My Life as an Artist (Part 2)
Welcome to the second installment of the ongoing memoirs of my artistic life. Last time, you learned about my childhood and the very beginnings of my artist inclinations. This time, college (the early years).
When I began my studies at Brandeis University, I fully intended to pursue a career in medicine. Among my friends at Brandeis, you are likely to find two groups of people: those who remember how shocked they were to learn I had abandoned the pre-med track to become an art major, and those who remember how shocked they were to learn I had once been pre-med. It was not, as it may have appeared on the outside, an abrupt or hasty decision. I recall getting the typical General Chemistry introduction speech in Freshman year: "A lot of you are pre-med. About one third of you that are will not be when you graduate." What I don't recall is whether I "knew" I was one of the ones who would stick through to the end or whether even then I had my doubts. In the end, it was not the difficulty of the pre-med academic track that made me leave. Many students fear that the early gauntlet of science courses is meant to "weed out" less proficient students, and that may be true. But if I was weeded out, it was not because I failed the courses. On the contrary, I did just fine. If anything convinced me the pre-med track was wrong for me, it was sophomore year's biology lab. One day, we all had to come in and feed various chemicals to a microscopic animal called a Daphnia and monitor its heart rate. One of these chemicals was a depressant, possibly alcohol. The inevitable result of this portion of the experiment was that we had to sit and count heartbeats until they gradually slowed and then stopped altogether. That was the moment when I decided I could no longer pursue this course of study.
Of course, concurrent to this moral nausea was my first official dabbling in college art. I had known from the start that I intended to take at least an introductory drawing class at Brandeis, and that is just what I did in my first semester of Sophomore year. It was wonderful. My professor was Sean Downey, and although my relationship with him has since been complicated by the experience of having him as an art professor for four years, I still remember him as one of my favorite teachers ever. He was friendly and encouraging at all times and forceful and demanding when he needed to be. He encouraged me to express myself and made me feel as though I had talent, and confidence was definitely something I needed during that very uncertain time in my life.
To this day, drawing is something I always feel good at, and it's always something I can return to when I feel scared or lonely or sad. Of course, it's a blessing and a curse to be good at something, because there's always the temptation to just be content with my existing skill and talent and not to push myself out of my comfort zone, but at the very least it's always nice to have a comfort zone to fall back into on occasion. Drawing has become almost a physical need to me by now. I sometimes go for a while without drawing and wonder why I feel so tense. The simple act of putting pencil, pen, or marker to paper seems to release some sort of pleasant neurotransmitter... I think the vibrations caused by the friction of a fine tip on smooth paper resonate in me on some sort of mystical harmonious frequency. Through drawing, I've discovered how powerfully I connect with the world on a visual level. I know that whatever I do in life, it will be guided by the knowledge I gained when learning to draw. My visual and spatial organization of knowledge has made me better at everything - writing, teaching, acting, reading, etc. Above all, though, was a sort of philosophy of process that comes with drawing. Some call it "right-brained" thinking, but above all it's not about creativity or vision, but rather about holistic movement. Rather than pursuing goals in a linear direction from start to finish, good drawing can only be achieved by thinking about an entire problem at once. The beginning artist learns not to draw each line meticulously in hopes of describing an object successfully on the first try, but rather to quickly draw an entire shape and move back and forth through it in a series of refinements and adjustments.
