The first assignment for this course: Take an old paintbrush, cover it with clay and embellishments, and make…something. Simple enough in theory, maddeningly difficult in execution.
My acceptance to the MAT program is provisional, with the caveat that I complete the sculpture and ceramics requirements for teaching licensure within a year of admission. I have never taken a sculpture class in my life, hence, I am terrible at sculpture. I don’t know how to approach an assignment, I don’t know how to use the tools, I have no experience to draw from. If you ask me to sculpt something, you might as well also ask me to turn lead into gold. As long as we’re attempting the impossible, why not shoot the moon?
Compounding matters was the fact that this was an in-class assignment, meaning I couldn’t engage in “my process.” It goes like this: Charge in with delusional over confidence. Crash head first into cold, hard, reality. Stalk around the room, cursing my inefficacy. Begin to interpret this minor failure as emblematic of my greater failure as a person. Realize I’m a fraud, spiral into a pit of insecurity. Weep. Am reminded a deadline is approaching, become panic stricken. Weep some more. Unable to face the embarrassment of turning in nothing at all, resume work, but with wild abandon, having determined this is my final project before quitting art forever and joining the Merchant Marines. A series of dumb-luck “happy accidents” begin to restore my confidence, misinterpreted as signs of latent genius. Maybe I’m actually the greatest artist who ever lived? Power forward with renewed resolve. Finish! Adrenaline fading, I come back to reality. Look at finished work objectively, think “Eh, it’s fine, but clearly I am a maniac.” Put it all out of mind and move on to the next thing.
I go through this with everything I do, but it’s not really appropriate for a public setting. Instead I had to settle for a (healthier) stripped down version: futzing around in a repeating cycle of confusion and discovery until I had something.
When I slapped white clay on my long handled paintbrush, it kind of resembled a woodpecker as designed by Tim Burton. I decided to lean into that connection and do my best to exaggerate some of the skeletal, deathlike qualities. I went for bony protuberances, angular shapes and beady black eyes. Then I bedazzled it a bit as a counterweight as I generally don’t like morbid work. We were asked to do a write up of what we’d made, so I submitted the following:
“The White Crested Petrolbird is native to the United States and parts of Canada. Over time, it has developed a long beak which it can use to siphon premium gasoline from high-end automobiles. It then sells this gas through an elaborate, woodland creature-run black market in a strictly cash based enterprise. The Petrolbird uses the cash to purchase gaudy, knock-off jewelry of questionable taste to adorn its frightening, skeletal head and face. It is beloved by the gasoline industry for increasing sales, but despised by drivers who are convinced their fuel was stolen by their shifty, cheap-assed neighbors.”
Nothing goes over quite like Audubon Society humor!
Overall this was a challenging opportunity to work in a medium I wouldn’t have on my own, and to follow where the work lead me as opposed to trying to enforce some vision on it. It wasn’t as scary as I thought it would be, but I’m already thinking of all the ways I could improve in the future now that I have some small bit of experience. Final verdict: Eh, it’s fine, but clearly I am a maniac.
