Up-Island
It is my favorite spot in our small Menemsha cottage. From my seat, I can’t see much beyond a black pickup truck and a few bushes, but I can smell the salt in the Vineyard air, and I am reminded once again of how little distance there is here between the ocean and me.
My family has come to Martha’s Vineyard for as long as I can remember, so it is probably there that I developed my profound connection to the ocean. Standing at its shore, I am aware of how tiny I am relative to the vastness of the sea and how much lies beyond what I can see and touch. And yet, I don’t feel a lack of control in the water – I actually feel powerful, part of something larger than myself. Within the ocean, the waves embrace me, wrapping me up so tightly that they almost force my motion. But ultimately, the ocean and I work together.
Out of the ocean, I am an observer. I pause to watch my sister wade into the cool and calm waves. She seems still and peaceful; I doubt she even notices me. She is in her own world – a girl and the sea. I look at her again, this time through my camera’s viewfinder. The moment is small, organic, and compelling. The shutter snaps, freezing this delicate instant.
A photography professor once told me not to simply take images, but to create them. Curtis’ words resonated with me and his encouragement to incorporate meaning into my work has affected my photography and outlook on life.
When I develop my film, the image is quiet, reflective, and meaningful. I consider the ripple effect of Curtis’ wisdom, reminded of the impact that someone can have on another. I have seen firsthand that the words and actions of one person can make a difference, and that acquiring knowledge along one’s journey enriches the soul.
In many ways, living in New York City is like swimming in the ocean. As one person of over 8.5 million, I am small – a tiny part of the whole – yet, here too, I feel powerful. Like the ocean, the city’s possibilities seem limitless and infinite. Waves of people and experiences embrace me, reminding me of the many variations that exist in the world, encouraging me to create moments within the city without waiting for them to happen.
For me, art is a window into the variations of other worlds, perspectives, and ideas. Both a reflection of history and a proponent for change, art represents hope in times of unrest. It is expressive, opens minds, and encourages empathy. Within the sea that is New York City, I swim with art, connecting to different people and cultures of the past, present, and future.
Getting up from my seat by our cottage’s front door, I walk myself to the beach where I toss off my flip-flops and let my toes sink into the scorching, then damp, sand as I walk to the water’s edge. Looking out, as I have done more times than I can recall, I notice again how far out the sea extends. For a moment, I consider how tiny I must seem to the ocean. And then I think perhaps I am more significant than I realize.
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17
Officially, I am 17. Only I’m not. Or at least it doesn’t feel like I thought it would. I am convinced that I must be the only 17-year-old who isn’t reckless, or as my friend said recently, “chasing the reckless feeling.” I feel strongly about following my heart, but I am not careless. My head and my heart weigh things equally. I am not the 17-year-old depicted in the movies, on TV, or on the radio.
I am a songwriter. In the beginning, I wrote because I loved music, and wanted to create something. Now, writing helps me navigate or contextualize things, whether it be challenges or successes. I write my best songs when I am honest and vulnerable, layering vocals and harmonies. I have learned that the most powerful instrument I have is my voice.
When I was a sophomore, I came home the day before Thanksgiving feeling discouraged. At that moment, it felt like the world was crashing down on me. My parents had friends over, so I went into my room, picked up my guitar and tried to shut the world out. Writing a song can be challenging; writing “Borrowed Time” was not. I immediately felt a sense of release – like whatever I had been bottling up throughout that week had been set free onto the piece of paper. It felt weird to gather this mess of feelings and put them into one body of work. For the first time, I could imagine hearing one of my songs outside of my bedroom. This was the kind of song that would have stopped me in my tracks. The kind of song I connected with as a listener because I could put myself in it. I played the song for my sister. She paused to find the right words. “I think this is the first song you’ve written that might be bigger than you.“
As a writer, I over-edit myself constantly. I question if I’m saying what I want to and whether my words are authentic. I try to write songs that unfold naturally and lyrics that have more than a single meaning. “We drive fast, but take it slow” (“Don’t Let Go”) references a car only literally. It is also about moving quickly yet taking one’s time – in a relationship or in life.
In my family, music is its own language. I was exposed to a diversity of artists, and my eclectic musical knowledge has made me the listener and writer I am today. Music has always been communal in our household, binding us, and we often listen together, sharing songs and artists each of us has discovered or rediscovered. It is an important way my family communicates with one another and I have learned that the beauty of music can offset something difficult going on in the world or in my life. Music is also my family’s way of navigating city life. Living in a small apartment and a city shared with millions of people, we rely on music to help us find room to move even when there isn’t physical space to do so.
The songs I’ve written are like a scrapbook. They represent some of the hardest and most amazing moments of my life, and I can’t imagine getting through high school without them. I don’t know what lies ahead, but I do know I will always have music to carry me through. I sometimes worry I haven’t lived as much life as other 17-year-olds and that my life experiences weren’t as fearless. But maybe it’s the stories I’ve written that make me 17.
