S
ometimes my mind takes me back
to that one day in early September
of freshman year, when I visited
the University of Michigan Museum of Art
with a group of strangers; students from
my hall, from orientation, people I thought
would become my best friends. In reality,
they just became even more distant. How
cultured and sophisticated, I thought to
myself back then.
When I started college, I pictured
constantly expanding my horizons —
traveling to different places and trying
new things. I was excited to explore more
of Ann Arbor’s culture and be the kind
of artsy person I saw on my Instagram
newsfeed, with pictures of graffiti alleys
and hidden fairy doors. This seemed like
what college would really be about.
I imagined the group of us moving
through the museum in a sepia-toned
haze, talking about Neo-Impressionism
or tempera paint, armed with cups of
overpriced coffee from down the street
because we were too good for Starbucks.
For me, that day was disastrous.
Despite
having
religiously
pored
over a glossary of art terms the night
before (thanks, Google), I found myself
hopelessly inept. Standing in front of an
incredibly detailed painting twice my
size that must have taken months, if not
years to complete, I felt small. Who was
I to critique someone else’s work? What
business did I have tossing around terms
like sublime or naturalistic when I didn’t
understand anything about art?
It slowly dawned on me that I’d probably
never had an eye for art in the first place.
I’d look at a piece and think it looked
pretty neat, while the person next to me
would talk about the motivation behind it
and how the artful brushstrokes created
an illusion of depth. As we moved through
the next few rooms, I found myself falling
back a little more each time, eventually
making a swift exit, while the rest of the
group was busy laughing and talking,
bonding over a particularly interesting
photograph.
You see, I’ve never described myself as a
visual art person.
A writer? Sure.
A musician? I can work with that.
But when I see a blank canvas and rows
of paint, I’ve never felt the urge to create.
I’m not immediately struck by a vision,
and I don’t know how to take an idea and
visualize it in a way that is comprehensive
and beautiful. At best, I can scrawl out
a vague stick-figure-esque drawing or
maybe paint one of those generic-looking
landscapes. Maybe.
I’d watch my friends in high school
effortlessly create gorgeous pieces of art
and wonder in envy at how their brushes
seem to glide smoother than mine, how
they just intuitively knew where to place
the next stroke of paint. I spent years
wishing I had that skill — taking art classes
in high school and practicing whenever I
had time and a pencil — but it was never
instinctive for me.
Which is why I never thought that I’d
end up in an art class my sophomore year
of college. Through a unique combination
of requirements and the program I was in,
I found myself taking LHSP 230, Creative
Communities, a class focused on public art
and creative expression. It was a terrifying
prospect to me: Art was something I’d
been trying (and failing) to do for a long
time, and now I’d be in a space entirely
focused on it.
And I wasn’t entirely sure how I felt
about that. Living in a learning community
focused on writing and the arts, I had
friends who were incredibly artistic and
seen what they’d created in these classes.
The work they made was amazing, and I
was nervous because I wasn’t sure what
exactly was expected of me. I knew,
without a doubt, that I wouldn’t be able
to make anything even remotely as good,
but I’d resolved myself to trying as hard
as I could. Even then, I felt pressured to
achieve perfection.
Our first assignment had us creating
“luminaries,”
which
were
three-
dimensional structures made out of wire,
paper-maché and lights. I’d gone into this
assuming we’d start out with something
small, but our professor had larger plans
for us — specifically, to be a part of a pop-
up parade at ArtPrize in Grand Rapids.
So not only was I forced to face my fears
much sooner than anticipated, there’d
be an audience of people who actually
appreciated art watching my every move.
There were moments where I’d find
myself in Alice Lloyd Hall’s art studio,
huddled under a workbench, the overhead
lights occasionally blinking off as if
mocking my catatonic state. As I looked at
the tangled mess of wire and tape that was
supposed to be my project, and compared
it to the perfect ones all around me, I was
frustrated and confused. Those first few
weeks were hard — nothing made me feel
more incompetent than not being able to
create something with the apparent ease
that everyone else in the class possessed.
I think it was one of those 2 a.m.
moments when I had nothing to show
but the battle scars left by metal splinters
(wire is harder to work with than you’d
think) that I finally realized — I was the
only one that cared this much. While
everyone else was having fun and creating
things, I was stuck inside my own head,
too infatuated with rigid definitions of
“art” and “artist” to do anything at all. I’d
spent years building the entire concept of
art up in my head as if it were some sort
of mysterious and elusive force that I’d
never be able to understand, something
that was unattainable. I’ve constantly
been telling myself that I can’t create
art, when it can be interpreted in so
many different ways, and constructed
with a variety of mediums — there is no
singular definition.
Art doesn’t have to be understood, just
to be appreciated. It’s hard to convince
myself that after years of thinking the
exact opposite, but I’m allowed to have
my own definition of art — and I’m
allowed to create things, whether or not
other people think they’re good. When
it comes to things that are so subjective,
I’ve learned that over-analyzing every
single move only held me back.
I still don’t know much about neo-
impressionism
except
that
“Starry
Night” is pretty cool, and I’m vaguely
sure that tempera is some sort of egg
paint. On some days I’ll go to the UMMA
and sit in front of my favorite painting,
“Broadway Melody.” I appreciate the
subtle blues and pinks and the intricate
patterns, and how it invokes thoughts
of jazz and happiness. On those days, I
don’t wonder what neo-impressionism
means, or what tempera is made of — I
just focus on being in the moment.
Wednesday, January 25, 2017 // The Statement
6B
Personal Statement: I’m Not an Art Person
by Rhea Cheeti, Daily Staff Reporter
ILLUSTRATION BY KATIE SPAK