When I first entered the space, I was alone. I quickly picked up on the sonic element of the piece, and started to quietly sing while I looked at the perfect sky above. I took one photograph, to both remember the moment by and share with my husband who was in Brazil at the time. After a few minutes, a couple entered. The woman immediately sat down at my right and started taking photographs with a very serious camera she was carrying. Her partner sat across from me and smiled quietly to himself. He started to sing, obviously curious about the sound, as I was. His voice was so lovely and soothing, and while I couldn't quite place the song he was singing, it sounded familiar and perfect at the time. We all smiled at each other, and they got up and moved on. Moments later, a mother and son entered. The boy was about seven years old, and filled with youth and electricity. He immediately crouched down in the center of the space, which is filled with black sand, I'm guessing to absorb any rain that falls through the hole at the top. He kept grabbing handfuls of the stuff and watching it run through his fingers, over and over. His mother, on the other hand, paced all around the outer edges of the space, looking up at the opening from every possible angle, like she wanted to get every perspective she could before it was too late. This time I was the one to leave first, but not before I closed my eyes ans said a quiet "thank you" for the experience I'd just been given.
It really connected to something I've been thinking about lately, which is the subject of how we all learn. In that five minutes I spent in a piece of someone's art, I observed my process, and the processes of four other people. It was very telling. I first read the names of the piece and the artist, then sat still, looked and listened, and then I tried what seemed like the best move at the time. Pleased with the results, I documented the moment and sat still for a spell longer. The woman who took pictures entered and immediately acted on her urges from a stationary point, and then left when satisfied. The man who sang had almost the exact same process as me, which was crazy to witness, like a mirror. The boy was thoughtful yet active in a repetitive manner, while his mother acted non-stop and was constantly moving. All of those decisions were valid, and all of them were probably indicative of who we are in other areas of our lives. That's what makes us such a fascinating species. We learn. Or, at least some of us do.
Education is an interesting thing. There are so many ways to learn, and consequently, so many ways to teach. There are the researchers who then share their findings through lectures, classes and writing of their own. There are the this-is-what-I-was-told-and-so-this-is-what-I'm-telling-you people. (They comprise too high a percentage of our public school teachers in this country, if you ask me... But, who asked me?) There are the physical instructors who have mastered whatever it is they do or make, who can share a step-by-step process with their students. And then there are the do-ers, the people who lead by example and educate those who can keep up with them along the way. Those are my favorites. Everyone I admire in this life is one of those.
I spent the summer after my graduation from art school trying to "teach". The director of a summer arts program for kids contacted me, having heard that I could both sew and play music. I didn't have any reason to believe I couldn't do the job that was being asked of me, so I accepted. The good news was that I made two dear friends that summer, and they are among my closest to this day. The interesting news was that I couldn't stand teaching. I felt pulled at, tired, annoyed and generally like a fraud. Who was I to be telling these children when and how to create? Just because it's class time doesn't mean you should suddenly become inspired and jump into the business of making. I simply disagree with the whole underlying premise there. The best I could do was offer the techniques I knew, and give them high-fives. They were either going to create or not, but it sure as hell wasn't going to come down to me. Plus, the thing I noticed (and resented) most was that I stopped creating as much while I was teaching. That was the real deal-breaker.
I went to art school because I was interested in some methods and mediums that I knew fragments about. I specifically did not go to music school for fear that it would ruin music for me. It was the right move. Art school was a great experience in that it taught me how to think about my work, how to present my work, and how to defend my work. I use these tools every day of my life. The special added bonus was that my department head was a terrible teacher. She was a woman who had at one time been a practicing artist, but had long since abandoned that life for one of raising a family and "teaching". She had the curriculum down to a science and spent her days rattling of dye formulas and weaving patterns. She was my worst nightmare, and I was hers. I couldn't have cared less about how to weave this or that Apache shawl. I wanted to talk about the anti-feminist issues that surrounded Barbie. I wanted to put on a rock opera. I wanted to play in a rock band wearing nothing but my underpants and war paint. It was a long three years in that department, but it was a defining time for me. For every project of mine that she blocked, two more sprung up their place. I did twice as much work: the work needed to fulfill my scholastic requirements and the work needed to fulfill my own artistic vision. She was a pain in my ass, but her presence made me the artist I am today. In that setting, I discovered that I learn the hard way. And I'm alright with that.
I taught myself to sew and I taught myself to play guitar. For that reason, I do them both incorrectly by technical standards. Also for that reason, my stuff is weird and individual. I've been asked by people here and there to teach them how to do one or the other thing, and I always politely decline. It's not because I don't want them to know how to do those things, but it's because I wouldn't know where to start. When you're self-taught, there's no A-B-C to your process, you just "do". I always tell these people that the best way to learn how to do something is to learn how not to do it. The mistakes are the truths. You only sew an armhole shut once before understanding why that part stays open. I've enjoyed this journey of mine, even though it's sometimes painful and confusing. I don't want to be told "how", I want to know "why", and if tripping and falling is my way, then so be it. At least I'll get a good a look at the uneven ground that brought me to my knees, right? The other reason I don't teach is because I believe in everyone. If I can figure it out, so can you.
Thanks for listening,
buick audra
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