Deconstructing Eden

Welcome to art class. A harmonious atmosphere has as much to do with reasoning as any hope a person can give and if there is anything lingering more in a room full of twenty-something-year-olds it is that - hope. Just learning the curves of life, trepidation not yet counted can lend to that persuasion. A collective consciousness could be called that, in a way, a mirrored persuasiveness.

There is something magnificent about burgeoning minds working together and the framework is carefree. Art students in particular are happy. Yes, there are parameters but ultimately the act of creating comes from the central point of freedom. Careful works in the palms of their hands.

If there is anywhere close to wonderland it is an art studio. Paradise begins with format believe it or not or it doesn't exist. The format is flat and everything that stems from it is a mountain range of work. Paper begets high-rises. Canvas inherits aching moments with merit. Night and day are irrelevant, all the students know is that they have a three-hour class. Light and dark are already a given and reflected in each of their artwork. Will “paradisers” roam or stay the course and pass? A year of art study for acuity and mental discipline. It's serious work and those called to it, love it.

The room is filled with sunlight for which the easels beckon. One whole wall is windows and it doesn't matter which direction they face, morning or afternoon the angles of the west, north, and east shine through. Cement floors and tall ceilings are the benchmark of the forthcoming. The academic art studio is large and arid and on the main floor of the college.

Paradise also needs animals, vegetables and minerals. Students are not animals, at least art students are not so for this story they are trees in various stages of growth. The saplings stand the circumference of the room making it an island. They drift in the direction that the teacher vehemently breezes. Paint brushes, pencils and coloured or charcoal sticks make groups of bold colours that look like bouquets scattered on various stands around the room. Small vessels of coloured water adorn their Garden of Eden and add to the effect.

Easels and stools are perched three or four people thick around the centre. If a student is late there is no trouble other than finding a spot to wedge into for a good view. There is always order, never chaos. The energy is dynamic, rhythmic and supercharged as the students work in silence or with headphones. Simultaneously jerking to a song or spontaneous strokes of brushes and loose pencil swipes.

The light cascades from the centre of the ceiling. There is never a shadow to strike the page or hide a mark. This evenness is a curtain that never needs to be lifted, it is perfect for their vision.

For the year other than home life, this is the student's world. The only classes they have outside the studio are Art History and English. They will live, work, and breathe as an organic unit. The island will flourish. The very walls will stream like pools of nurturing, sustaining, growth. The students will mature and the minds will cultivate their art. They will learn more about life.

September glows with autumn browns, reds, oranges and greens. Students are flushed with enthusiasm and new clothes. There are nineteen young men and women including two exchange students from Italy and India, and they are all ready! A strange assortment of trees extending their branches to each other.

All are dressed to impact individuality. It's a student thing. Everything-black including eyeliner, fingernails and glasses, or regalia with florals, scarves, and hooped earrings. Fashionistas with micro skirts, heels, geometric designs and hair bobs. Casuals in jeans two sizes too big that show off belly buttons, and clunky footwear. Or the more conservative dressers that stand out even more in the milieu with collared shirts, pants, sensible shoes and not a hair out of place. All groups in any style of wear could have any coloured hair. All of whom are cooler than cool and as the “art students,” stand out in any crowd on campus.

Leaning against the back of the wall, silent and confident are four females. The Art Models and Studio Assistants. Curvy, confident and have an air of being slightly distanced, attentive but reserved. They rarely if ever speak. Their eyes never leave the teacher.

“We are here to draw,” the teacher begins. “Everything is drawing. We use a perceptual approach to construct space on the page. A step to composition with drawing or painting. Paint as a medium is rendered differently but for this term of the school year, it's Drawing whether you use pastel, charcoal, pencil, or paint.

“We do not think in terms of “perspective.” This is not a How-To-Draw class it is about how to make Art. This is Fine Art. What you will learn about reveals reality from a perceptual scope.” He smiles, certain he has explained it correctly. This, he lives and breathes.

They nod and shift in their seats which are loosely spaced in a semi-circle in the centre of the room as they digest the words of the teacher. A few furtive looks at others, “do they get it?” None of them get it. That's alright, that's why they are there.

“There are only two “rules,” the teacher explained. “If you are in any way upset about anything then don't come to class. Your mood will affect the way you work, the people around you and how the group of you function as a whole.” The island could sink. Then he added, “If you can't make it to class we don't care why, that has nothing to do with the rest of the class.

“The second “rule” is not to love your work. It is meant to change. The instruction is about process. Once you start to love it, to admire it, and that is your working point then you operate from ego. You are making pretty art that will please others. That is not the point of what you are learning here. You can do that later on your own time. If you conform to what you think others will like while you are in the process it will stunt your growth. You will get caught up in small mistakes and correcting them. What you will learn here is how to make the mistakes work for you or start over. That is life.

“Also, from time to time, I may approach your piece with a pencil or brush of my own. Do not be offended. There is no other way to teach art than by demonstration and it may be necessary to draw over yours. Don't fall in love with your work. You can love it or leave it when it's complete. Other guidelines will come out as we progress. Not rules, but guidelines,” the teacher sat and looked at the group of students as he finished what he said.

Integral to the learning space is acceptance. There is mutual respect from the first day. This helps to facilitate confidence to create and keep an open mind. The atmosphere is calm. Encouraging whole thinking is a point to marvel at.

The teacher then introduced himself. “I've worked here for years. Originally from Europe, had exhibits in the past and settled here after working at other colleges. My wife and I decided to stay.”

