Is This Home Now? by Anna LaGrone
I fiddle with the broken plastic handle, then suddenly the taxi door swings open. I step out into the bustling city street, when a gust of wind grabs hold of my hair and sends it flying over my face. Trying to collect my luggage, I grab my purse from the seat next to me and make my way to the trunk of the cab. The deafening sound of a car horn directly behind me pierces my hearing and catches me off guard. “Get out of the street, asshole!” the driver of the taxi behind me yells in my direction. I meet my mom at the curb with five suitcases and two tote bags in hand. We both just stand there in awe for a moment, taking it all in. Buildings, people, streets, and cars surround us. The overwhelming buzzing of the city consumes us in that moment. I glance at her and see the worry on her face. “Is this home now?” I ask myself. I think back being four years old, deciding I was going to do something different with my life. I was going to live in the one of the biggest cities in the world.
I grew up a dreamer. I saw my surroundings and knew there was more out there for me to experience and explore. At a young age, art became something I loved doing. It started off as finger painting, crayons, and Play-Doh in kindergarten. I was a lively little girl running out of the classroom, excited to show everyone her paintings. My family was always supportive. My parents were the type to hang up my masterpieces from school with a magnet on the fridge, and my older brother was also interested in the arts. I remember laying in bed at night, falling asleep to him playing different instruments. For a few years it was violin, then saxophone and finally the guitar. Growing up at home, my dad always had a camera over his shoulder taking photos of everything my brother and I did, even if it seemed like the most insignificant occasion, like playing in the yard. Seeing him capture thousands of precious moments in our lives and being able to look back on them years ahead dazzled me. In my eyes, his books of photos were like our own little time capsule. Looking through photos takes people back to happy and sad moments, which really forces one to accept where they have come from and what they are made of. This is where my love of photography was born. Seeing him collecting negatives and little moments made me want to do it too.
The idea of capturing memories and moments in time always fascinated me. However, I began to realize that photography could do more than just immortalize a memory. I began to immerse myself in emotional expression and storytelling through photographs. In middle school, my friends and I started exploring our city, Little Rock, Arkansas, on the weekends. We took pictures of anything and everything that sparked our interest: people on the sidewalks, buildings, flowers, sunsets, and each other. The best days were breaking into old abandoned buildings downtown. The exhilarating feeling of climbing up the fire escape ladder and crawling through broken windows into the old weathered rooms gave us a sense of purpose. These weekends are when I began to understand my city. I got to know the strangers on the streets, I searched in alleys and hidden neighborhoods for interesting content to photograph. Walking down the bare streets of downtown Little Rock, camera in hand, I found myself. I knew this is what I wanted to do.
In high school I decided to further study photography and experiment with other art forms. Art class is where I let my mind free and create things that mattered to me. My teacher was the best person I could ask for as a mentor. We spent many hours analyzing and reworking my portfolio, going through critiques, and flipping through art history books looking for inspiration. Work that focused on storytelling and social justice issues was the result. By junior year, I had created various pieces that spoke to issues of today, such as self image and the value of clothes. This is when I decided I wanted to study art in college and pursue a professional career in the fashion industry. I had always dreamed of working in fashion but at this point I could realistically see myself doing it. I spent many nights staying up way later than the average eleven year old watching Project Runway. I was absolutely obsessed with Tim Gun, Michael Kors, and Parsons. So when the time came to apply for colleges, I had my mind set on The New School. When I found out I was accepted, I confirmed my attendance immediately. The fact that I was moving to New York City didn’t become real to me until my last week in Little Rock. All of my friends had already left for college, my room was packed up, relatives and family friends were stopping by to say their final goodbyes. The last few days I spent a lot of time in my car just driving around trying to see everything I could, attempting to hold on to everything I was letting go. I drove through the never ending neighborhoods where the houses all look the same, drove twenty minutes to eat at my favorite restaurant, and sat in the beautiful lush parks and listened to the wind. I remember looking up and all you could see was trees, with their thick green leaves shading the sun. I said goodbye to everything I had ever known and everyone I loved. I said goodbye to Little Rock.
Suddenly my mother’s tight grip on my forearm snaps me out of my gaze. I look up and she’s looking right into my eyes, “Are you sure you want to do this?” she asks with a fearful glimmer in her eyes. I nod my head and smile as a we begin to make our way down the crowded street.
