I never considered myself artistic until that rainy autumn afternoon. Mrs. Riley, our art teacher, handed out canvases（画布）with an unusual ____1____ ，“Paint what you feel others cannot see.” My classmates ____2____ dipped brushes into bright colors, while I stared at the ____3____ surface, no idea in my mind, and immersed myself in self-doubt.
For years, I had ____4____ to draw except for stick figures and convinced that ____5____ wasn’t my gift. But as raindrops tapped the window like a piece of beautiful music, an idea sparked-I mixed greys and blues to capture the rhythm of the storm. To my ____6____, Mrs. Riley paused and looked at my drawing. “This... has depth,” she murmured, nodding her head slightly.
That night, I lay awake, torn between excitement and fear. My sketchbook ( 速 写 本 ), long hidden under textbooks, resurfaced like an old friend. I began sketching shadows dancing through streetlights, steam curling from teacups-ordinary magic I’d always ____7____.
Weeks later, the school exhibition arrived. My piece “Urban Symphony” hung beside abstract paintings. Visitors rushed past my work without pause until a little girl pulled her mother’s sleeve. “Look! It’s like the city is breathing!” Her words were beyond my personal ____8____.
Now, as I prepare for art college, I often recall Mrs. Riley’s wisdom: “Vision grows when we dare to ____9____ the invisible.” That blank canvas taught me creativity isn’t about skill, but the ____10____ to share our unique perspectives.