Lena Sweeney
My Tree and Me
In looking through my original proposal, I realize how little my project has changed, especially compared to most of my classmates. I stuck with the first idea I chose, for better or worse. I created a children’s book on the topic of mutualism, teaching kids about the beautiful diversity of such relationships. My illustrated story showed a child tending a peach tree over time and learning how their interaction was different and similar to other mutualistic relationships in the world. It was my first formal art project and (I hope) conveyed my fascination with the complexity and elegance of biology. I cut the illustrations from hundreds of different types of paper to form images that were colorful, detailed, and scientifically accurate.
Arriving at this idea was difficult for me. My lack of knowledge and expertise about art generated a hesitation, an intimidation that only increased as my classmates, seemingly effortlessly, shared their ideas, thoughts, and plans. I wanted my project to be good, a challenge, something that would maintain my interest throughout the year. I appreciated the exercises that we did in class during fall quarter. Free writes and internal dialogues were entirely new and slightly awkward, but I enjoyed them and have appreciated and used the techniques for this project and others. My dilemma in selecting a project benefited from the force of deadlines; I realized my tendency to avoid solidifying plans when delaying commitment was an option. In writing the proposal, I produced details, materials, and schedules and began the “scratching” that Twyla suggested. Critically assessing my writing for that assignment was also a much-needed check on the rapidly generated, formulaic text that I had learned to produce for my other classes, particularly in the sciences. It reminded me how much more fun it is to read and write pages of color and texture, and established careful and vibrant science writing as a primary goal for my project.
As I moved forward with the research phase, I began to realize the extent of the difficulties that I would face in trying to bring my concept to reality. I loved this point in the project, when the possibilities seemed endless and I was free to explore every mildly relatable source. The adventure through the bookshelves of children’s sections in libraries and shops was especially entertaining and inspiring. It evoked memories, reminiscences of learning to read and how my world expanded with every book. I hadn’t realized the staggering number of books written for children or the diversity in style, level, and topic. I worried that I couldn’t be original, or that my creation would be laughable alongside the many beautiful and skillful works on the shelves.
Beginning the story again brought a stall, dozens of false starts, and confusion over which direction to choose. Ultimately, I relied upon my young self, selecting a style of first-person rhymes that I used to like best. Having this first draft was important, but if I had known how many tweaks and revisions it would undergo, its power to stress me would have decreased considerably.
The next step in the process was a disaster, unexpectedly so. With life’s normal good timing, I broke my right hand just as I was set to start cutting paper for the project. I’d never undergone an injury that would so inconvenience my normal life, and I didn’t know what to do—how would I get anything done? How could I take a physics test or do a CS assignment? I couldn’t tie my hair back or button a jacket or drive my car. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t physically independent. The injury was so tiny and I could have been hurt far more badly; I frustrated myself with the amount of upset and stress that I allowed at such a minor accident.
I hated requiring special accommodations on exams, hated having to ask for help to do anything. In a way, I needed such an experience. Over the past three and a half years at Stanford, I’d wrapped myself in a drive for efficiency and independence. Forced to work painfully slowly and depend upon the hands of friends, I considered things differently. I thought about everything a bit more and strained to interpret my ideas in the various ways that others might. This was especially true with regards to my project. I was in a panic that I could never finish. My hand seemed to have an indefinite recovery projection, and I was already far behind my carefully formed plan. My mom, sister, and close friend Sheldon were invaluable. My mom and sister drove up to see me, to cheer me up and drive me to the paper store. They patiently sorted through hundreds of options to find those that best fit the animals and environments. My sister stayed with me for the week, folding my laundry and drawing outlines for the scenes. Sheldon painstakingly cut out tiny shapes for my clownfish, patient as we learned how to communicate depth and shading with paper. Their generosity in sharing their time was remarkable. I was very much touched by and thankful for their love, and my appreciation enabled me to disengage my control and perfectionism to trust them with my project. It was a challenge. I’m in awe of architects and designers who rely on others to bring their ideas to life. As I move into the real world of long-term and highly collaborative projects, this experience may prove useful. In any case, I am extremely grateful for it.
