Speech class, first speech, and the guy down front yawns when I hit the half way point. I already hate my text as Marianne (secret crush who sits in front of me) has turned to the guy next to her to whisper and smirk. I falter, dying at the podium: soaked armpits, shaky knees. Merciless schmuck offers a critique after I slink to my seat: “He started off kind of slow, but then it was like he gave up and mumbled his way to the end.” Classmates nod in agreement. Professor ends the agony by calling out, “Next volunteer!”
Ramsey leads us up a flight of stairs to a second floor conference room. We’re puffing, but the old prof eases into his chair and drawls in his flat monotone, “I’ve got a resting heart rate of fifty beats per minute and my blood pressure is 80 over 60.” After class, I imitate Ramsey for the benefit of a fellow sufferer. I imagine the professor in bed with his wife: “Ohh baby, I’m reaady fer youuu. My blood pressure is up to 90 over 65, and my resting heart rate is pummmping along at 62. Come to Papaaa.”
Smart Ass (but not as clever as he thinks) comes to my table and sees me working on a drawing. Says, “Is that your real work–I mean, not a class demo?” I nod, and he burbles, “That’s really good. You’re talented. Maybe I’ll buy it at the end of the semester.” Bullshit. I nod and wait for him to go away. Next week he complains about the amount of homework assigned. Says, “I bet you think that your class is the most important thing in the world.” Stare him down to make him retreat while biting my tongue. Want to say, “Nope, getting laid on a regular basis is a lot more important.”
Brush a stroke of gray onto a monochrome demo for a Drawing I class. Five out of ten students have showed up on time, and I can feel them willing me to stop. They want to be Anywhere Else, but cranky old professor makes them show up and draw. I refuse to stop, describe the next step and continue the demo. Turn to see Marianne staring at me hollow-eyed–a soulless child of the damned. Lorenzo’s Instagram page shines up at him from his phone. Heather studies the charcoal dust gathered in a heavy film on the ventilation ducts near the ceiling. I can’t find the right words and stutter over the wrong. Flop sweat.
Joey walks in as I go through my wrap up reminders (do this first and second, but never do this unless you want to destroy your drawing) but doesn’t come over to listen. Drops his bag at an easel instead. Comes over after everyone has begun to work and asks, “Hey, so what are we doin’ tonight?” “Painting with acrylic.” He waits for me to go on. Asks me, “So, we’re painting?” “Yup, we’re painting.”
Pull out a small sketchbook during break time and draw abstracted shapes: students slumping, staring, turning away. Bored and dull. The drawing makes me laugh. Karma might be a bitch, but revenge is mine.
Just finished this charcoal drawing (14×17″). I began this as a surrealistic image by finding shapes and images in a cloud of charcoal that I smeared on the paper. The odd fellow on the left began to emerge, and I suddenly got an idea to add a realistic figure as a counterpoint. I based her on a 19th c. daguerreotype of a melodramatic actress taken in the studio of Southworth and Hawes.
Last night I told an experienced and accomplished student named Gail that her drawing was finished. I had given the class an assignment to do a charcoal rub-out drawing that focused on capturing as many nuances of light and shadow on a portrait bust as possible. The woman turned to me and wearily said, “You think that this is finished? I thought the idea of this assignment was to extend the torture as long as possible.” The rest of the class laughed.
I’ve been thinking about my role as a teacher for the last few weeks, and if a student had said that to me ten days before I might have been appalled. I’ve become more and more aware in recent years that when I teach I inflict a certain amount of discomfort on my students. I challenge them to do things that stretch the limits of their talent and question their presuppositions about the nature of reality.
As Christa McAuliffe said, “I touch the future. I teach.” I go one step further: sometimes I make the future cry.
I’m not intentionally cruel, however. I am encouraging both when a student struggles or does well, but am firm about pointing out areas that could be improved. And I try to give them rational explanations and demonstrations to help them improve and fix things. I make my instruction as clear as possible, which can be difficult when teaching art. A nonverbal form of communication doesn’t lend itself easily to verbal instruction.
I’ve become aware, however, that I frequently hurt my students feelings when I tell them the truth about their progress, when I point out for the fiftieth time that their understanding of perspective is flawed (surfaces on an object do not appear to get bigger as they go farther away into the distance). I can actually feel their pain, and it dismays me.
Of course some of my students would snort with disbelief if they read that last statement. A percentage of them are sure that I come up with exercises with the sole intent of frustrating and annoying them. Some believe that I’m just a temporary road block and ignore my instruction while they look for a detour to an effortless passing grade. A growing number who have been raised on constant praise are offended when I don’t rubber stamp their self-evident brilliance. I’m less concerned about my impact on this crowd, and more concerned about the well being of students who are making a sincere effort.
I’m reading a book about Abraham Lincoln. It has helped me to accept the downside of teaching. The author claims that Lincoln grew as a writer, thinker, man of faith and politician every time he experienced a deep sorrow or stunning failure. Pain was his cruel but necessary teacher. Struggle, despair and strife pushed him toward greatness. I feel reassured that when I make my students uncomfortable I’m not being cruel–I’m creating an opportunity for them to find new resources and to grow.
I didn’t get upset last night when Gail made her joke at my expense. I pointed to Gail’s subtle and elegant drawing. I told her, “Yes, torture was a part of this assignment. But look at your drawing. It’s beautiful. You’ve captured the poetry of light.”
This is a recent charcoal drawing. I used a surrealist technique: I put down clouds of charcoal on the paper and looked for images in the stray marks. Lumpinina Scott gradually emerged as I fleshed out the shapes and textures. Her back story came to me as I stared at her face and thought of her as a weary person worn out from regrets. Oddly enough she looks like one of my former bosses. I had no intention of summoning her memory when I started the drawing. She could be most unpleasant.
Captions: “Lumpinina Scott
B. 1862 D. 1922”
“Courtesan, artist’s model, home wrecker, she spent the last two years of her life trying to recall her third lover’s name. (It was Bob.)”