A narrative about my first official art critique. At the time, I was majoring in Art Education with a recently added major in the Bachelor of Fine Arts program.
Today is the culmination of my artistic career thus far. Since I was accepted into the Bachelor of Fine Arts (BFA) program, I have been agonizing and fantasizing about 10 minutes of this day.
Surreal, harsh fluorescents drench my pedestal in a spotlight of dusty light at the front of the otherwise shadowy drawing-room. The garlicky smell of pizza still lingers the room and nauseatingly perfumes my hair, although we ate hours ago at the start of this inquisition.
My eyes unfocus and refocus, skipping fervently over the crowd. They consist of mostly bored, restless, and reserved expressions. Fellow peers awaiting their own juncture splay on the rotting couches and mutter under their breath with comments I cannot decipher. Chairs for those otherwise scrape obnoxiously into place and finally settle.
A pause of silence follows. My fingers twitch to scratch the angry crimson stress rash that has fittingly materialized over my torso just this morning.
It's time to proceed with the moment that has been on my mind since day one.
Day one was the first time I impressed my mom with a crayon self-portrait. I remember her astonished expression taking in the thin paper flapping recklessly within my small grasp. I paused to glance over at her work, which was abandoned hazardously long before I was finished.
At the center of her page, I pointed. “Your nose doesn’t really look like a triangle, you know.”
Blooming artist turned critic; I was referring to her measly simplistic shapes. Circles for eyes with smaller circles inside, almond lips with a straight line down the middle. She laughed.
Maybe today is retribution for the stubborn pride I have marked towards my artwork since that day. Critique day- the best way to humble an artist. The stress-ridden, sometimes humiliating, most of the time ostracizing roast session. I have heard horror stories floating around in loud whispers since settling into my precarious studio space.
The best gossip, I have discovered, is blossomed between the paper-thin walls separating cramped artist quarters. Everyone calls it the beehive because it is always buzzing.
“He said her work was subpar. Like, boring!"
Boring was a curse. Professors, or essentially, executioners with words, were despised and ridiculed. I could construct a diagram of the inner studio politics that ravaged between students and teachers, an unexpected (and admittedly, entertaining) education that was provided along with my stay in the program thus far.
For what I was anticipating, I'm not completely sure. I posted a variety of my artwork on the halls of the arts building at the end of last semester with a confident hope that I would be accepted into the BFA. Now I am sitting before the panel of professors that saw enough of what, skill? Potential? Of something intriguing, I suppose, within my vivid pastel portraits.
Now I am surrounded by artists equal or better in skill and intrigue, a fact that was glaringly clear as I sat through each of their lengthy critiques. A parade of impressive, beautiful, and absurd artworks were unforgivingly dissected by the panel of furrowed eyebrows and rubbing chins.
Now is my turn with the disgruntled judges. My mouth opens, words jumble out, though I have no recollection of what exactly is said. The panelists lean forward, nod their heads, prop legs up on knees. Their chairs creak in restraint to the movements. Language even more foreign and strange than what I previously said now tumbles from their analytical mouths.
"Kind of reminds me of this artist- have you heard from her?"
No. I shake my head from side to side.
"What material is this- acrylic and pastel?"
Yes. My head shakes up and down.
And so on. I anticipated the exhaustion to hit right after I was finished, but it's already crushing down, sinking my chest and making my arms heavy. Relentlessly, I search in their pointed tones and wrinkled faces but come up short for any real gauge of their reactions. Is that distaste or scrutinized captivation? Appreciation or belittlement? One of them describes the brushy, abstracted, and colorful paintings floating behind my head as mystically confusing. I move my head up and down again- though this time I'm not quite sure why. Because what does that exactly mean?
He doesn't bother to clarify. At least boring never comes up.
Throughout all of this, I finally realize that Dr. Brown is silent. Just earlier today he came into my studio and joyously raved about what he saw. I remember the cool wash of relief his words granted. Initially, I was planning on covering myself in paint up until the moment I had to hang whatever it was I had finished.
For the last few weeks, my sustenance has consisted of random snacks I brought to the studio and quick meals cooked in the stale-smelling communal microwave. The only time I wasn't painting was when I walked home late at night and slept till the morning, where I would take the bus back and repeat the process. After his encouraging words, however, I gave myself a break until the critique. Whatever it was, whatever he saw, seemed to be enough.
"But what is the point?" Someone remarks. I snap back to the current. Dr. Brown's eyes bore into mine; I think he was just gesturing meaningfully at the collection of my paintings. This isn't a yes or no question, I understand. They are expecting an answer.
