 2015. Web. 29 Apr. 2016.

"Vaccines ProCon.org." ProConorg Headlines. 4 Apr. 2016. Web. 29 Apr. 2016.

Christmas Remembered

     When I was in elementary school, we lived in neighborhood with two other families who attended the same school. These mothers developed a complicated carpool system, that usually involved someone else picking my siblings and me up in the morning. However, sometimes, it would be the other way around. Miss Carrie would pile us into her green van, book bags and snack bags and all the other stuff that sticks to school children, making us feel as tightly jammed together as the pencils in our pencil boxes. When she pulled into our driveway, my little sister and I would gratefully roll out of the car into the blessed space of the front yard. Dragging book bags, snack bags, the day’s artwork and those giant poster-board “portfolios” we had to carry around, we’d run up the three steps to the front door—and then you could smell it—Christmas had arrived.

      I’d swing open the door and be overwhelmed by the cinnamon-fraser fir scent that always pervaded the house in December. We didn’t have a Christmas tree up yet, that would be a family outing later that night, but the house already smelled of Christmas tree. It wasn’t until years later I discovered a bottle of evergreen-scented air freshener in the Christmas card basket, solving one of the primary mysteries of my childhood. Amy Grant’s “Tender Tennessee Christmas” would be blaring from every speaker, and my mother would appear in the front entry, dish towel on her shoulder, a smile on her face, the warmth of the season in her voice. “Hey girls- how was school today? Make sure you put your book bags where they go and change out of your uniforms—I have a surprise in the kitchen when you’re done.” Mom’s surprises were almost always edible this time of year, so we scurried off to comply. 

      Our room would have the tiny white tree set out, with the pink ornaments our grandmother had given us on the dresser. The entire house would be spotless, the old hardwood floors gleaming in the afternoon sun. In the kitchen, bare feet on the graying linoleum, Mom would have set out miniature mugs of hot chocolate-they were dark green, about half the size of a “grown up” mug. Each place would have a paper towel with three snickerdoodle cookies on it. Jack and Wils would already be in high chairs, bibs under fat, drool-y chins, and Ellie in her booster seat. Annie and I would tell our mother about our days, while she moved around the kitchen, washing dishes, and completing the innumerable kitchen tasks that follow mothers of small children around. Yet, no matter how many tasks she was working on, she always managed to make us feel that we had her complete attention.

      After our snack, we were free to explore the living room, where the real magic lay. An empty tree stand would be sitting in front of the big front window, curtains pulled back to let in all the afternoon light. The hardwood would be cold under our feet, and we’d rush to the rug to take it all in. The TV cabinet would have an assortment of Santas on its top, snow globes would adorn other furniture, and the couches would be taken over by Christmas themed throw pillows. But best of all, tucked away in the corner, would be the book basket. Mom had a large white wicker basket the she kept all of our Christmas books in, and only pulled out once a year. Annie and I would sprawl on the rug, voraciously taking in “How the Grinch Stole Christmas,” “The Nutcracker,” “Carl the Christmas Dog,” and other favorites, feeling warm as the heater raged, desperately competing with the poor insulation of the beautiful old windows. We’d stay like that all afternoon, keeping the babies’ sticky fingers from tearing the beloved pages, practicing our halting reading skills trying to interest Ellie in “Frosty the Snowman,” until Daddy got home.

     We’d hear his key in the deadbolt, and drop everything to greet him at the door. 

“IT’S CHRISTMAS DADDY!”

“CAN WE GET A TREE?!”

“MOMMY MADE COOKIES!”

“CAN YOU READ THIS TO ME?!”

All of these requests were made while jumping around him in a circle, with Jack and Wils pulling up on his legs, keeping a constant stream of “Da da da da da da da da” as a background percussion to our higher pitched excitement. Gently disentangling himself from the mass of limbs surrounding him, Dad would lean down from his six feet and four inches to kiss my five foot zero inches mother. “SILENCE!” he would boom cheerfully, catching our attention in order to answer all of our questions once—it would work on everyone but the boys, who would still be crawling around his feet, steadily keeping their “da da da” refrain, until her reached down and scooped them both up. “Tonight, we will all be doing whatever your mother says we will be doing!” was his pronouncement, and we would happily return to our books to wait for dinner, because we all knew Mommy was as excited about Christmas as we were—and would undoubtedly take us to buy a tree that very night. 

Baking Well

     When you open a baking cookbook, you can expect a few things: a table of contents, recipes, and pictures of the finished products. But what separates a mediocre baking book from a well-constructed one? I will identify three different aspects that set the excellent book apart from the mundane, using examples from the Williams-Sonama Essentials of Baking.

