The walls and floors of the art department gallery were all off white. My charcoal drawings were on newspaper featuring sketches of different models in various poses. The final was a colored chalk drawing on black paper. I've since lost it over the years, but it was actually decent. It looked like a sad Van Gogh wearing a santa hat. It sort of just happened.
The figure drawing teacher looked over my humble portfolio in silence. After what felt like eternity during which I didn't know what to do with myself but stand awkwardly, he finally made a noise. Then he asked, "What's your major?"
"Art," I replied.
He made another sound. "You should change majors," he said then walked away.
I cleaned up my art, guessing the final review of the semester was finished. I packed up my locker and exited the art department glass door into the Texas heat. Texas is either skin-bleeding hot or pierce your soul cold. Especially when crossing the bridge near Blue Mound exit in Fort Worth. I swear the wind wanted to make cars fly.
At my car, which at the time was a piece of miraculous shit. The first mechanic to see under the hood laughed...then said, "how is it still driving." The hood was the wrong color red and the last owner put random stickers on the back window referring to things I didn't know. The stickers attracted skater guys who would notice the stickers, then me, then hang out in the college parking lot with me showing me skater tricks. I tried to skate a few times only to set off car alarms. Anyway, I assume the stickers referred to skater stuff.
After putting my portfolio in the truck of the red Ford Escort and sat in the driver seat, I stared at the lake near the school, probably playing the newest angry/sad rock song on my "fancy" six-disc CD player (there's another great story).
Change your major, repeated in my head. Great, I thought, I still suck at life.
Art Plus Psychology Equals Art Therapy
Later that year, after about two years of being an art major, I switched to psychology. I had taken a psychology class for an elective. First day in class my thought was, I love this shit. I think about this stuff already. You mean it's a job?!
That teacher was a lot friendly and approachable. He was also more positive and put up with my various psychology student phases. Like the Psychology Student Disorder, related to General Disorder Disorder, and Medical Student Disorder. We've all done it. WE'VE ALL DONE IT.
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| I've started Googling Psych student memes and can't stop. |
(Turns out I do in fact have ADHD, though. A psychiatrist diagnosed me within 30 minutes. That's another story.)
I digress.
Me: "If only I could put art and psychology together!"
Teacher: "You can! It's called art therapy!"
Me: *mind blown*
Needless to say, I decided to pursue a degree in psychology even though in the States art therapy is still widely considered an art degree. One of my smart life choices! In Canada and finally the rest of the States, it's becoming more of a psychology degree. The art therapy schools here want you to have a psychology degree. Sweet deal for me.
Here's the kicker. I didn't stop making art. I pulled a straight up Van Gogh. Multiple teachers told me not to continue on the path, but I did any way. Along the way there were positive art teachers who were like, "Screw them, you're doing fine."
After fearing I messed up an assignment in an art history class, I asked the teacher what I could do for my grade. She replied, "You're the only student taking this class seriously. You're one of my best students. You're fine."
Several years later, guess what? My art makes money. My art empowers me. My art enriches my life. My teaches me lessons. My art reveals. My art relaxes. My art is ever changing.
I don't know what crawled into that one art teacher's pencil box and died, but it was unnecessary to discourage a student thus. I was 18 years old, new to the state, and it's not like it was an art program where you had to come in knowing the craft. Anyone could join. A more beneficial process would have been to suggest ways I could improve and compliment what I was doing right. I know because I also teach.
Most of my work, as life directed it, has been with children. I doubt he'd be impressed with the scribbles of a toddler. I love the scribbles of a toddler. I've had to learn deciphering of said scribbles and help the child grow their mad skill. What point do you tell someone not to keep tying? Never. I will not look a toddler in the face and say, "You suck at drawing, you should try something else."
Everyone "sucks" in the beginning. Every chef began with a failed attempt. Every baker has experienced the burnt cake. Every successful writer has tossed away bad writing hoping no one will ever see it ever. We all start somewhere.
People will try to boss you around or redirect your life. They'll tell you what to do. Sure, I did change majors, but because I wanted to. You have to live the consequences of your choices, so do what's going to make you happy. Besides, they could be wrong.
This is why I relate to Vincent van Gogh and why he's one of my favorite artists. People told him to stop. People weren't buying his art. He had every excuse to stop, but did not.
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| Gogh - Starry Night |
(I had some videos right here, but I moved them to a special page called "Smile" on the main navigation bar. Easier to read blog posts that way.)
At the end of the day, I'm just saying to don't give up. Sometimes people may not be impressed with you or whatever you're doing, but you must keep trying. Success happens at the end of mistakes.