Who Are They Talking To?

I sometimes get students who react badly to just about anything I do or say in class. Even if I ask them an innocuous question (“Howya doin’?”), they snap. They believe that I’m probing for information to be used against them. I understand that they are not really glaring at me. Their hostility is directed at someone who resembles me. Or they’ve made assumptions based on my age and appearance. I look like I fit into a category of people they fear and despise.

I’ve learned to give edgy students space and distance, to interact only when necessary. However, their guards remain up, so they carefully watch me giving personalized instruction. They usually make one of two choices after seeing classmates’ work improve. A hostile student may gradually relax after realizing that I mean no harm, that I’m there to help. They tentatively accept input. Or a hostile student might decide that I’m playing favorites. I’m nice to some students but not to him or her.

Several years ago, one student would lunge forward to cover her drawing whenever I came near. I saw that she dreaded my feedback, so I moved on. One day as I passed by, she complained to another student that I never gave her instruction. I retraced my steps and told her that I simply respected the cues she had given me, that I’d happily tell her what I thought if she’d let me see her work. The student stared at me for a few seconds, then turned away. She couldn’t process the news that her attitude had dictated my responses. Her behavior didn’t change. She still covered her drawings whenever I came around.

On the other hand, I’ve noticed that people see me more accurately when I’m present in the moment. When my mind is relatively clear, folks look me in the eye and sometimes smile. I’ve consequently begun to wonder whether hostile students are reacting to more than their preconceived biases. Instead, they might be responding to my mental energy. They sense stormy weather regardless of my external actions.

If, for example, I’m brooding about some past injustice, anger and resentment ooze into the space around me. Instead of misinterpreting my intentions, sensitive hostiles might be responding to subtle signals.

If I engage them in the present moment, then the directness of the interaction weakens their preconceived notions. An open attitude encourages openness.

The Vagaries of Teaching

I loaded a few instructional videos to my YouTube channel the other day and noticed that views are recorded on a page listing all my uploads.  I checked videos designed solely for Valencia classes and saw that viewership had declined as the semester progressed.  Earlier lessons received nearly full viewership, while later ones demonstrating painting techniques were viewed by a third of the students.

Some of my pupils may have been able to pick up enough information to complete assignments from step-by-step photos and verbal instructions included in lesson plans.  They may not have needed video demos to reinforce what they’d already grasped.  Others, of course, needed all the help they could get but didn’t choose to use all the given resources.

The drawings produced by the students during the semester were somewhat less accomplished than those made in in-person classes.  Some students in this semester’s classes persisted with bad practices after receiving verbal and visual redirection (I uploaded correction drawings to the grading page.)  Mistakes that some students persisted in making: depending too much on lines to create edges when drawing a charcoal rub-out; using isometric perspective instead of western perspective; drawing studies of objects instead of creating compositions; placing the eyes too high on the forehead when drawing portraits.  If I’d been present, I would have made them change drawings until the errors disappeared.

Some students, no matter what the teaching format, will not accept instruction even when taking basic courses.  They believe that art is about subjective creativity.  When I tell them to follow guidelines to create a certain type of drawing, they rebel.  They think that I’m forcing them to become my clones.  They suspect my intentions even after I tell them that my private work isn’t a repetition of things I teach in class.  I undercut their resistance by saying two things:  Drawing I is like beginning English composition (we’re not writing poetry but simply trying to learn how to communicate efficiently); they can do whatever they want after leaving my class, but they need to follow instructions if they want to get a decent grade (I can’t evaluate a scribbled patch of marks when the assignment calls for drawing a box in correct perspective.).

Some students, those who view me as an institutional troll blocking their bridge to success, come back later to thank me for giving them a good foundation.  They realize, after encountering other teachers in higher level classes, that I gave them useful information and technical advice.  Some figure out during the course of a semester that they’ve made good progress.  The more gracious ones thank me for my help.  Others assume that they would have figured things out without any interference from the gradebook ogre.

I’ve grown used to the vagaries of teaching.  Sometimes the results are “as ye sow, so shall you reap”.  At other times, though I believe that I’ve been planting wheat and corn, dandelions and thistles come up instead.  If I want to keep teaching, then I must persist in the faith that what I do matters…even if signs of success are spaced haphazardly.

