Getting to it

It's kind of funny, but here's what my horoscope said today, "Honesty and optimism are great, but they require your physical and emotional commitment to transform them into something tangible. Be a planner now, because your use of time and energy can make the difference between success and failure. Hard work pays off in the long run, so be patient and roll up your sleeves." How's that for a relevant message? To prepare for this final draft of the thesis, I've been journaling a lot in hopes that a succinct description of what I'm doing will materialize. The focus of my work has shifted a lot through this experience. I am not used to making work that doesn't have an overt functionality, and I am not to used to being completely self directed. So now that this semester is getting down to brass tacks and finished work, I am aware that I am still not as focused as I need to be in order to write this paper and complete a cohesive body of work.

Here's what I do know: This experience has helped me to deal with my perfectionist tendencies. If I hadn't decided to attend the Art Academy, I think I would have been in jeopardy of really closing up, of ceasing to take risks of any kind in fear that I might fail. Failure and shame have always gone hand in hand in my mind. To fail publicly is to experience profound humiliation and loss of self worth. I can't pinpoint exactly where this comes from. Maybe I was a samurai in a past life. When I was young, I attended a girls school that praised achievement. They had a special honors day four times a year where they ceremonially recognized students who received the highest grades. The ceremony was held in a special hall with stained glass windows and grand paintings of female saints. Special white uniforms were worn to heighten the significance of that day. The names of the girls who excelled were called out by the head mistress, at which point each exulted girl would stand, one by one. When all the names were called, they slowly proceeded to receive their paper recognition, leaving behind their empty chair--and those unfortunate girls who sat alone in their own mediocrity. Everyone thought it was such a wonderful tradition, and when I was one of the girls receiving my honors with a curtsey and a blessing from Sister Joan, I loved it. But every now and then, my math grade would fall below a C, and I would not make the honor roll. Then I had to sit, singled out by the procession of over-achievers leaving their chairs to receive their coveted awards. It was awful. The shame would well up in my throat, and I would silently curse the tears that showed everyone how much it hurt. Once, I faked illness to avoid going to school on that day. My mom went along with it. She knew I couldn't face not winning, not being one the best. I thrived on the the praise, and I wilted in its absence. Some girls sat alongside me silently crying too, while others feigned boredom and cracked jokes, seemingly unaffected by the humiliation. But there weren't many girls who could pretend not to care. I couldn't anyway.

And guess what? I still care. I care a lot. I struggle with my ego, the part of me that craves recognition and approval, in spite my awareness. But now in my last semester of art school, I am finally breaking down enough to make art for the pure experience of making it. I have no expectations about what this work might win, or who might like it. I am making it for me. The fact that this body of work exists at all is a breakthrough. It serves no immediate function, like the project-based work I am used to designing. Formally, it's really not very resolved yet. But that's okay for now. I haven't approached my work like this in a very long time. It's all new to me.