I've decided to divide this into three separate entries because it'd be a bit much to go through in one sitting (both for me in writing it and for those that might be reading--hello). I'll link the other parts when completed.
part 1: (you are here) // part 2: click me! // part 3: (to-be-written)
note: I fucked up and accidently deleted part 1 in its entirety, so if things read a little bit differently to anyone revisiting, I had to rewrite it. It is difficult to write about a second time, as the first time I got it out of my system and now am far more reserved (even sort of calm, actually) about the entire ordeal. So I'll be a lot less livid about it in this unexpected "revised" edition. And maybe that is for the better: I can re-approach it with a more level perspective.
It's still a bit funny to me why my parents let me major in art. I majored in English too, of course (with writing being my other passion); I doubt they'd have let me go into art exclusively. I think that's why they were cool with it. My mom majored in British History, so she didn't mind my interest in the humanities. My dad is far more practical, but he never discouraged me. In fact, no one in my family discouraged or insulted my art, and no one in my high school did either. Even my best friend at the time, who had gone to an art magnet school and was far better than me in the fundamentals, never made fun of me. She even helped me improve, offering advice when I asked (when she totally could have decked me artistically).
I consider myself very fortunate for that. I was very loved.
That said, I wasn't ignorant to the general outside dissent and the starving artist stigma that comes with these sort of interests. I remember distinctly one of my neighbors that, after I'd told her I wanted to be a writer, asked me how I was going to feed myself. I was about 12 at the time, but I still remember the sardonic tone she used and the look in her eyes. She was making fun of me, for sure (though it's embarassing for her, looking back, because she was in her 60s and should know better than that). But, I had so much support in my immediate family and friend group that such things (when/if they came up) didn't put me off. If anything they made me a very spiteful and ambitious creature.
In the thick of college application season, some of my peers struggled to declare a major while I'd known what I wanted to major in since middle school (perhaps my decision was helped early-on by those few unimportant people telling me not to do it--spite and all that). I'd applied to several schools, including a formidable art school (which I was accepted into but didn't end up committing to). I ended up attending a small liberal arts college with intent to double-up in Art and English. The smaller classes and familiarity with professors made it an attractive choice.
But at the time of applying for colleges, I loved art and I loved the idea of studying it further and further improving my ability with the guidance of professors I thought would have my best interests in mind. That's not what this particular art program proved to be. And considering the highly disappointing and difficult experience I had with my art major as-is, it is a very good thing I didn't go "all in" with a big, fancy art school and deferred to a college that didn't revolve exclusively around art programs. This decision may well have saved me from ending my art completely.
By the time I entered senior year of college, I was ready to drop my art major. I hated my art; or, more accurately, I was made to hate my art as my professors (far more concerned with conceptualism than I ever was) were continually disappointed in the lack of complex ideas/meaning behind my art. In this particular art program (and in many art programs at a university level) a huge emphasis was/is (assuming the program philosophy hasn't changed) placed on the process behind a work rather than the final piece. Throughout my formative art years, pre-college, I'd never concerned myself much with the specifics of my process. I still don't. My "process" in high school (and what I'm re-learning) was one of casual curiosity: generally filled with thoughts that started with a variation on "what if.." (ex. "wouldn't it be cool/funny/interesting/sad/horrifying if.." ) and not much else. Sometimes it was even something as simple as "I like this and want to draw it" or "I care about this and want to let other people know I care by drawing this." I thought of things and then I drew those things. And it was casual and fun.
That didn't cut it in this art program. What I didn't know (and what I took far too long to figure out) is that this program concerned itself with conceptualism so much because it was geared largely towards the making of "fine art" (otherwise known as art made for and meant to be featured in museums, galleries, or any other sort of art institution). And so it was the process behind the art rather than the art itself that was the most important. And so I was made to hyperfocus on the intentionality of every step of art-making. All things must be calculated, each line mapped, and everything given a reason or meaning as to its appearance in my art.
I tried to be more intentional, but it didn't work for me like it seemed to work for most of my peers. It is hard to document a process that was never much of anything. It got to the point where, when professors tried to assign to a given piece of mine whatever meaning they were looking for, I let them have at it. Sometimes I even made things up to get them off my case about it.
One thing I thankfully never did was put more of my personhood into my art. I felt internalized pressure, on occassion, to make my art more personal in nature, as a lot of the work my peers made had to do with addressing specific traumas or self-percieved flaws (for example, a nude self portrait or else a plaster cast of the artist's body as commentary on or confrontation of their bodily insecurity). To make myself the subject of my art would, theoretically, make finding or pushing the meaning of things far easier. Such work was often praised (deservedly so, as that sort of vulnerability takes a lot of guts). But I knew I'd be betraying myself if I were to approach a piece like that: I've never wanted to be personal or vulnerable with my art on even a symbolic or representative level, especially in a school setting where the people I see in person become familiar with me.
While I can thank my major for vastly improving my grasp on the fundamentals (anatomy, perspective, line quality, color theory, etc.) it almost destroyed my motivation to make art. I wasn't having fun anymore. I was a non-conceptual, non-gallery-type artist simply existing in a program that wasn't interested in me. I had nothing to offer to the world of institutional art.
Since I wasn't interested in pursuing gallery work or exhibition, I don't think my professors knew what to do with me. What made things worse is I was employed at my college (through a work-study program) as both a Gallery Assistant and a Studio Assistant. I also worked as a student aid to one of my art professors, which made things especially painful as I regularly saw the enthusiasm he expressed towards my peers' work in one-on-one consultations. He seemed so interested and supportive in comparison to our own one-on-ones. And after listening in on many of these consultations while I worked, I realized that my own work was likely being dismissed on the basis of being (in his eyes) ill-concieved or not at all thought out. And at this point in time I was so confused and had no idea what they wanted from my art. I didn't really know what I wanted from it either (if anything).