Of course, I didn't realize during that first class how profoundly learning to draw would affect my life, because of course I wasn't really fully activating my "right brain" until much later. But the foundations were in place, and by the end of the semester I had officially decided to quit the pre-med track and pursue other options of study. I knew my primary major, psychology, would remain intact. I had so far enjoyed my psychology courses, and all of the science I had taken would still count toward that major. I also knew that I wouldn't be content with only one major, so I set about choosing my second one via trial and error. Since I didn't have long to decide, I narrowed it down to English and studio art, and decided on four courses for the Spring: Two in psychology (neuroscience and abnormal psychology), one in art (printmaking), and one in English (Japanese literature + film). By the end of the term, I decided that while I loved reading, I wasn't too keen on analyzing literature or writing about it (feel free to laugh at me... I'm in the future now too). Furthermore, Alfredo Gisholt, my printmaking instructor, was pushing me to sign up for a review with the Fine Art faculty to decide on a course of study. He said it was required for all majors or potential majors (since I had declared psychology, I didn't need to declare anything else and thus hadn't yet), and so if there was any possibility I might want to be a studio major, I should sign up. Well, seeing as art was the current front-runner for major number two (and a studio minor wasn't offered), I decided to go for it.
In the end, I had an official plan for the summer and the next two years, but I had been a bit troubled by the first question they asked me: Would I be a painter or a sculptor? It bothered me on two levels. The first: can't I just draw? The second (although I don't think I realized it bothered me at the time): why do I have to choose now? Of course, my choice would shape the rest of my study at Brandeis, and of course I chose painting. As time would tell, I simply wasn't content to stay limited to one medium, but for the time being I was officially a painter.
Thank you for reading, and please stay tuned for part three in the next few days!
(PS, more on drawing, since I can never say enough: I want to stress that I learned how to draw at Brandeis. I was not born with natural talent, and I have not always been as good as I am now. Art takes practice and determination, and it is an insult to any artist to imply that they are simply "gifted!" So when you see an artist practicing their work, don't say that you wish you had talent like that, and especially don't imply that it's "natural." We work our asses off to be this good, so recognize us for that. On the flip side of that coin, this also means that yes, you too can learn to draw. Some people are more observant than others, and some people are more inclined to think visually (I am lucky to be both of those things), but anyone can learn to think like an artist and anyone can improve their drawing abilities through practice! I would be happy to teach anyone who asks more about drawing, because I think it's an skill that should be universal and is sadly neglected. Some people may be more naturally inclined to draw well, but the same can be said of writing or math, and I don't think anyone should let themselves be content with "just being a bad writer" or "not knowing math" either. You can always learn to be better at something.)
When I began my studies at Brandeis University, I fully intended to pursue a career in medicine. Among my friends at Brandeis, you are likely to find two groups of people: those who remember how shocked they were to learn I had abandoned the pre-med track to become an art major, and those who remember how shocked they were to learn I had once been pre-med. It was not, as it may have appeared on the outside, an abrupt or hasty decision. I recall getting the typical General Chemistry introduction speech in Freshman year: "A lot of you are pre-med. About one third of you that are will not be when you graduate." What I don't recall is whether I "knew" I was one of the ones who would stick through to the end or whether even then I had my doubts. In the end, it was not the difficulty of the pre-med academic track that made me leave. Many students fear that the early gauntlet of science courses is meant to "weed out" less proficient students, and that may be true. But if I was weeded out, it was not because I failed the courses. On the contrary, I did just fine. If anything convinced me the pre-med track was wrong for me, it was sophomore year's biology lab. One day, we all had to come in and feed various chemicals to a microscopic animal called a Daphnia and monitor its heart rate. One of these chemicals was a depressant, possibly alcohol. The inevitable result of this portion of the experiment was that we had to sit and count heartbeats until they gradually slowed and then stopped altogether. That was the moment when I decided I could no longer pursue this course of study.
Of course, concurrent to this moral nausea was my first official dabbling in college art. I had known from the start that I intended to take at least an introductory drawing class at Brandeis, and that is just what I did in my first semester of Sophomore year. It was wonderful. My professor was Sean Downey, and although my relationship with him has since been complicated by the experience of having him as an art professor for four years, I still remember him as one of my favorite teachers ever. He was friendly and encouraging at all times and forceful and demanding when he needed to be. He encouraged me to express myself and made me feel as though I had talent, and confidence was definitely something I needed during that very uncertain time in my life.
