Artist Profile: Emily Funk

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Artist Profile: Emily Funk

Mikayla Martin, Editor

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Emily Funk paints with words, not color. She captures the human spirit through the written word, conveying emotion through prose and poems. Her passion for writing began when she was five, when she was staying in the hospital. She kept a picture book with her, and she wrote stories to go along with the drawings. From there, her love of writing took off. She enjoys writing about people and their interactions with the world. She also writes about her past experiences, her emotions going through trials, and her reflections looking back on them. To her, writing inspires her to look at the world through different eyes. She is the master of her works, creating new perspectives for her audience to see her through. Emily wants to pursue writing as a career, either through journalism or creative writing. Emily can boast something many writers cannot: she is a published author. Emily has a published poem in the American Library Association. The book in which her poem is written is titled Imagine and will remain forever in the Library of Congress. This is an immense honor for such a young author. She was accepted into an online intensive program this summer with the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, which is sure to help her grow her talent even further.

“Painting with Papa”

by Emily Funk

My papa’s eyes light up brighter than the fireworks we saw last July

With coral pastels and emrald swirls, he meets my gaze with a small smile

It’s an unfinished project I dug up from his dank basement

Dust collected on it, permeating the air with its abandonment

Worn hands clasp mine with a determined grip

as we paint for the first time since his fall

His stroke may have taken away his words but it could never take away his mind

This is what I tell myself as we finish painting the summer sky

Acrylic paint old enough to love our shaky brushes

We dab and flick our sword through the unmarked territory of a forgotten canvas

Forged in spite of the crumbling fist of time’s wrinkled hand, we painted on

We created something that lasted even when he was gone

Imagined together by a nameless master and his young granddaughter

A nostalgic remembrance of my papa’s childhood home

Backs bent as we sit resolute, varnishing delicate yellow flowers and amber trees

A few hours spent out of millinos of minutes, but it meant the world to me

My papa taught me that if you want to paint the Earth

Your eyes must be filled first with love as endless as the stars

Just like how his were with his coral pastels and emerald swirls

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