“Politics,” I Thought

I heard a bird cry out. I turned toward the sound and saw a red-shouldered hawk gliding to land on a branch high up in the neighbor’s pine. Then crows cawed loudly nearby. I saw two of them standing at attention near the top of a dead maple. They directed their objections to the hawk. He pretended to ignore them but occasionally replied with a piercing call.

The crows disliked his intrusion on their territory. The hawk asserted his right to go wherever he pleased. The stand off continued for several minutes until the hawk decided that he had made his point long enough. He flew south toward the drainage ditch. The crows jeered at his retreat.

All the participants claimed victory. “Politics,” I thought.

I attempted to speak at a church committee meeting. A woman interrupted my first sentence and ran on and on. I tried again, but she talked over the top of me once more. I raised my hand, gave her a look and said, “I’d like a chance to speak.” She replied as if to a child, “You know, the women in this church are the ones who really run things.” Power politics.

I helped set up tables for a church meeting at the direction of the interim pastor. Deacon candidates would be seated at a U configuration of long tables where they would be called upon to describe their spiritual journeys. An elder pulled the pastor to one side for a private confab. He listened intently and nodded in agreement several times. He turned to me and said with a sheepish grin, “I guess I’ve got this all mixed up. Rhoda tells me that there are too many people here for my scheme to work. We’ll have to rearrange the tables.” No note of frustration tinged his speech. He made no attempt to reassert his authority.

His goals were efficiency, clarity and service. No politics.

Never Compare

I tell worried students to never compare themselves to others. Our starting lines are different in the race to improve work and hone talent. It does no good to either feel superior (you’re not that near the finish line, so keep running) or inferior (you’re no worse than 90% of beginners). What helps most is to steal. If Sarah turns a line in an attractive way around a shape, rip it off as best you can. If Tom develops exquisite transitions in his tonal changes, take a close look and figure out how he did it. We all have innate abilities, but those who make the most progress remain humble enough to pick-pocket their betters…

I recently heard a passage from a book on Christianity that admonished seekers to jump all in. The writer declared that faithful Christians must trust God completely. Anxiety and fear are signs of weakness, a failure to acknowledge that God walks beside us as we make our journey from this life to the next. True Christians avoid doubts.

Perhaps the writer intended to motivate and inspire readers like a cheerleader demanding loud support from a crowd. But I found the strident words annoying. Some of us struggle for our faith. Who was he to judge?

I sometimes envy folks who have a steady belief in the promises of their faiths. They look forward with greater sureness and joy. My steady companions, however, are doubt and dread. They dog my steps like familiar, persistent enemies.

Perhaps there’s still room for hope. I’ve met people at church who are kind, steady and full of hope. They pray for each other and try to lighten the loads of those in need. Instead of just wishing that my spiritual light would shine as brightly as theirs, I could study them carefully like a robber scanning the floor plans of a bank.

Pastor Bob knows that life is tough and full of suffering, but focuses on the goodness he finds in others. I could try that. Irene feels the supporting influence of prayer carrying her through uncertain times. I could pray for guidance and send hope and assurance to others. Ruth is driven to step in and provide help where needed. I could turn away from my troubles and look for ways to be useful. Arthur focuses on finding God’s presence in the Living Moment. Sounds good to me.

In the end, leading a vibrant spiritual life might be a matter of ripping off the right people.

Adjunctivitis

(AMA definition: a condition in which a college instructor experiences heart palpitations, spiked blood pressure, reddening of the face, sputtering, and a deepening sense of futility. Severe cases developing from prolonged exposure to indifferent students may result in sudden head explosion syndrome.)

Case Studies

Robin Ross, mother of three, devoted English instructor, began to sputter incoherently during class. Students could not specify a cause for the sudden development of speech paralysis, but one volunteered the following: “Professor Ross was droning on about grammar or something, and Natalie’s phone buzzed. Nat took the call, and the prof said, ‘Put that away!” Nat said, ‘But it’s my mother,” and Ross’s face turned red, her eyes bugged, and then she started to talk in this garbled way. We didn’t call an ambulance right away because Natalie’s mother (she’s a nurse) told us that the professor was getting mad over nothing and she’d get over it soon.”

