Maybe This Time
by Judy Westergard
Oil on canvas
All rights reserved
A recent question from a friend had me pondering the word 'audacity. It's one of a few a words that have two connotations, each in opposition to the other. On the one hand, there's the sense of insolence, impertinence, defiance, as in: "Do you mean to say that you have the audacity to question my authority?" The other connotation is one of boldness, daring, heroism, even spunk. The "correct" meaning depends upon the situation in which it's used.
I consider myself lucky to have witnessed an amazing display of audacity in the latter of those two definitions. I just spent three hours helping a young woman write an intent paper for her college application. K is in her early 30's. She's part of the wait staff at a local restaurant. When she was 12, she was sent off to the "naughty kids' school" for what her school district identified as behavior problems. In looking back, K. attributes those problems to her severe hearing loss and to upheavals in her home life. Attendance at that school continued through high school where, she told me, only the basics were taught. She said, "It was an education that left me bored and uninspired."
K has decided to go to college, and I am in awe of the audacity that K is showing in taking action to pursue an education that she at one time thought was beyond her grasp. I am in awe of the audacity it took to overcome her past. I'm even in awe of the audacity it took for her to take me up on my offer to help her with her application. She was scared; this was, after all, an action that could set her world spinning in directions she knows she's not familiar with.
Some people might look at K's decision as one of effrontery. After all, how dare she go after something as foreign to her upbringing as a fine arts degree? Who does she think she is? Believe me, I know people who think this way. They're usually the folks who are afraid to pursue their own dreams. I, on the other hand, see K's audacity as an act of courage. It'll take a lot of boldness, daring, heroism, even spunk to achieve her goal; K. has it all. And if some folks are threatened by the effrontery of her decision, well, so be it. That's their problem, not hers.
My husband and I returned a couple of days ago from a two-week road trip to New Mexico. Along the way we realized our 3500 mile drive would become our own personal American Icon trip. South Dakota’s Wall Drug, Corn Palace, and Mt. Rushmore saw us checking off three “gotta see” stops that, as kids, our respective parents didn’t have the money, patience, or air-conditioned cars that would have allowed them to tolerate even a Minneapolis to Mitchell drive. With a nod to those good folks, we motored on. Carson National Forest shared its buffalo, wild turkeys, and wild burros; we saw more wild life in one hour’s drive than we’d seen in the past 40 years. Following the mountain road into Taos on a gray, drizzly day was breathtaking. I apologize for that cliche, but there’s really no other word that best describes the glitter of lime-green aspens against rain-darkened firs and deep sienna rock faces. But as much as I enjoyed those icons, it was the art and the artists in Taos and Santa Fe that captured my imagination. Weavers, potters, sculptors, oil painters, water colorists...inspiration and excitement and eagerness to wet my brush dominated my thoughts. Now I’m home. The washer and dryer are finally quiet. My camera has finished regurgitating 150+ photos into the computer. The Oaxacan hand-woven rug is hung on the wall. And I’m ready to paint. But I can’t. All that inspiration and excitement that captured my imagination only a few days ago have turned on me; all I feel now is intimidation. Even on my very best days, could I hope to come close to the quality of the work I saw? Do doctors and lawyers feel this way, too? Do politicians and clergymen look in awe over their colleagues’ abilities to solve problems judiciously and elegantly? When I’m not feeling sorry for myself, my guess is yes; they probably do. This sense of diffidence is part of the human condition and, since I’m human, I guess the only way to conquer it is to get off the computer, go to my studio, and wet that damned brush.
Although I retired from teaching six years ago, news of current research in education still has the power to grab my attention. The other day I read a piece about how the now-25-year-old trend to help kids build their self-esteem has created adults who expect accolades for achievements as small as showing up for work. I never did buy into the theory that constant praise helped youngsters. Rather, my lessons aimed to set goals for my students that were challenging but still achievable.
The painting that accompanies this blog entry reminded me of the dangers of false praise. It’s a painting that brings back a strong sense of frustration every time I look at it. I painted it during a lengthy and expensive workshop in portraiture. It was the first workshop I’d ever attended, and it was apparent from the get-go that my skills were to those of the other attendees as the B-squad football team is to the pro’s. The workshop was pricey, the instructor’s vitae impressive. I was determined to get something out of the weekend. The instructor, a well-known artist in her own right, was sensitive enough to become aware of my frustrations in trying to capture the model’s likeness and mood. After the third visit to my easel, she grabbed the pastel from my hand and with strokes that were too quick for me to follow, she added shadows and highlights and said, “See? That’s all that’s needed.” An hour later she returned and praised my painting. “Excellent! This is wonderful!” Well, there’s no surprise there, I thought to myself; after all, it was her own work that she was praising; I hadn’t touched the face.
It took about six months for me to return to that painting and rework it, thus making it mine. And while I’m not displeased with the final result, it’s not the final result that I see. Rather it’s the disbelief, frustration, and eventual anger I felt as the instructor -- no doubt with all good intentions -- tried to help me feel good about my efforts. And while working on another’s piece of art without permission violates all the rules of teaching, what really irked me was her praise. It was false. No doubt her intent was to help build my confidence as a portrait artist. What she left me with was a nagging sense of incompetence.
So I was excited to read that current research in teaching and in child rearing is urging educators and parents to avoid gratuitous praise. Those memories of false praise can stick with a person for a long time. The result is often an equally false sense of failure. Our kids deserve better.
