1000 word essay...serious critiquers please...interpretation of art?

Question:I know this is not poetry...but it is an essay I had to do for a class, and I would like your critique before I submit it. I am posting in this section because I have found the best writers with the most honest opinions to be in the poetry section.

With this essay, I was to take a piece of art and interpret it in a way that represented my childhood. It is a bit lengthy...just under 1000 words, but opinions are greatly appreciated. It is based on the painting "Vincent's Chair" by Vincent van Gogh, which you can view through this link http://www.geocities.com/alanalogue/24.j...

As far back as I can remember, I have always had a love for books. During early childhood, I discovered reading as an escape from my home life. For those couple of hours, the words on those crisp, clean pages allowed me to be someone different. This became a problem for me, because my family could not understand why I would rather be inside reading, than outside playing with the other children on the block. But for me, reading meant comfort. I knew that the people in the text could not tease me. They would not pick apart everything about me, as my stepmother did. They could not put me down for being too skinny or being too quiet. It was just me with my book, safe in my room. I always felt very lonely, which is what the chair in this photo represents. It is alone in the room, waiting for someone, to notice it, to sit there, to keep it warm. But no one ever does, and so it sits alone, waiting patiently. No one stops long enough to recognize the chair. Eventually, my love for reading transcended into a love for poetry, as well. I always found it hard to verbally express my emotions, for fear of being chastised, as I always was by my step-mom and step-siblings. Amazingly, with a pen in my hand, and a blank sheet of paper in front of me, I was free. I could finally describe in words the raw emotion that I had locked up deep inside. This caused even more problems to arise. I was thrown into counseling to discover what it was that was wrong with me. I was the one they couldn't “figure out”, the “problem child.” I was abnormal because I was so quiet around them. What they did not understand is that their words were what did it to me. I was never given praise. Everything I did was considered wrong; the way I walked, the way I talked, even the way I put dishes away. I would sneak phone calls to my mom, pleading with her to come take me away from them. The pipe in this photo represents my mother. It is laying there on the chair, offering the only companionship the chair has, but it is so small compared to the chair, that it finds it hard to comfort the chair. My mom being so far away and limited as to what she could do, is what made it so hard for her to comfort me. Eventually, I gave up on trying to please them. I turned inwards. I threw myself even more into my reading and my poetry. I developed a very vivid imagination, and lived inside my head most of the time. I joined soccer so that I could get away. I would go to the playground and hit the ball against the wooden wall until curfew. Anything to be alone, away from them. I remember that I would cry the whole walk home; I did not want to walk into that house and see those faces, and hear their criticism. At the age of ten, I ran away, but I never made it to my mom’s house. I hardly made it out of Wernersville, two towns away from where I started. This only made things worse, as I was put back into counseling. This is where I discovered my love for art. I would not talk to the counselors; I didn’t want to be there. I felt that I was not the one who needed to be there and I was afraid that everything I said would be repeated to my Dad and step-mom, which would just make things worse for me at home. So I drew. I would draw pictures for that whole hour. I would draw myself with my mom and my sister, pretending that I was really there with them. I needed them so badly, but was only allowed two days every other weekend. On Sundays, when it was time to go back, I would beg to stay with my mom. I can still remember the heart wrenching feeling I would wake up with on Sunday mornings. I would have such an empty, sad feeling inside of me, because I knew that in a couple of hours I was going back to that house. My mom knew, but there was nothing she could do until I was twelve. The door in the painting represents my twelfth birthday, a new beginning. An escape from that cold, lonely room of solitude and sadness. When I turned twelve, I would be able to decide where I wanted to live. So, the countdown for my twelfth birthday began. The morning of my twelfth birthday came on a rainy August day. I remember that it was raining, because I remember looking out the window and thinking that it is raining now, but eventually the sun will come back out. And it did. Four months later, I turned the knob on that door, opened it, and walked through. But, the things I dealt with earlier on are still with me. There are memories that I had stored way back in the depths of my mind, which I have avoided until I began writing this. There are also the things that are present in me every day. My inability to trust, my inability to allow myself to be vulnerable, my inability to show emotion and be my true self, for fear of being criticized. The box of things behind the chair represents those things that I deal with every day. They are in a box, tucked in the corner behind the chair, but they are still there. I could take that box and put it way up in the attic, but it would still be there, the box will always be there with the chair.

Best Answer - Chosen by Asker: I know this is not poetry...but it is an essay I had to do for a class, and I would like your critique before I submit it. I am posting in this section because I have found the best writers with the most honest opinions to be in the poetry section.