Photo Cred: barnesandnoble.com

     Baking is a science, and not an art. Cooking can be successful with the “a pinch of this, a dash of that” mentality, but baking cannot. Each recipe has its own precise measurements and exact ingredients, and a good baking book will explain what each of these are. The first 25 pages of Essentials of Baking are devoted to educating readers about the proper equipment, ingredients, measures, and techniques they will need to be a successful baker. For example, pages 14 and 15 are devoted entirely to flour—explaining the different varieties and origins-- and what kind of baking each type is best suited for. Before happening upon the first recipe, the reader has learned some of the essential scientific principles behind baking.

     The next aspect that makes for an excellent baking book is how the recipes are written. Often, when consulting a baking book, one finds a crowded page with several recipes, each with a list of ingredients, and a brief set of instructions. This is not the case with Essentials of Baking. Each page is devoted to just one recipe, where the list of ingredients is accompanied by detailed instructions, usually with options to mix by hand or machine; the instructions often have a page number-reference for more detailed explanations of techniques.  The instructions are supplemented by beautiful pictures that illustrate difficult processes step-by-step. In addition to all of this, each recipe has a note with tips for each recipe, and different ways the finished product can be used.

     Organization is indispensable in the formation of a good baking book.  Finding the right recipe in a lesser baking book can be frustrating, especially when the index is over-complicated by categories and chapters. Essentials of Baking has a table of contents with its recipes broken into categories for casual browsing, but its index is simply alphabetical. This allows the reader to quickly locate a specific recipe, even if they are unclear on whether it belongs with “Pies and Tarts” or “Pastries.” In addition, the baking book features a glossary, allowing the reader to find a quick explanation of an unfamiliar ingredient or technique.

     Many people have tried and failed at baking. Often the fault lies not in the baker, but in the book they are using. Lab manuals break down complicated scientific concepts into manageable chunks for science students—a good baking book must do the same for a baker. With ingredients, techniques, and tools explained, clearly written and illustrated recipes, and good organization, a baking book can turn a novice into a pro.

Burgett, Cathy, Elinor Klivans, and Lou Seibert. Pappas. Essentials of Baking: Recipes and Techniques for Successful Home Baking. United States: Oxmoor House, 2003. Print

Labors of Love

I did not know my great grandmother. She lived until I was 19, but was very ill for most of my life, and I never got to experience her the way her children and grandchildren did. What I have experienced is her home, and my grandmother’s stories. In getting to know her home, and her daughter, I feel I have gotten to know my great grandmother.

My great grandmother, Alma Etta Graham, was born on January 20, 1920, in a small town outside of Athens, Georgia. The oldest of seven children, she grew up on a small family farm. Her parents were not wealthy, and the Great Depression created new challenges for the family—Alma would walk to school in her carefully starched, handmade flour-sack dress, carrying her shoes to keep them from wearing out. In high school, her boyfriend would ride a mule over to see her. “It always embarrassed her a little when her brothers told that story” laughs my grandmother, Guynelle. Life was not easy for young Alma, and when she married the mule-riding boyfriend shortly before her eighteenth birthday, she was filled with ambition.

Alma Bearden, as a newlywed

Guy Bearden, Alma’s husband, had always wanted to own his own business, and she worked alongside him to make that dream a reality. In 1955, with three children in tow, they opened a NAPA car parts store in Jackson, Georgia. They were unable to hire employees in the beginning, which did not slow Alma down at all. “My mother would drive the truck to Atlanta every week for parts for the inventory. It was very hard for her to learn how to do that. She would come back every week with that panel truck stuffed full of parts—tail pipes and everything…She kept the [store’s] books for many years” my grandmother told me. Eventually they owned eight NAPA stores throughout Georgia. But Alma didn’t stop with the business. “They were very active members in their community” Guynelle shared. Alma helped her husband head a committee that oversaw the construction of the building for Jackson First Baptist Church, and was Chair of the Decorating committee herself.

Alma sometime in the 1940's

When I asked my grandmother about her mother’s hobbies, she replied immediately: “Working.” We laughed, and she continued: “Mainly working in her gardens…She grew enough vegetables that she would leave baskets of them at the doors of her friends. She canned vegetables well into her seventies…Her flower gardens were a really big passion of hers…her front yard was full of roses.” You won’t see these flowers if you visit her house now—like her vegetables, she gave her roses away as she grew unable to care for them. Much of her life followed this theme of generosity. “I have heard her say many, many times ‘I just want my children to have a better life than I had’ …She worked so hard for her family—it was all about her family” said Guynelle.

The home that Alma and Guy built for their retirement is a testament to Alma’s love of work. There is a large kitchen, where she did her canning, with a bigger pantry to store it all in. There are cabinets full of beautiful dishes and table linens that speak to her abilities as a hostess. My grandmother has stories of the parties she would host for the Gideon Society—the Jackson chapter that she and Guy founded. “She could make a sit down dinner for fifty people—that’s where all those dishes come from!” Guynelle added. It is a home that fulfilled her ambitions, and gave her space to continue her labors of love. 