Even besides the physical challenges, every part of the project was more difficult than I expected. As a “scientist,” I thought making a short appendix to explain the science behind my examples of mutualism would be simple. Wrong! It was far more challenging for me to communicate science at a grade-school level than to write a detailed technical paper. I needed to browse dozens of sources, work through several drafts. With the appendix, I found the workshops most helpful. My classmates were invaluable in catching the words and phrases that might stump a general audience, and they provided great insight into more effective approaches for the section.
Everything had far more options than I expected, and that made things more complicated. Besides the endless types of paper, I had to choose what pose I wanted for each organism, what background, and what position on the page. Everything mattered, but I learned that trial and error was my best and only technique to make progress. Only by sketching, making computer simulations, trying different papers, and remaining active could I move forward.
The project also demonstrated to me the extreme importance of logistics in determining the final “look” of an art project. I loved resolving the challenges that arose and working adaptively. I was surprised by how much my materials guided the project. As I learned to work with paper, I discovered things to do with its incredible textures and combinations. By this tangible discovery process ideas for the illustrations could be born or discarded, and I liked this kind of practical experimentation.
As my hand’s strength and dexterity improved, I excitedly began my work in earnest. Each page took dozens of hours, and every week I re-evaluated my progress, certain I could never finish on time. I listened to hundreds of hours of television, movies, radio programs, and music—I’m fairly certain that I’ve never been so up-to-date on pop culture or news. I appreciated this time. I liked working on something tactile and detailed, challenges so different than those I dealt with the rest of the day. I enjoyed having time to myself, away from the friends, classmates, dorm mates, group members, and co-workers that crowd every other sphere of my life. Truthfully, I did a lot of “senior reflecting” during these hours, thinking hard and long about the past four years and considering the future I’ve worked to create and how I should live it.
I thought about how this project might fit in, how learning to think from the perspective of a child and of a parent might inform work in pediatric medicine. Certainly, this project has changed how I teach science, especially to students who are more interested in the arts.
I haven’t introduced the final version of my book to any children or shown kids any version that included illustrations, but I’m excited to see what they think about it. I look forward to gauging whether they learn what I intended from the project. I hope very much that the book sparks their scientific curiosity and introduces my favorite part of biology: the ability to apply a single framework and concept to explain phenomena existing in a variety of forms, species, and environments. I want to see whether the idea of animals helping one another in nature appeals to them and relates to their lives in some way. Whatever I learn from such interactions will be invaluable, helping me to better understand science education and the mindset and intellectual capabilities of small children.
This long, drawn-out project ended with a bang at the exhibition. I was apprehensive about this aspect of the program, for it seemed the “judgement day” of all that we had worked toward for a year. In reality, my focus at the exhibition, rather than fussing over my own project, was the awesome contributions of my classmates. In studying their exhibits I experienced the spectrum of sensory stimulation and emotional reactions. I was awed by the evolution and manifestation of the projects, those I had seen develop during the spring and others that were new or completely changed from tentative plans during the earlier quarters.
Showing my own project to TSR classmates and other friends was a great deal of fun. They’d heard the horror stories and witnessed the tired panics, so their presence and feedback were a welcome culmination to my project. As I eavesdropped on strangers browsing through my book, I felt proud of my work and proud of our group. We had succeeded. Every person had created something beautiful, interesting, and educational. We’d all communicated science in a form that surprised our friends and pushed our skills and vision. We were done.
To be clear, we were done for now. The artistic perspective that we developed can’t be erased; our concept of science has changed. As I move to graduation and life beyond Stanford, my experience in The Senior Reflection (TSR) will affect my scientific approach, injecting it with creativity and active writing. It will alter how I explain and teach science, especially to children, and change my confidence in my ability to do art. My time spent cutting paper and musing on life taught me more about myself, and relying on others after my injury demonstrated the strength of my relationships. TSR provided a capstone to my time at Stanford, and I’m grateful to my teachers, classmates, and mentors for facilitating and guiding this experience.