To this day, drawing is something I always feel good at, and it's always something I can return to when I feel scared or lonely or sad. Of course, it's a blessing and a curse to be good at something, because there's always the temptation to just be content with my existing skill and talent and not to push myself out of my comfort zone, but at the very least it's always nice to have a comfort zone to fall back into on occasion. Drawing has become almost a physical need to me by now. I sometimes go for a while without drawing and wonder why I feel so tense. The simple act of putting pencil, pen, or marker to paper seems to release some sort of pleasant neurotransmitter... I think the vibrations caused by the friction of a fine tip on smooth paper resonate in me on some sort of mystical harmonious frequency. Through drawing, I've discovered how powerfully I connect with the world on a visual level. I know that whatever I do in life, it will be guided by the knowledge I gained when learning to draw. My visual and spatial organization of knowledge has made me better at everything - writing, teaching, acting, reading, etc. Above all, though, was a sort of philosophy of process that comes with drawing. Some call it "right-brained" thinking, but above all it's not about creativity or vision, but rather about holistic movement. Rather than pursuing goals in a linear direction from start to finish, good drawing can only be achieved by thinking about an entire problem at once. The beginning artist learns not to draw each line meticulously in hopes of describing an object successfully on the first try, but rather to quickly draw an entire shape and move back and forth through it in a series of refinements and adjustments.
Of course, I didn't realize during that first class how profoundly learning to draw would affect my life, because of course I wasn't really fully activating my "right brain" until much later. But the foundations were in place, and by the end of the semester I had officially decided to quit the pre-med track and pursue other options of study. I knew my primary major, psychology, would remain intact. I had so far enjoyed my psychology courses, and all of the science I had taken would still count toward that major. I also knew that I wouldn't be content with only one major, so I set about choosing my second one via trial and error. Since I didn't have long to decide, I narrowed it down to English and studio art, and decided on four courses for the Spring: Two in psychology (neuroscience and abnormal psychology), one in art (printmaking), and one in English (Japanese literature + film). By the end of the term, I decided that while I loved reading, I wasn't too keen on analyzing literature or writing about it (feel free to laugh at me... I'm in the future now too). Furthermore, Alfredo Gisholt, my printmaking instructor, was pushing me to sign up for a review with the Fine Art faculty to decide on a course of study. He said it was required for all majors or potential majors (since I had declared psychology, I didn't need to declare anything else and thus hadn't yet), and so if there was any possibility I might want to be a studio major, I should sign up. Well, seeing as art was the current front-runner for major number two (and a studio minor wasn't offered), I decided to go for it.
In the end, I had an official plan for the summer and the next two years, but I had been a bit troubled by the first question they asked me: Would I be a painter or a sculptor? It bothered me on two levels. The first: can't I just draw? The second (although I don't think I realized it bothered me at the time): why do I have to choose now? Of course, my choice would shape the rest of my study at Brandeis, and of course I chose painting. As time would tell, I simply wasn't content to stay limited to one medium, but for the time being I was officially a painter.
Thank you for reading, and please stay tuned for part three in the next few days!
(PS, more on drawing, since I can never say enough: I want to stress that I learned how to draw at Brandeis. I was not born with natural talent, and I have not always been as good as I am now. Art takes practice and determination, and it is an insult to any artist to imply that they are simply "gifted!" So when you see an artist practicing their work, don't say that you wish you had talent like that, and especially don't imply that it's "natural." We work our asses off to be this good, so recognize us for that. On the flip side of that coin, this also means that yes, you too can learn to draw. Some people are more observant than others, and some people are more inclined to think visually (I am lucky to be both of those things), but anyone can learn to think like an artist and anyone can improve their drawing abilities through practice! I would be happy to teach anyone who asks more about drawing, because I think it's an skill that should be universal and is sadly neglected. Some people may be more naturally inclined to draw well, but the same can be said of writing or math, and I don't think anyone should let themselves be content with "just being a bad writer" or "not knowing math" either. You can always learn to be better at something.)