Fifty Seven

Right now,

I am full of worries about everything. I just finished my first week of summer night classes at Art Center. That was the school I decided not to go to after taking a year of night classes because of its stress levels and most of all, toxic culture. Now that I am back for the summer, nothing has changed.

I just worry about how whether if this is going to be a painful summer or a happy one. I know learning is pain, especially when we have to present our hard work next to our peers’ and face subjective critique. That is art school. However, there is one thing I have trouble tolerating: the expectation to create while the teacher favors repetitive clichés, one more exaggerated than the next. I don’t want to draw mechanical robots, mean monsters, or muscular men. I don’t want to draw the typical sexy female sidekick. I don’t want to make another male-centered story that we have seen time and time again. By the end of one of my classes, I grudgingly added to my pitch, “…then they find a futuristic city inside the iceberg.” And that’s how I passed the night, with a cheap shot.

This experience has reassured me I chose the right school by not going to this one. It’s nearly impossible for me to create anything worth presenting under constant stress and discouragement. I’m glad professors at my school believe I will succeed in the major I choose except for this one professor who didn’t believe I will finish my spring semester but I will save that story for another day. All I’m saying is, I’m glad I go to an institution that may not be the best, but it is secure enough to not rely on fragile egos, fake branding, and a toxic work culture to maintain its value.


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