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