What he didn't say was that being from the 1970s era his teacher was a renowned painter. He had exhibited after university with top artists of the day. At the start of his career, he was helped by a billionaire art patron. Some of his paintings were selling for a hundred thousand dollars which was a lot then. He wasn't rich, he was picky about where he exhibited and to whom he sold. Life is precious and so are the people we meet. Be gracious always.

The rest of the class was a studio tour, showing where supplies were and distributing the course outline for the Fine Art Fudamentals Program. The first class was done early and as a group, they left the studio.

“Well, it ain't basket weaving. My parents said this was a waste of time. Wait til they get a load of this.” She held up her lecture recorder.

“We'll be geniuses by the end of the year,” He grinned as he high-fived his buddy.

“Great, she recorded it. I slept through the whole thing with my eyes open,” another yawned, feeling tired with a hangover.

The imagined stoics, barely moved a facial muscle as they walked while listening intently to the music from their headphones. One student did cartwheels down the hall as a couple tossed balled-up pieces of paper at each other. The rest were silent as they walked toward the school exit, serious-looking, trying to remember something...or smiling and dreamlike as if they had just been rained on by golden dew drops.

By month two the oasis displayed manageable growth. A tempered atmosphere brought moments of insight that stood out like great blooms. Mostly a practice in methodical approach to work was displayed. Exemplifying the word “work.” All the students were serious. The affable grasses moved together in unison. The waters of gentle speech that flowed from the teacher nurtured all.

Near the end of the third month Life Drawing was introduced. This would become the bulk of the format. The human figure has all artistic elements as seen in nature. Organic flows and folds in a form that has shape, structure, line, texture, tones, and dimension. A bowl of fruit or flowers could give some of those elements but not all. Therefore, the emphasis was on Life Drawing for the remainder of the year. Which aside from breaks and exam weeks was almost halfway through.

The model has an astounding effect on the students. She is the point of structure in arable land, a micro island fragment intensified. Confident students were suddenly terrified, others were shy. So the purpose of her presence is explained over and over until the students are comfortable. In a short time, she becomes a piece of furniture which is expected and desired.

Weeks passed and tensions rose with the pressure of grades. There is no way to study for this, the performance of art on the canvas or paper is marked. The waters grew frothy, and the trees of the room swayed in worry. Not because of emotional issues. Not because of temperaments. Then a serpent entered paradise. A serpent called Ego.

A young woman, Clara, a little unsure of herself but skilled at technique decided to throw all of what she had learned thus far to the winds. The room began to groan with the storm approaching and distant thunder. She chose a six-foot horizontal board to mount her canvas and began in acrylic paint. The students had one month of whole days to work on these Life Drawings to include them in the end-of-the-year exhibit.

She ignored the lessons of marks, lines and colour making a structural space in the hemisphere of the paper which was the point. Instead, she began illustrating the beautiful form of the body. Each stroke became a point to an overall design. A dedication to a realism she could not achieve and instead garnished the image. It drew much attention, particularly because of the size of it. Day after day students watched the piece progress in wonder. A bold burgundy background that didn't exist, royal blue silk over the lounge and a burst of flesh dominated the piece, with no space in the foreground or background, just the body. No composition, yet... “isn't it beautiful,” was the silent cry it embodied.

The young trees leaned toward her with ruffled leaves, “Well, why can't we do that, do our own thing? Hmpf, I have a better way than this too.” Egos went on strike all over the place. Why, we know more than the teacher! The clouds of the oasis gathered overhead. The serpent Ego coiled around her arm and smiled. More breadth for which he could stretch.

The dynamic of the room was tarnished and not unmissed by the teacher. He looked upon the piece for about the dozenth time. Exasperated, he whispered, “She is still doing it that way, what is she doing? Where is the composition of space? This won't do!” This would throw all the students off the lesson if it continued. The end-of-the-year exhibit would be a mishmash of styles (gasp) and a disaster.

So, brush in hand laden with paint he walked up to the painting, looked her in the eye and said, “pay attention to what I'm showing you.” Then he did the ungodly, the unexpected, the rebellious, and proceeded to smear the image with broad strokes of grey paint. He got the other tone of grey and as he painted marks into her work, explained carefully to what he was doing.

The trees shrieked inside, some blew over with the gust of wind that hit the island. A student in the corner laughed hysterically. A couple cried. The walls burst forth a tide. All stood still barely breathing. Clara stood in a sort of shock and a stare and blazing red face. The teacher stopped what he was doing and sensed emotion. He stared back genuinely innocent, “what?” He did not understand her reaction. This was a lesson.“This is one piece, you can do more. You will do many more.” Clara, still speechless just stared.

Not a word was spoken for the remainder of the class. Someone put music on to change the mood. The class remained silent as they left at the end of the day, absorbing the new lesson.

Souls were not shattered, nothing was beyond repair. The deconstruction of the ego is necessary. It's not to bend to rationale, it's to realize the mistake and not worry. No emotion is the point. Art is the act of creating the world around us be it an oasis or a desert. So, don't worry sorrow there is always tomorrow with plenty more paint and don't forget yesterday.

Deconstructing life is the same. There are many ego moments we don't realize. At one point or another, someone is going to point it out. There should be no baggage to learning or a person will never improve. Doing the same thing over means nothing in life is a challenge.

Detachment from the material is another lesson. Spelling out virtue is in an open tide not a ride upon it. In the big picture of the year it was just a moment, though a big moment.

At the year's end, the student exhibit was magnificent. The Studio door closed and the island dried. The serpent had slid back to its hiding place beyond the viewpoint. The oasis vanished like a curtain drawn and waited for the next year when it would grow again.

This is an excerpt from my book in progress, A Philosophy on Art (From the Perspective of Subject Matter)

Lisa Lachapelle's Books website