With this essay, I was to take a piece of art and interpret it in a way that represented my childhood. It is a bit lengthy...just under 1000 words, but opinions are greatly appreciated. It is based on the painting "Vincent's Chair" by Vincent van Gogh, which you can view through this link http://www.geocities.com/alanalogue/24.j...

As far back as I can remember, I have always had a love for books. During early childhood, I discovered reading as an escape from my home life. For those couple of hours, the words on those crisp, clean pages allowed me to be someone different. This became a problem for me, because my family could not understand why I would rather be inside reading, than outside playing with the other children on the block. But for me, reading meant comfort. I knew that the people in the text could not tease me. They would not pick apart everything about me, as my stepmother did. They could not put me down for being too skinny or being too quiet. It was just me with my book, safe in my room. I always felt very lonely, which is what the chair in this photo represents. It is alone in the room, waiting for someone, to notice it, to sit there, to keep it warm. But no one ever does, and so it sits alone, waiting patiently. No one stops long enough to recognize the chair. Eventually, my love for reading transcended into a love for poetry, as well. I always found it hard to verbally express my emotions, for fear of being chastised, as I always was by my step-mom and step-siblings. Amazingly, with a pen in my hand, and a blank sheet of paper in front of me, I was free. I could finally describe in words the raw emotion that I had locked up deep inside. This caused even more problems to arise. I was thrown into counseling to discover what it was that was wrong with me. I was the one they couldn't “figure out”, the “problem child.” I was abnormal because I was so quiet around them. What they did not understand is that their words were what did it to me. I was never given praise. Everything I did was considered wrong; the way I walked, the way I talked, even the way I put dishes away. I would sneak phone calls to my mom, pleading with her to come take me away from them. The pipe in this photo represents my mother. It is laying there on the chair, offering the only companionship the chair has, but it is so small compared to the chair, that it finds it hard to comfort the chair. My mom being so far away and limited as to what she could do, is what made it so hard for her to comfort me. Eventually, I gave up on trying to please them. I turned inwards. I threw myself even more into my reading and my poetry. I developed a very vivid imagination, and lived inside my head most of the time. I joined soccer so that I could get away. I would go to the playground and hit the ball against the wooden wall until curfew. Anything to be alone, away from them. I remember that I would cry the whole walk home; I did not want to walk into that house and see those faces, and hear their criticism. At the age of ten, I ran away, but I never made it to my mom’s house. I hardly made it out of Wernersville, two towns away from where I started. This only made things worse, as I was put back into counseling. This is where I discovered my love for art. I would not talk to the counselors; I didn’t want to be there. I felt that I was not the one who needed to be there and I was afraid that everything I said would be repeated to my Dad and step-mom, which would just make things worse for me at home. So I drew. I would draw pictures for that whole hour. I would draw myself with my mom and my sister, pretending that I was really there with them. I needed them so badly, but was only allowed two days every other weekend. On Sundays, when it was time to go back, I would beg to stay with my mom. I can still remember the heart wrenching feeling I would wake up with on Sunday mornings. I would have such an empty, sad feeling inside of me, because I knew that in a couple of hours I was going back to that house. My mom knew, but there was nothing she could do until I was twelve. The door in the painting represents my twelfth birthday, a new beginning. An escape from that cold, lonely room of solitude and sadness. When I turned twelve, I would be able to decide where I wanted to live. So, the countdown for my twelfth birthday began. The morning of my twelfth birthday came on a rainy August day. I remember that it was raining, because I remember looking out the window and thinking that it is raining now, but eventually the sun will come back out. And it did. Four months later, I turned the knob on that door, opened it, and walked through. But, the things I dealt with earlier on are still with me. There are memories that I had stored way back in the depths of my mind, which I have avoided until I began writing this. There are also the things that are present in me every day. My inability to trust, my inability to allow myself to be vulnerable, my inability to show emotion and be my true self, for fear of being criticized. The box of things behind the chair represents those things that I deal with every day. They are in a box, tucked in the corner behind the chair, but they are still there. I could take that box and put it way up in the attic, but it would still be there, the box will always be there with the chair.

Yes, agreed it was long...however, I read it all. (Could not get onto the site.)

Our struggles are long, and, hopefully we emerge a better soul from that cocoon, for having lived through them.

This, I believe, you have done.

Well stated, from the heart! Isn't freedom wonderful!

I read the entire thing, it was beautiful, and very touching, for me it was the same, always using reading(my fav pastime) writing(diary, poetry) and art(my passion) to escape. I too struggled with trust, and fear, and insecurity. The only thing you could do to it, is condense it, simplify a few lines, you know... 'short sentences for emphasis' and all that crap, lol. But you did a really great job, and i thoroughly enjoyed reading it and I'm sure your teacher will as well.