Part of the problem is I never wanted anything from my art before. It never had to be something or have a purpose or a function or an end. In high school, it's function was to either make me happy or make others happy (or both), and that was all. Suddenly in college, art has to do something. It has to be so much more than what it appears (so I was conditioned to believe).
I remember when I called my parents and told them I was thinking of dropping my art major. I remember I was sobbing; I felt like vomiting from the stress of admiting that something I'd worked nearly 3 and 1/2 years for hadn't been worth it. I'd improved in terms of technical ability, but to me it hadn't been worth the mental anguish.
My parents were fine with the idea. After all, I'd still be an English major and at least have made it out with an Art minor. But ultimately I decided to stick it out. I had one more semester, and then it'd all be over with.
There were certain prejudices professors held towards students whose interests were "divided" between studies; those who double-majored or otherwise minored in art were thought to be "betraying" their artistic integrity by not going all-in (which I think is the stupidest thing to get all uppity and exclusionary over, but whatever). I remember multiple instances that my professors openly praised students who'd dropped a "practical" major like Biology to pursue their interest in art; such students were held in the highest regard because of how delightfully unconventional and unexpected it was or something to that effect (to paraphrase one of my professors). Whereas the rest of us who wanted to pursue multiple interests and career paths weren't taken as "serious" artists (whatever that even means). But I feel like I was taken doubly unseriously due to both 1. double majoring and 2. not being interested in making work for gallery spaces.
I came to realize the full extent of this prejudice during senior year; I had 2 huge project-finals (one per each major). As a courtesy, my college administraton allowed double-majors the option to combine these finals into one cohesive project that appeased the respective department heads. Closing in on my senior semester, I remember my art professors approached me as a unit to ask if I'd be combining my finals. I had already decided (previously and without their influence) that I'd be doing them separately, and expressed as much. They praised me for the decision; it was the best praise I ever recieved from them, which sucks. Their unabashed delight even made me want to change my mind just to spite them. Because God forbid they be forced to interact with other departments. And God forbid I try to relieve some senior year stress by combining my finals.
I didn't combine my finals because I didn't want to. But what if I had wanted to? They definitely would have tried to pressure me into doing two separate finals. I had a friend who also doubled in Art and English and did combine his finals. They tried to dissuade him, too. But he was always the unbothered type, so he went on ahead with his intention. I was not so unbothered; they would've been able to walk all over me (and they did).
I am also retroactively mad that students like me who doubled-up on majors were not respected by these professors for our ambition. Instead, we were dismissed; anything other than art was a distraction. I was made to feel noncommital about my work and had my other pursuits ignored.
In 2019 I'd won a college-wide short fiction competition against 14 other students. Despite the small competitor pool, the win was a big deal as it was that competition's inaugural run. I had professors both within and outside the English department offering polite congratulations. Some of them even read it. But I heard next to nothing from my art professors, and I know none of them read it. If the professor for my World History core class that had nothing to do with either of my majors can read my work and seem invested in my general educational trajectory, why can't the professors actively involved in my art major do the same?
Such an experience only adds to the idea that they value only fine art. Anything else is distraction; not worth the time.
It was painful and perhaps not entirely worth the pain. My art final was something so far removed from what I normally do (a video installation on a CRT tv; it was generally about how much I like film and how much art is lost on vhs). It isn't a complicated idea, but I tried to make it more complicated to appease my professors. I had to pull an entire research paper out of my ass and found that I was properly floundering on the write-up. It was, to me, a convuluted mess of meaningless symbols and academic jargon (i.e. word soup) to try to put more teeth to something that was actually very simple in meaning. My family and peers liked the work, at least. I did not, and it is hard for me to look back on it with any sort of admiration. I don't hate the art itself, but I do hate what it now stands for in my mind: 4 years of frustration with my art (not to mention I had to have an at-home installation and exhibition because I graduated in 2020 and we were all home during what would have been the spring semester show).
I had a phone conversation with my mom recently (within the past month or so) and she mentioned my art final. And I realized that I'd blocked it out entirely, because it took me a while to remember what she was talking about: that's how bad it got in the thick of my art education. I hate to refer to it all as trauma, but I think that's what it translates to. Because I felt disproportionately bad and even hateful about my art for the better part of eight years and struggled to continue even making it.
I think it's important to note that I am doing better now in terms of how I feel about my art. I am taking intentional steps to return to how I felt about my art before I ever started my major while still holding on to what was helpful from it in terms of building my artistic ability. To say that I feel "better" does not mean I'm entirely okay, but I'm working towards feeling at least 80-90% okay about my art (with that small 10-20% allowing only for a natural amount of self-criticism that all artists/writers have).
But writing all this out (twice now since I accidentaly deleted the first one) is not only helping me process what happened, but will also hopefully get it out of my system and help me to move on from all this. Sometimes I think I should reach back out to some of my art professors about my feelings. I'd tried to express my frustrations directly during my time there, but I couldn't find the right words at the time (I am far better with written communication, where I have time to think about what I want to say and how I want to say it). But I also don't think I want to hear what they have to say--I'm not trying to be nasty; I only mean that, at this point, it might be better to keep myself to myself.
I am more comfortable with the idea of reaching out to some of my peers to ask about their experiences. I got along with all of them just fine. But I guess that professors can totally make or break a major, because I loved the professors in the English department, probably because they didn't actively insult my other pursuits.
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