Rupert Brinkley, drawing instructor, suddenly began to strike a table with his forehead after an interaction with a student named Colin. Colin: “I want to ask about my midterm grade. What are these zeros on the grade sheet?” Rupert: “Those are drawings missing from your midterm portfolio. After the zeros are dates and titles of assignments. You can make them up if you turn them in by Monday.” Colin: “But I was a late enrollee. The first two zeros are on dates before I started class.” Rupert: “You’re still responsible for them.” Colin: “Well, I did them!” Rupert: “No you didn’t.” Colin: “But I did!” Rupert: “You just told me that you didn’t do them because you hadn’t been in class on those days.” Colin: “I wasn’t in class on those days and I shouldn’t have to do them!” Rupert: “So, you didn’t do them.” Colin: “No, I did them!” Rupert: “But they weren’t in your portfolio. I can’t grade drawings I can’t see.” Colin: “You must have missed them.” Rupert: “I went through the drawings twice. I didn’t miss them.” Colin: “Then you lost them.” Rupert: “I lost the drawings you didn’t do because you’re a late enrollee?” Colin: “You’re just trying to confuse me!”

Dr. Jackie Doherty, a calculus instructor, entered a Zen Buddhist monastery after suffering a break down at the end of a semester. A male student had continually questioned her knowledge during class and challenged the grades given to him on exams. He cornered her in an empty classroom and demanded a passing grade after failing the final exam. Dr. Doherty refused, and the student leered at her and said, “You’re just doing this because you like this thing we have between us.” “Thing? What thing?” Doherty exclaimed. “You know,” said the student. “Don’t be such a tease.”

Professor Ralph Givens quit teaching and entered therapy for depression after an encounter with a student during a perspective drawing class. Ralph: “These parallel lines are moving away from your position. They appear to converge to a point on the horizon if extended into the distance.” Student: “I thought that they converge as they come toward me.” Ralph: “Then things would get smaller as they approach you and bigger as they recede?” Student: “Recede?” Ralph: “Move away from you.” Student: “Why didn’t you just say that?” Ralph: “I’m just trying to explain. There’s no need to get angry.” Student: “Don’t tell me not to get angry. I’ll get angry when I want to!” Ralph: “Draw those boxes any way you like then, but I own the grade book.” Student: “You’re going to force me to draw things I don’t see? You’re threatening to give me a bad grade if I draw what’s right for me?!” Ralph: “I’m just trying to warn you that I’m going to grade your drawings according to accepted rules of perspective.” Student: “You’re killing my creativity!”

Walk Through An Art Show

I saw my show, “Happy Paintings for Well-Adjusted People”, for the first time last Thursday.  My wife and daughter came to the opening that night, and I mostly interacted with faculty, a man named Tony, and two high school art teachers who happened to be on campus at the time.  I gave a lecture about my work to the folks listed above and a class forced to attend.  But the somewhat listless students listened and didn’t lapse into smart phone drifts of attention too often.  I got a few questions at the end that helped me to explain things a bit further.

Judy helped me to refine my speech, and we agreed that the underlying theme in a lot of my work is humor.  So I opened and closed my presentation with jokes.  One featured hump back whales, and the other told a story about swimming lessons involving trips to the middle of Lake Erie, a tough father, and being tied up in a bag.

My work was treated with respect, and the reception felt warm and friendly.  I recommend Daytona State College and the curator, Viktoryia McGrath, to any artist interested in exhibiting their work in a college setting.

 

My daughter, Annie, spent the weekend with us and brought along Shakespeare and Sedgewick, her two dogs. She left early Easter Sunday afternoon, and Judy and I both felt a bit sad now that the flurry of activity had ended and the house was a lot quieter. We decided that we will be moving next door to a child once they settle down in a permanent location.

Now I’m looking forward to making new paintings under less stressful conditions, finishing out my semester, and starting summer projects.

