Every Journey Starts Somewhere

It was 0630, and we were a few weeks into Plebe Summer. We were standing on Worden Field in formation with our rifles, practicing marching in a parade. All one thousand of us stood with our platoons as the sun (and humidity) welcomed us to another day of misery.

The glasses they had given me to wear were so heavy, they would slip down my nose when I sweated. Not being allowed to touch my face (or make any additional movements beyond standing at attention) when under the watchful eyes of the detailers meant that they would periodically walk up to me and push my glasses back up to eye level. Stand, sweat, drill, glasses, repeat (do not dare smile).  

While this little routine was going on, the morning sun turned the sky pink behind us. The most peculiar shadows appeared on the backs of the row of plebes in front of me. Head, rifle. Head, rifle. Head, rifle, head, rifle, head, rifle. The pink sky made the shadows look turquoise on the white uniforms. Light does neat things with color.

 It was that moment when I promised myself I would paint this story.

Visuals similar to that on the parade field continued to taunt me. The deep viridian greens of Stribling Walk at dusk. The magnificent blankets of snow made my feelings toward those bleak winters complicated. It was the romance of light and architecture and communities of people growing through the process that would take my breath away.

I chose this over art school. I did not regret it. I knew I was in the right place, standing on that parade field.

But they don’t teach color theory at Annapolis. I hoped—truly hoped—that I could still grow as an artist throughout the process. I wondered if there was space for creativity in the edges of those long days and if that would be something I had to hide about myself. I also wondered if I could even grow to be the artist—and the officer—I wanted to be.