the creative un-genius, part II

I had an art professor in college who, to this day, is still the most intimidating person I have ever come in contact with. I wasn't in the Visual Arts program as an artist. I was in the program as a designer...in training. So when I learned Observational Drawing was to be the first of many 3-hour studio classes, I was a bit anxious. When I walked into class the first day and learned my professor was German (as in spoke little English) I was about to head for the hills, and I'm not talking hills alive with the Sound of Music.

Speaking of music, that class was full of ipod-wearing illustration majors, pinkie fingers permanently pigmented with Staedtler lead. They'd stick their ipods in their ears, and stare with static wonderment at an egg, a glass of water, a banana for the full three hours, leaving the room completely silent. Professor Glockenspiel (that's the only German word that comes to mind at the late hour. Seems I've blocked his real name from memory entirely) would slowly circle the room, hands clutched behind his back, critiquing our every pencil stroke. I'd feel him over my shoulder before I could see or hear him. Then, in a moment of sheer German-influenced intimidation, he'd lean over and get within a millimeter of my work, as if his glasses were circa WWII. Then he'd whisper his petty criticisms with the thickest of German accents into my ear. Most of the time, I had no idea what he was saying, but I knew it wasn't of a positive nature. He'd swirl his finger round and round my sorry scratchings on the page. I imagine it was along the lines of, "Fix here! And here! Add shadow here! Can't you see there is more light coming from here?!"

When our final was due, we were to turn in all the drawings we had done during the semester. At my final critique, I could finally read him loud and clear. The one thing I could decipher all semester was his analysis of a semester's worth of work. I sat in front of him as he flipped through each page past an egg, a banana, a glass of water on a table. His eyes peered out from behind his thick glasses, eyebrows the same color of my HB Staedtler lead. Slowly, as if to be sure I understood every word, he said in broken English, "Your eye cannot yet see." That was my final review; in its entirety. Then he marked my whole drawing pad with a big fat B-.

It was my first taste of college failure. When I come across that pad of paper, I shudder. I don't see an egg or a glass of water reflecting light and shadow. I see failure. I see a big fat B-. And then a little German appears on my shoulder and says, "Your eye cannot yet see."

Sometimes that's how the creative process is. Under the pressure of a Professor Glockenspiel, surrounded by people with immense talent or people who seem to pop in some Pearl Jam and whip out a masterpiece in mere moments, something whispers failure within earshot. But artistry doesn't have to lead to anguish. The creative process is exactly that: a process. It doesn't come all at once. It takes practice. Eyes must learn to see. It comes in moments when we extend ourselves beyond the classroom; beyond objects in front of us or the current task at hand. When we step back and look at the big picture. Sometimes my best ideas come when I turn my back on a Goliath of a project. When I decide not to be creative at all. On long walks. During long showers. Days when I allow myself to head for the hills and sing. I come back with eyes that see, ideas streaming like light through a glass of water on a table, ready to be sketched on a clean sheet of paper.