On being a Teacher . . .

I turned in my application for Art & Soul yesterday . . . my application to teach at the Portland event in '08.

One of the biggest challenges is coming up truly new techniques, new projects, or new ways of combining techniques and projects in such a way that they are appealing to students - students, who, in many cases are traveling across the country (or even from another country) to attend. As a "beginning" teacher (I've taught off and on since I was in college, but I only dove into it fully in 2004 with the debut of my Artmaking as Playful Prayer classes), I don't have the advantage of a fanatical following who've been seeing my work in magazines and books for years . . . and, frankly, I'm not sure that I want a fanatical following . . . Meaning, at this point, most people have to be willing to take a risk to take a class with me. There has to be something in the work or the sample or the description that inspires them or grabs them by surprise. And I have to convince the judges who select the lineup of classes that I am worth the time. Judges who are described in the application as "a group of menopausal women," women who, for the most part, make their living by being able to determine what people exploring mixed media want to learn.

No pressure.

So, I've been sweating over this application for a month. The class I wanted to offer, the one I thought would be the most unique, had to do with hats. And every sample I tried came out crappy. (Inner voice: "Defer judgment, Bridget. Those hats were learning experiences.") Ah, yes . . . I'm probably not ready to teach that one yet . . . I really need to get the technique down better, refine it. The thing is, I love teaching. Some days I'm tired or I don't do as good a job as other days, but I really like creating an environment where people can play, experiment, be exposed to new ideas and techniques, and gain some confidence with their own artmaking. And, with very few exceptions, I walk away from teaching a class having learned something new.

I also know that I consider a class worth my time if I am able to do at least one of the following:
a) learn even one new technique
b) gain confidence in working with a technique
c) have a personal insight or push a personal edge or grow
d) have an experience that engages me in making something from my heart.
And I design my classes to provide the potential for these kinds of experiences. Note that nowhere in there do I say that I have to complete something, or even make something I like. I try to keep in mind that this is a priority for a lot of people, but it's still a challenge.

And I guess I'm writing this in part because I got so distracted by trying to make "a product" or a "sample" that might inspire students to want to learn from me (or become part of my fanatical following or make work just like mine) that I forgot the whole reason why I teach and even make art in the first place. Nowhere on the application was there space for "teaching philosophy" or "what you do to engage students."

That said, I felt really good about the way this sample came together:


I was totally engaged in making it, it felt completely fun, and I got to pull all kinds of techniques out of my hat - self-taught, learned from others, gleaned from books, and discovered - and mix them up in a very satisfying way that was personally meaningful.

That, of course, leads us into what it is to be an artist. And then what it is to be a teaching artist, which is a different animal altogether. So, you'll just have to come back tomorrow.

Gettin' My Art on with the Big Wigs

I took two classes yesterday at Art and Soul - a 3-D polaroid collage construction class with Michael DeMeng and a bird nest jewelry class with Stephanie Lee.

I'm going to admit right here and now that I had never heard of Michael DeMeng before I took this class. About half-way through the class, though, I realized that there were people at this retreat wearing Michael DeMeng aprons and that his color knowledge and paint mixing techniques provoke "wow's" from the students (along with a line of color mixing cards - though he's the first to admit you don't need them if you take good notes). I'm also going to admit right here and now that his stuff was pretty darn cool. I got a lot out of the class: I was reminded of some color theory I'd forgotten, and picked up a few new tricks that I swear I never learned. I also got some great practical tips on how to create texture and 3-D compositions. And I ditched the polaroid concept and the tunnel effect most of the other students went for (and who did some AMAZING things! So bummed I didn't get photos . . .) Here's the piece I worked on - using color photo-copies of a series of photos I did about 10 years ago mixed with lotteria cards - from the side, and from the top.




It was all going well until I learned that he does a critique at the end of the class. My heart rate went up and I got a little queasy. My competitive streak reared it's ugly head. What if people poo-pooed what I did for not being DeMeng enough? Too flat? Not using his palette? Keeping it too visually simple? Not incorporating enough rusty found objects? What if he doesn't like it? What if he does? What if my piece was really the best because it was so different? What if someone else had a piece more different than mine and theirs was really the best? What if I could get my head to shut up and just work on the #@*! piece?

I finally managed the latter. And I shouldn't have worried. He gave the artists a chance to talk about their work, and then he found something unique and valuable and intriguing about every single piece and talked about it. You could see what others had done successfully, and ponder whether or not you might want to incorporate it into your work and how you might adjust your own piece.

And I still don't think I'll be incorporating critiques into any of my classes. Logically, I know that competition can be non-violent, that it can be used in a positive way to inspire and push people beyond their self-imposed boundaries. Yes, I see wonderful beautiful things in every piece of art my students make. And I just hate the way that urge comes up in me - and in some of my students - and tries to turn the artmaking into a hierarchy. "Better than." "Worse than." "More talent." "Less talent." "Right way." "Wrong way." I want each student to listen to their own voice when it comes to their art - not mine. And I want those students to be free from the need to please. To dive into making for the experience, for what they might learn, not what they might earn in the way of praise. Maybe I'm projecting too many of my needs onto my students - maybe I need to find a way to give feedback full of juicy possibilities to those students who want it.

More food for thought.