There are a lot of classes I regret not taking in college. Something sciencey might have been useful, for example, and maybe something more about costume design instead of that second class on James Joyce. Right now, I’ve been thinking a lot about why I never took an art course.
Unlike the whole lack-of-science thing, which really only was justified by my distaste for remarkably boring and expensive textbooks, there were legitimate reasons against taking anything on creating art. First of all, there was the fact that you had to take a whole year of drawing before you were allowed to do any other art course. In a school where you can only feasibly take four, maybe five, courses a semester, throwing in this extra bit when you’re trying to gain a double major would be self-sabotage. There was also the uncomfortable feeling of Judgement--of whether whatever one creates is good enough. Most importantly, there’s the fact that while I create beautiful things, most people don’t call it Art. My school wouldn’t even teach pottery--it was much too philistine of an activity.
Some part of me has to admire the double standard of making art history students study ancient pottery as Art while simultaneously denying art students the opportunity to create it, but mostly this brings me back to an internal debate: art vs. Art.
Here’s the actual reason I never took that basic drawing course: I was chicken. I’ve never been naturally good at drawing--knitting, sure; sewing, yes; color theory explored in post-modern collage of empty tea wrappers and magazine ads, certainly--but my drawings tend to look like fun house mirrors done by a hesitant grade-schooler.
Here’s something else: I love to write and I’ve only ever taken one fiction writing class. It was made clear to me, in that course, that the writing I liked to do--fantasy, mostly--was not worthy of my talent or my skill, that I needed to bare my soul and write Literature, that, in short, I was wasting my time. I learned that beginning short stories with either an alarm clock or a commute was completely verboten, and that peer editing is largely useless. Mostly what I gained was three years of writer’s block and the accompanying heartbreak, a feeling like someone had chopped off one of my limbs.
I found this book in the store called Art Before Breakfast*. It is a basic drawing course for the busy, “a zillon ways to be more creative no matter how busy you are”. This is not normally the sort of book I read, but I flipped through it and was immediately both charmed and inspired. David Gregory, the author, marries an encouraging tone with matter-of-fact information, but most importantly, he talks about the difference between art and Art. You’ll have to read it for yourself to find out exactly what he says--I don’t have the space to give it justice--but he lays out that interior debate I’ve had and shines a light into the shadows.
The epiphany Gregory states is one I have been slowly embracing, but have never thought to apply to drawing. It is simply this: who cares if it is Art or art? You’re being creative, you’re doing something different and making yourself happy. Unless you’re planning to sell it at a fancy post-modern gallery, or if you want to bill yourself as the Great American Novelist, do what makes you happy. Do it for yourself, not for the sake of Art.
So here I am, sketching every morning before breakfast. I scribble away for a few minutes, then eat my toast, and feel accomplished for the day. Sometimes the results even resemble my coffee mug, the waywards folds of newspaper, or my plate. I even think I’m getting a bit better, every day, and every day, simple art wins out a little over Art. But before you ask, no, you can’t see my drawings. I still a little too chicken for that.
*Art Before Breakfast, David Gregory, 2015
[Cross-posted: Readers' Books Facebook]
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