"T-the point?" I stutter. The rash flares, itchy, and hot all over. I have the urge to burst sporadically in a fit of scratching and rolling in front of everyone. Wonder what the studio buzz would be after that. I can hear them proclaiming in delight, "She went absolutely crazy, with such a simple question!"
Dr. Brown swerves to face me head-on, and the chair beneath him groans with the most agony I've heard all night. "Yeah," he twists a pen around between his fingertips. He reiterates, "Why is this relevant now?"
For the first time, I turn, taking my eyes off the crowd of obscured faces to behold the bright array of work on the wall behind me. They look so official up there, giving off the cold and refined nature of art museum displays. The obsession I have had with these paintings for the past few months rushes forward.
There were the promising moments where I ravaged paint to the canvas with giddy energy; at the same time, they were my perverse enemies. They would scowl at me with unbalanced ugliness, and in return, I would ruin them further with spiteful strikes until they proved finally satisfying.
Satisfying. Scatter the paint, scrape with sandpaper, wash down with water and repeat until pleased.
A conversation flowed continuously between me and the scraps of wood and canvas and crumbling dried paint; an ongoing dialogue that only we can decipher ever since I erected their existence, starting with the construction of nails to splintered wooden frames.
"I think the point is," I slowly roll the words out, turning away from the paintings with resolve. "That this is a reflection of me, of my emotions and the process of day to day for me."
A puzzled, disappointed frown draws upon Dr. Brown's lips. The panelists slouch their bodies in the same droopy arches. He sucks in a gust of air, preparing for an onslaught of more questions, but a shrill ring interrupts.
The room is suddenly charged with an animated zeal once again. All of the last 10 minutes, I imagine, are examined in severe whispers as they scamper to the next victim in the room over. The panelists clap for me (though some of it appears half-hearted) with flimsy hands. Dr. Brown looks meaningfully at me as if saying, we will discuss later.
My head gives one final shake.
When the last person trickles out, munching on a slice of pizza that I realize, with disgust, has been sitting out for all this time- I am finally alone. That is, alone with the exception of my seemingly underperformed paintings.
It takes a moment for me to start gently removing them from the hooks where they rest. With the first painting down, I notice someone has appeared back into the room to help. It's a girl that I recognize from a couple of rows over in the beehive and I am embarrassed to realize that I can't recall her name. To avoid any forward greetings with it I stick straight to thanking her as we get to work removing the frames.
"That was your first time, right?" She asks, breaking our silence.
"Yeah," I say, almost leaving it with that, but I reconsider. "I think I expected it to go better, to be honest."
She smiles with an apology. "That's how it usually goes," she grunts, grasping the frame that was out of my reach. I think back, trying to remember if I saw her critique earlier. I vaguely recollect abnormal sculptures of stuffed pantyhose and corsets pinned brutally to the ceiling. Not my favorite exhibit, though interesting. The panelists were pleased.
We shuffle from the exhibit room to my studio slot somewhat awkwardly after this. I am almost too consumed with my reassessment of the whole interaction and critique to notice that the wall has finally cleared. All of the paintings are now stacked back into the cramped corner of my space. They look more at home here, but that might just be due to the warmer lighting.
I look up to the girl and she is gazing at the paintings as well, arms crossed with her weight slouched against the wall. At the start of the year, everyone was instructed by the self-elected beehive leader to write their zodiac signs on their studio entrances. The girl's shoulder blade is covering the sharpie of my Taurus.
"These are really great."
"Uh- thanks," I shyly respond, waddling a few inches over to conceal a pile of garbage I forgot about. I give her an appreciative smile, though I can tell there is more she is about to say. Muffled voices come from the room over, followed by an unforeseen explosion of laughs.
"I have one piece of advice," She states above the commotion.
I nod my head hesitantly. I'm done with receiving advice for the day, but my curiosity obliges her anyway.
She continues with a gentle, yet firm edge to her voice. "You have got to stop thinking about what other people think about your work," She pauses, absorbing my bemused expression. "I know that's easier said than done, though."
I find that the only thing I can do is take the advice with a quick thanks because the next critique is already in full swing. The conversation is over. People are bustling around the hive, hoisting paintings up with precision while lazily dropping off others.
Months of work are resolved in minutes; forgotten until the off chance they are purchased. The rest of the critiques blur past as the words of the girl continuously loop through my mind.
I am so distracted that I miss all of the new gossip.
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