Gallery Espresso

Photo Credit: savannahnow.com
7/17/2013

            I seat myself in an antique wooden chair in front of a small, round, marble topped table, with the soft melody of a song from the Glenn Miller Band playing in the background. With both hands, I’m holding a large round mug, full of “Savannah Fog,” a warm concoction made with Earl Grey Tea. I am happily ensconced in my favorite corner of Gallery Espresso, and from this vantage point, I can see the entire room, and readily sink into the background to enjoy its character.

            Gallery Espresso is a small, locally owned coffee shop in the heart of downtown Savannah. Its central location makes it a hub for college students and business people alike, all stopping to grab one of their handcrafted drinks. The shop is divided into two sections, with a center aisle leading to the bar where drinks and snacks are made. On the floor, there is an odd mix of hard concrete and old black and white tile—presumably, what is left of the original flooring. While one side of the room is filled exclusively with beautiful wooden chairs and tables, the other, larger side has an eclectic mix worn couches and armchairs. All are antique, and all are upholstered in faded, but still vibrant colors. Several chairs are placed beside a gas-log fireplace, which spreads an air of warmth around the room. One feels warm and secure inside, while the large windows that make two of the outer walls give you a glimpse of the cold, dreary drizzle dampening the oak trees outside. The room is dim, as Gallery relies mostly on natural light from the windows, and gray clouds are obscuring the sun. This drizzly, chilly weather is the perfect time to come to Gallery Espresso—it loses some of its charm in a sweltering Savannah summer.

Photo Credit: eweck1.wordpress.com
4/11/2015

Across from me, seated on perpendicular armchairs, are two middle-aged men, deep in conversation. Their topics range from a comparison of the aesthetics of Charleston and Savannah, to their desire that languages be taught to a greater level of fluency in colleges. Adding to the intellectual air is the gallery aspect of the room. The walls are hung with drawings and paintings—usually the work of a single artist—and it is all for sale. The art generally remains on the wall for one month, and then another artist is given the opportunity to showcase their work.  However, not everyone here is an artist or an intellectual; many heads are bent over laptops, and two young women laugh softly over their brimming mugs of coffee. Here, we have a gathering of a community, a representation of all stages of life, in a coffee shop.

As I finish my tea, and return my mug to the counter, I take one last look around. The swing music is still playing quietly, and the clouds are still dimming the room. I take the sense of warmth and peace with me as exit the double doors, out into the adjoining square. I have been to Gallery Espresso many times before, and I will continue to come, lured by the sense of tranquility it exudes.  

A Major Decision

            My senior year of high school, I was pretty sure I wanted to teach first grade. I loved being around little kids, and teaching children to read seemed like a magical job. I had mentioned this to the principal of my tiny private school, and she found ways for me to assist lower-school teachers during my free periods. I monitored Pre-K lunch, recess for first, second, fifth, and sixth grades, and substituted for our drama teacher for a quarter. I realized that I do like children, but I do not like being responsible for their education. I was frustrated by having to spend most of my efforts controlling the classroom, and not in teaching. Truly, my favorite tasks were assisting the office staff. I decided to abandon the teaching idea, and chose another practical vocation.

        
            I began my career at Armstrong State University as a nursing major. My “first-year-experience” instructor was also my Biology 1107 professor, and I really enjoyed her teaching. She had an infectious enthusiasm for what she was teaching, and it spread throughout the class. Our lab assignment was interesting and very hands on, so I was able to mask my distaste for the subject with the fun of the lab assignments and enjoying a great professor. The next semester was less enjoyable, but I was sure I would grow to like what I was learning, especially when I moved into Anatomy and Physiology.

            The first day of my Anatomy and Physiology I summer course, I passed out in the hallway. From a physiological standpoint, I hadn’t had enough to drink that morning, but from a mental standpoint, I was utterly overwhelmed with the two hour lecture I had not understood at all. I got back up, and made it through that class with a B, because of a dear friend who pulled me through those four weeks. My friend’s passion for the course inspired me, and I gave my heart and soul to what I was learning. The following semester, I began to have doubts about my major choice. No longer in the same class with my friend, I had no borrowed joy in what I was studying. I was also struggling to give my heart and soul to Anatomy and Physiology II, when I wanted to give it to my Literature and Humanities course. That was the semester I walked into Gamble Hall to find out what I could do with an English Degree. This was the first I had heard of the English Communications degree, where I would get to combine the literature I loved with the writing classes that would teach me valuable, marketable skills. I changed my major that same day.

            With my last semester fast approaching, I am excited to graduate with a degree in English Communications. To my own surprise, I have truly enjoyed the technical writing courses I have taken. This summer, I will intern at the prep school I graduated from, and I am excited to use the skills I have learned to accomplish work I am passionate about.