Advice For The Ages

When I was in art school many years ago, I had a certain instructor, Mr. S, for two seperate classes. One class, anatomy and structure, was a difficult passage, but one I credited with refining my ability to draw the human form into something recognizable.

Sternocleidomastoidious, or something like that. I still remember that muscle. If you don't, Google it. Then draw it. Then we can talk.

Mr S also taught my class in three- dimensial design, another rough one, not for pretenders or poseurs. But first, I need to tell you about Mr. S.

Only a certain age group will recall Snidely Whiplash. If you are too young, you know the drill. Mr S was a tall, thin man with flat brown hair and a handle bar mustache. He wore tight jeans and boots. Walked with a slouch. The man yearened for the Wild West but here he was, stuck in Columbus,Ohio, teaching idiots like me. Poor fellow. I wonder where he is now.

I will start with my three-dimensial class for a proper introduction. I had been up, for more than one all-night session, refining my 3-D achievement homework assignment, showing movent in form, using the basic geometric forms of a cube, line and sphere. Think of it as a juggling act caught in a freeze frame. It would then be spray painted white (no drips, not even a hint of drips) ( no globs of glue either) to retain emphasis on form and movement. Mr S required the Super-Human.

So for better or worse, I carted my static/moving creation before the jury of Mr. S's eyes. I packed it carefully in a shoe box, not just any shoe box, a box for Frye Boots.

Mr S had an embolisum when he saw the box. He did not like Frye Boots. He let me know it.

He gave me a long, searing gaze and announced that Frye Boots were the worst creations on Earth. Overpriced heaps of cow waste. He went on for a bit, I listened, so did the terrified class who was checking to make sure that they had no connection to Frye Boots on their persons.

I nodded and listened, waiting for him to finish. When he was done I simply said I found the box behind a store in the Lane Avenue Mall.

This made him pause. "Have you ever seen me wear boots to your class?" I stuck my feet out, showing ratty tennis shoes. "No way am I a boot person," which probably offended him as he was probably wearing his signature western get-up that day. I didn't really care, I was tired and I was paying him for art instruction, not boot advice. The good thing is, this probably took the steam out of his critique. I probably had drips. I don't even remember. The sculpture ended up on my mantel forever until it fell off and a dog chewed it up, I don't remember which one. And with that destruction went a little piece of Mr S. Dust to dust, artists.

Henry Moore never wore Frye Boots.

Next up; Anatomy and Structure. For this class, we had individual critiques at the end of each semester outside in the hall. Some were known to tear off down the hall, crying and yelling. I thought to myself, it's only art people. The class was nervous, some pretended not to be nervous which only made them seem more nervous. We waited our turn. Sometimes we heard words exchanged. After the critique, you were free to go.

So one by one, the class shrank. Until at last my name was called. I carted my portfolio of the semester's drawings out for him to chew on.

He looked at them, talked about my line quality, movement of figures, all the things that makes anyone like a work of art, which in my case were few.

Then came for me the advice that was worth the price of admission.

Mr S looked at me at said he was giving me a B-. "Not because your drawings are anywhere close to being B-quality but because, because you are here everyday, early, with pencils sharpened and ready to go."

This was mainly because I took the bus to class and always arrived early. But thank God for that. In all honesty, I did like to be on time and have my material ready.

However.

I have turned this critique over in my mind throughout the years wondering, what does it mean? What is the value of showing up early and doing less than a B- job? Is it the value in trying, giving it the All-American heave-ho? What if you show up to your job early at the nuclear power plant and accidently let the isotopes melt down, or whatever happens, and you render the countryside inhabitable for the next 500,000 years?

Just between you and me, I'd give that guy an F.

I'm old now, I still try. My pencils are not as sharp. But if you see another old guy who looks like an old Mr Whiplash, tell him I'm still here, up early, and doing B quality work. What else can we do?