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Don't let others discourage you.
I'm ready to tell you my story now.
When I was a Sophomore in College, I decided to become an Art Major. I did so for two reasons: you can't really write creatively much as an English Major and I had some room to grow as an artist. When you are an Art Major, they actually let you do art all day. I chose, however, to take a series of Art History classes, which I thought made me a better artist. One thing, though, they were difficult and required me to care about art criticism, which I did not, therefore, I thought the professor very kind and generous to give me a passing grade.
The art I produced that semester, however, was great. The system was definitely working, but there was one problem. I had begun to collect my prerequisites too late. I had to take a beginning art class at the same time that I was taking higher level drawing classes. I should have been able to not feel better than that class at the end, but I did. Also, the teacher that semester had the same complex.
She was an artist from the City (New York in is case) who I guess was picking up a check by coming to teach our class. She skipped the whole thing as often as not, and when there, overcompensated for insecurity with a brashness that was a perfect recipe for confrontation.
I was too young to let things slide and get my stamp to not have to bother with people like her ever again.
She assigned the final at the last second, in a way that suggested to me, at least, that ahe had not given it much consideration, or if she had, represented a stunning lack of intellect.
"Final Exam," it boasted at the top. "Put together a self-portrait in words."
Words! Wow. We were looking one way, and she totally went the other way. Like way the other way. Like it was no longer an exam for an art class at all, but more like an English final paper. But not for a college level class. More like for a Middle School English final paper. But, even for that, it would be a bit light. I mean, there would still be a final exam, in addition to the paper. Even in Middle School.
I guess it was a gimme. I should have treated it that way. But instead, I felt a need to punish this person. Punish her for her pretension to having something to teach.
I thought about it a lot. I mean, I thought about it for a long, long time.
Then I remembered something.
I was late one day to the class, when I saw the class drawing on the lawn outside the Art building. I hastily tried to find a place so I could set up and at least participate in the first part of the class. I looked down and noticed at that instant why the place I had selected had not been chosen: a piece of dog poop, stomped into the ground by many people, was just to the left hand side of my drawing page.
Ever in a hurry to criticize me, the teacher stumbled over, in a rush to tell me how what I was doing was not the thing we were supposed to be doing, a thing I would have known had I been on time.
In doing so, she landed rather squarely in the dog poop beside me, in such a way that I couldn't help but laugh a little, which or course infuriated her, though she was too confident in herself to consider that I was laughing at something she had done. She just assumed it must be my unearned smugness.
Well. I thought about this moment, and I realized it was a rather perfect illustration, if you will, of who I am. So I wrote it down on a piece of paper, and I decided that it was to be my self-portrait in words.
Then, on the day I was to present, I had everybody in a semicircle with the teacher last, and I had each person read it in turn, and not say anything once they had read it. It emerged on the other side and the teacher read it. She scrambled for a minute to compose herself, but decided instead that it was beneath her to respond to it and cut the class short.
The Dean, who happened to be a teacher of mine in another class, for some reason expected me to defend the work as a work. It was what the teacher asked for, and a fine self-portrait, I might add. But ultimately, it was a criticism. Ask me to show you who I am, underneath the layers of bullcrap, you'll ultimately find me, making fun of you. Next time, don't be so cute.
But no one asked me why I did it, and I never offered either.
The Dean told me, basically, not to attempt to enroll in any Art classes from there on out. He then proceeded to give me an A in his own class. Tiny bit of congitive dissonance, wouldn't you say?
The teacher I humiliated gave me a 0 on the Final, which averaged out to a C. I suppose that means I had been getting an A up until that point, which is actually kind of surprising, and a testament to how I was developing at the time.
And you know what? I gave up on art for a long time. I accepted the idea that I was not meant to do art, because of one teacher's insecurity. Because of one Dean's cowardliness. Because I had not been brave enough to say, well, If I can't do this there's not really any point in me going to school at all.
Who are teachers to say who you will and will not be? No one, but you can damage your future by fighting with them over it. You have to be brave, and say, I know my abilities, and I accept only my own criticism. I take classes not to be recognized for what I already am, but to get a stamp that says I never have to hear anybody say that I can't.
You'll grow long in the tooth waiting for somebody in power over you to admit they were wrong, though doubly so when it comes to educators. You don't need their approval, or if you do, you should reevaluate your goals. Ultimately, it's you that you have to please.
Well, you and your family.
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