Foggy Mess of Happiness: Valentine’s Day

Valentine’s morning dawned foggy, and the day stayed gray at midmorning when I went on a mission to get a haircut and buy some plants for my wife.  I drove to Oviedo, but a barbershop near Home Depot had been replaced by a fitness center.  I headed back toward Winter Park, but stopped at Lukas Nursery on the way.  I found an odd looking plant with purple flowers in the shape of ragged trumpets.  The tag said they’d lure butterflies and hummingbirds.  Judy would love the color and the visitors they attracted.  As I walked off in search of an African violet, an older woman approached and said she had to take all the purple flowers, but added that I could keep the one in my hand.  Didn’t know what to say, so I went with a simple response:  “Thank you.”

After I purchased the plants, I took Red Bug Road home so that I could search for a new barbershop.  Ended up in Casselberry at a place that I’ve gone to off and on for a year.  A well dressed woman wearing make-up and carrying a shopping bag stopped me as I approached the door.  She said, “Mister, can you give me two dollars?”  I pulled out my wallet and she added, “I need to buy a bus pass.  That’s five dollars.”  I took two bills out, and she said, “Three dollars?”  I said, “Two,” handed her the cash and fled inside.  I’d never encountered a dickering beggar before.

I sat down to wait.  When I looked up, I was surprised to find an old acquaintance sitting in the barber chair in front of me.  I hadn’t seen him in six months.  Charlie said, “Dennis!”  We chatted for a few minutes and caught up on a bit of gossip.  “Strange coincidence,” I thought as he walked out the door.

Judy and I had a pleasant lunch, and the flowers and my haircut pleased her.  She teased and called me her silver fox. I didn’t mind.  We meditated, and I baked a peach upside down cake for a snack.  We watched a “Doc Martin” episode before I cooked supper and went to work.

Class went well for the most part, but I stepped in several times to correct some drawings.  Some of my students haven’t yet mastered (or committed to memory) some basic techniques in perspective and measuring proportions, and I grew impatient with the amateurish look of some of the work.  “We’re nearly at midterm!” I muttered under my breath.  I drilled a Drawing II student about some basic rules of line work, and as I walked away I realized I’d been too harsh.  I came back, apologized, and told her that we all have mental habits that need a bit of work.  I told Erin that I had to train myself as a boy to look back at my classroom desk each time I left to make sure that I hadn’t forgotten anything.  She relaxed, and I decided to ease up on the class and let them work in peace.

I cleaned up the room after the students left and found a smart phone on the tray of Erin’s easel.  “How odd,” I thought.  “Forgetfulness must be communicable.”  I decided to take it with me.  Leaving it there would ensure its theft, and the lost and found at the security office was closed.  I walked toward my car hoping to see Erin coming back from the parking lot, but instead ran into a slender young man sitting on a concrete ball.  He looked up from his phone and asked whether the Lynx bus would come near where he waited.  He added that he had to return to Disney World.  I said, “I haven’t seen buses pull in here for a couple years, but there’s a bus shelter two hundred feet south of the main entrance on Econlockhatchee.  He smiled, shook my hand, and said, “Thank you.  I am from Pakistan.”

As I drove out of the lot I saw him trudging south.  A Lynx bus appeared and turned onto campus.  “What the hell?” I said.  It didn’t seem to be heading to the shelter.  I took a right and drove north, but as I went on I felt a growing sense of dismay that I might have given the young man the wrong advice.  Would he be stranded there all night?  I also reasoned that I was dead tired, needed to go home and see my wife, and that my mission in life wasn’t to save the world.  Fog rolled in, and driving conditions got worse and worse.  Rationalizations failed me two or three miles up the road, and I turned around.

I had no idea what I would do if I found him sitting at the bus shelter.  I didn’t really want to drive for an hour down to Disney, and my gas gauge hovered below the half full mark.  Judy would worry…

I cruised around campus, pulled up to the shelter, but didn’t see the young man.  I assumed that the bus had swung around to where I had directed him to go, and that he was safely on his way.  A large man in a bulky coat did slump on one of the shelter seats, and I felt an odd obligation to give him a lift.  I resisted and drove home.

Judy waited up for me in her bedroom, and I explained why I’d been delayed.  She gave me a warm smile and told me that she loved me. I felt most of my tension and fatigue drain away.

Valentine’s Day had twisted and turned in unexpected ways, but none of that mattered.