There’s a story in my family about how my dad “failed” his senior art show in college because he went completely post-modern, calling the art industry to task for pricing art and—on the whole—he was disrespectful and stubborn and ornery.
It’s a true story. I know it because when I was a student at the same college I went through the school newspaper archives and found the snobby article someone wrote about my dad.
I’ve never been so proud to be his daughter.
I trained as a mixed media artist in high school. I took one art class in college and dropped the class part way through because it was Painting 101 and I was tired of still life.
I’m also just as stubborn and ornery as my dad can be, so when I got a B+ on one of my paintings, I was angry.
And I gave up making art for the rest of my college career. It wasn’t until seminary that I started painting again, and my collection of garbage-for-art-projects grew. Stubborn.
When I was in high school, I worked on a room-sized mural at the school. One semester I took art twice a day so I had more time. I could do that because I’d been nicely asked to drop my calculus class midyear because I was disrespectful, stubborn, and ornery. (On the one hand, I kept saying that my taking calculus in high school was dumb because I was going to seminary and I would *never* need calculus in life. Which has been true. On the other hand, my saying those things in class was disruptive.)
Sometimes I left my US Government class (again, nicely asked to leave in the middle of class because I was reminding our teacher that he was wrong every time he said no one goes hungry in the United States. Ornery?)—sometimes I left and ended up in my art teacher’s classroom.
Her classroom is where I ended up when I needed a pass to go to the nurse’s office when I almost broke my food at lunch. Her classroom is where I ended up when I needed a place to hang out and wait for my sisters after school. Her classroom is where I first learned about gang fights and racism and perspective (on so many levels). I also learned to apologize and to accept responsibility when I cause hurt. (I will never forget how my teacher looked at me when I told her it was me who had painted over one of the people she’d added to the mural because I thought it was ugly. Disrespectful. And mean.) And I learned to believe in the dreams that I had, and to hold them close and with great love.
It was my dad who showed up again and again at school—when my calculus teacher finally asked me not to come back the next semester, when my US History teacher told me that I couldn’t speak anymore in class (and then one day he talked about how trees aren’t necessary and I went on an illustrated rant at the white board, saying not. one. word.) and for all the other times I got into random acts of trouble and ended up in the nurse’s office or vice principal’s office. It was my mom who came the day I almost broke my foot, but it was my dad every other time.
My mom reminded me recently that all of her children (who she loves very much) are stubborn. It’s true, we are. But we learned from my dad to be stubborn and to point out the places in the world that are unfair (why is that some artists’ work is worth millions of dollars and other artists are going hungry?) We learned from my mom to be kind with are assessments and to offer love with our criticism.
Making art has instilled in me that competition is a funny thing, and that art is never a competition. Now I get to work with two other artists and each of our styles are different. This summer, a couple of youth came back to my office area while I was working on a chalk drawing for our farmers market. They started in, saying, “Jovany says he’s a better artist than you!” I didn’t look up as I said, “whoa. Have you seen Jovany’s work? He’s so good!” “yeah, he said he’s way better than you!” I paused and said, “well, he’s right. He’s a way better painter than me.” The youth poked and poked, trying to get me to push back and say that I was better. I didn’t push back, not out of a lack of confidence but because I wanted the youth to understand that comparing mixed media to painting is like comparing the ocean to the redwoods. Later, I told the story to Jovany, and he said, “Art isn’t a competition.” My heart brimmed. Art isn’t a competition.
Art can be a tremendous opportunity to see ourselves and to grow into who we are meant to be. Art is a medium for holding the world accountable, a way to show the world how silly and broken it can be, even when the world doesn’t want to hear it.
Art (and the artists around me) held my stubborn, disrespectful, ornery self—and holds me still.
It’s a true story. I know it because when I was a student at the same college I went through the school newspaper archives and found the snobby article someone wrote about my dad.
I’ve never been so proud to be his daughter.
I trained as a mixed media artist in high school. I took one art class in college and dropped the class part way through because it was Painting 101 and I was tired of still life.
I’m also just as stubborn and ornery as my dad can be, so when I got a B+ on one of my paintings, I was angry.
And I gave up making art for the rest of my college career. It wasn’t until seminary that I started painting again, and my collection of garbage-for-art-projects grew. Stubborn.
When I was in high school, I worked on a room-sized mural at the school. One semester I took art twice a day so I had more time. I could do that because I’d been nicely asked to drop my calculus class midyear because I was disrespectful, stubborn, and ornery. (On the one hand, I kept saying that my taking calculus in high school was dumb because I was going to seminary and I would *never* need calculus in life. Which has been true. On the other hand, my saying those things in class was disruptive.)
Sometimes I left my US Government class (again, nicely asked to leave in the middle of class because I was reminding our teacher that he was wrong every time he said no one goes hungry in the United States. Ornery?)—sometimes I left and ended up in my art teacher’s classroom.
Her classroom is where I ended up when I needed a pass to go to the nurse’s office when I almost broke my food at lunch. Her classroom is where I ended up when I needed a place to hang out and wait for my sisters after school. Her classroom is where I first learned about gang fights and racism and perspective (on so many levels). I also learned to apologize and to accept responsibility when I cause hurt. (I will never forget how my teacher looked at me when I told her it was me who had painted over one of the people she’d added to the mural because I thought it was ugly. Disrespectful. And mean.) And I learned to believe in the dreams that I had, and to hold them close and with great love.
It was my dad who showed up again and again at school—when my calculus teacher finally asked me not to come back the next semester, when my US History teacher told me that I couldn’t speak anymore in class (and then one day he talked about how trees aren’t necessary and I went on an illustrated rant at the white board, saying not. one. word.) and for all the other times I got into random acts of trouble and ended up in the nurse’s office or vice principal’s office. It was my mom who came the day I almost broke my foot, but it was my dad every other time.
My mom reminded me recently that all of her children (who she loves very much) are stubborn. It’s true, we are. But we learned from my dad to be stubborn and to point out the places in the world that are unfair (why is that some artists’ work is worth millions of dollars and other artists are going hungry?) We learned from my mom to be kind with are assessments and to offer love with our criticism.
Making art has instilled in me that competition is a funny thing, and that art is never a competition. Now I get to work with two other artists and each of our styles are different. This summer, a couple of youth came back to my office area while I was working on a chalk drawing for our farmers market. They started in, saying, “Jovany says he’s a better artist than you!” I didn’t look up as I said, “whoa. Have you seen Jovany’s work? He’s so good!” “yeah, he said he’s way better than you!” I paused and said, “well, he’s right. He’s a way better painter than me.” The youth poked and poked, trying to get me to push back and say that I was better. I didn’t push back, not out of a lack of confidence but because I wanted the youth to understand that comparing mixed media to painting is like comparing the ocean to the redwoods. Later, I told the story to Jovany, and he said, “Art isn’t a competition.” My heart brimmed. Art isn’t a competition.
Art can be a tremendous opportunity to see ourselves and to grow into who we are meant to be. Art is a medium for holding the world accountable, a way to show the world how silly and broken it can be, even when the world doesn’t want to hear it.
Art (and the artists around me) held my stubborn, disrespectful, ornery self—and holds me still.
