I hab a rudny node. And me heed is swoled up with mucous. But you don't want to hear about all that. I used up all my sick leave a couple of weeks ago, so I'm forced to be sick at work, which is always weird. Cold meds will make you feel like you're on another planet. Somebody asked me where the photocopier was and I said "Okay." It's the kind of illness that isn't debilitating; just makes you tired and want to take a nippy nap. Especially when I know that my cat is at home laying in bed with his little fuzzy belly up and his paws making biscuits in his sleep while he emits loud rumbly purrs of comfort coupled with little trills of true bliss at being a cat taking a nap. Bastard. But, I did attend my last class of summer school this morning. Actually, it was just a meeting with my professor, so he could look over the body of my work from the course and tell me what he thought of my progress and what grade he thought I deserved. It was a good meeting and he seemed to think I did well for a beginner at screenprinting, but he had the obligatory art professor conversation with me that I've come to dread. Here it is: "You've obviously got skill, and the ability to execute the assignments. Now what you need to think about is what is in your
deepest soul that you want to bring forth and express through your work." OMG BARF. That crap kills me. Forgive me if I sound like I can't take instruction, because I can, and my prof even said he liked that he didn't have to push me to do things and take chances. The thing is, I have lived 33 years on this planet, and been all around this world, and I have literally worked hard to turn into a person that could be proud of theirself, and I resent it when someone suggests that I am not imbuing everything I do in LIFE with myself. My deepest self. It's like they want you to freak out and say that you were abused and start drawing crazy biz or espouse a weird ideology and channel ancient cultures or some off-the-wall crap and I am just being ME and I don't feel like I need to force some shit that is coming from my fabulously talented fingers naturally. So that's the rub of art school. Someone always has an opinion, and that's fine. But one must keep in mind that art is the most subjective of concepts and no one can know what you're thinking. It's like when someone writes a bio on a "real" artist, one that's dead, and tells you that they just know that that fish head is a metaphor for the economy, and probably the color used in the sky represen
ts the loss of innocence. Dude, case in point; Magritte was just trying to freak you out. If I had said to my professor this morning "I was just trying to freak you out" he would have scoffed and asked me what I was
really feeling in my
deepest soul. Poo, I say. I will do whatever shallow crap I want and it will be beautiful. And, maybe, it won't be shallow. And maybe, after I'm dead, some little girl will go to the National Gallery and look hard at my work and think "I will do that someday!", like I did, and she won't be trying to decide if the dog is supposed to mean my teacher used to hit me with a ruler.
I hab a rudny node. And me heed is swoled up with mucous. But you don't want to hear about all that. I used up all my sick leave a couple of weeks ago, so I'm forced to be sick at work, which is always weird. Cold meds will make you feel like you're on another planet. Somebody asked me where the photocopier was and I said "Okay." It's the kind of illness that isn't debilitating; just makes you tired and want to take a nippy nap. Especially when I know that my cat is at home laying in bed with his little fuzzy belly up and his paws making biscuits in his sleep while he emits loud rumbly purrs of comfort coupled with little trills of true bliss at being a cat taking a nap. Bastard. But, I did attend my last class of summer school this morning. Actually, it was just a meeting with my professor, so he could look over the body of my work from the course and tell me what he thought of my progress and what grade he thought I deserved. It was a good meeting and he seemed to think I did well for a beginner at screenprinting, but he had the obligatory art professor conversation with me that I've come to dread. Here it is: "You've obviously got skill, and the ability to execute the assignments. Now what you need to think about is what is in your deepest soul that you want to bring forth and express through your work." OMG BARF. That crap kills me. Forgive me if I sound like I can't take instruction, because I can, and my prof even said he liked that he didn't have to push me to do things and take chances. The thing is, I have lived 33 years on this planet, and been all around this world, and I have literally worked hard to turn into a person that could be proud of theirself, and I resent it when someone suggests that I am not imbuing everything I do in LIFE with myself. My deepest self. It's like they want you to freak out and say that you were abused and start drawing crazy biz or espouse a weird ideology and channel ancient cultures or some off-the-wall crap and I am just being ME and I don't feel like I need to force some shit that is coming from my fabulously talented fingers naturally. So that's the rub of art school. Someone always has an opinion, and that's fine. But one must keep in mind that art is the most subjective of concepts and no one can know what you're thinking. It's like when someone writes a bio on a "real" artist, one that's dead, and tells you that they just know that that fish head is a metaphor for the economy, and probably the color used in the sky represen
ts the loss of innocence. Dude, case in point; Magritte was just trying to freak you out. If I had said to my professor this morning "I was just trying to freak you out" he would have scoffed and asked me what I was really feeling in my deepest soul. Poo, I say. I will do whatever shallow crap I want and it will be beautiful. And, maybe, it won't be shallow. And maybe, after I'm dead, some little girl will go to the National Gallery and look hard at my work and think "I will do that someday!", like I did, and she won't be trying to decide if the dog is supposed to mean my teacher used to hit me with a ruler.
No comments:
Post a Comment