Remembering a Random Proud College Moment

My friend recently asked a relatively simple question in a group chat that I have going with a few women I’ve known since middle school. Her question: Anyone ever have anything professionally framed? She followed the question with, “Holy shit it’s expensive.”

In an instant I was mentally transported to my college days as an art student, specifically the final month-ish when I was preparing for the senior show. Most of my memories of that time are fond ones, like the endless hours spent in the art building with my friends, drinking coffee and eating pizza and listening to The Who. Oh yeah, and feverishly painting/drawing/carving/sculpting/wanting to die like our lives depended on it. 

So I’ll never forget the moment that our professors announced, fairly last minute, that we would need to have all of our work properly framed (assuming the work was two-dimensional, like a painting or drawing). Everything that I planned to show was oil-pastel-on-paper and therefore would need to be framed, but I had at least eight drawings and they were all different, crazy sizes that would not fit into any pre-made frames. I was faced -- as a friggin’ art student with no money of my own -- with the prospect of having to get custom frames for every single one of my pieces.

At this point I need to backtrack a little. I was already on not-great terms with some of my professors because of artistic choices that I was making at the time. I was taking an environmental science course as one of those goofy electives that one needs in order to fulfill the arbitrary requirements for a bachelor’s degree, and my world was pretty much shattered after I read a wonderful book by Michael Pollan called The Omnivore’s Dilemma. In addition to becoming a (temporary) vegan, my body of artwork went from the pretty standard college-level paintings of landscapes and attempts to mimic the Masters, to borderline-psychedelic imagery of animals with melting, humanoid faces angrily scrawled upon old cardboard and recycled paper. This shift in subject matter was a direct result of what I call my Environmental Crisis, which took place during and after the stretch of time I was enrolled in that environmental science course and started experiencing anxiety about the negative impacts that pretty much every one of my actions was having on the planet. I figured instead of dropping out of college and leaving society altogether to pursue a self-sufficient life in the woods, I would just channel my fear and anger into my artwork.

Most of my professors were not exactly pleased with my sudden departure from what they had been drilling into my skull over the past four years, which was basically a cycle of painting a still-life, a slightly more complex still-life, then a landscape, portrait, self-portrait, and repeat. Almost every art course I took followed this pattern with the exception of some courses that specifically focused on “non-representational” art or figure drawing. I was later told by someone I can’t remember that a possible explanation for this pattern is that most of the professors at this school were “classically trained,” which to me meant that they didn’t really like any art that didn’t resemble an Andrew Wyeth. So at one of our grand critiquing sessions where I presented (to maybe five professors and over a dozen graduating students) my most recently completed drawing of a giant man-pig with some kind of brown substance either spewing out of or spiraling into his gaping mouth, I was told by at least one professor that I needed to buy new paper, and that if I wanted to make an environmental statement I should paint landscapes.

I was not the only student who was subjected to this kind of “stick to what you’re good at” mentality. Another student who had previously been known for absolutely gorgeous portraits of his girlfriend joined me in going off the rails for the senior show, and brought to the critique a giant collage that included a rocket ship and a photo of Snooki. Again, the professors were not pleased and one actually told him to go back into the studio with his girlfriend for a few hours. I was infuriated but didn’t say anything; I simply vowed to myself that I would ignore the professors’ advice and continue with my project. My classmate chose to take the professors’ advice and I think he received an award at the show for his beautiful portraits. Needless to say, my environmental statement did not bring me any awards.

But looking back I am really proud of myself for not giving in to those professors. At a time when I was otherwise very easily shaped by the opinions of others (re: Michael Pollan) and simultaneously experiencing some serious doubts about my life choices and my future, I stayed true to my stubborn self and unapologetically presented those creepy animal drawings to a crowd of artists and the probably weirded-out relatives of my classmates. And my dad was proud of me, too; One of his favorite things to say about me is that I've always had a mind of my own.

Oh, and back to the framing thing: In a final “screw you” to those professors, I opted to frame my drawings in a bunch of cheap, plastic poster frames from Michael’s instead of springing for the custom ones that would have cost, I don’t know, maybe five times as much. Probably not the best choice for the planet, but my alternative solution was to lay the un-framed drawings on the floor which was not allowed. And before you assume that all of my college art professors were complete monsters who stifled all creativity in their students, there was one professor (who taught the “non-representational” art course) who believed in me. I still vividly remember what he did during that fateful critique. Like me, he didn’t say anything out loud but passed me a quickly written note on a scrap of paper that said, “Keep doing what you’re doing. You are on the right track.” I can’t remember what I did with that scrap of paper but man do I wish I had it professionally framed.