Random essay i wrote in class but not for class:

Writing is quite an outlet for me. Whether it’s in the form of poems, journaling, or the occasional homework essay that I actually enjoy. So here’s sort of a brain dump, inspired by a post I saw describing an art classroom and how it’s the opposite of a liminal space. It made me think of Burroughs’ class. I loved Burroughs’ class. I’m in Rosati’s writing class. I hate this writing class. It makes me feel stupid. It makes me feel like a bad student. It makes me feel like I don’t know how to write. I loved Burroughs’ class. It feels like it died. It’ll never be the same again. I miss the classical music that you could only hear if you walked in the class early or stayed late or the very rare times that everyone was so focused on their work. I miss the artwork everywhere. EVERYWHERE. Whether it was current student work, past student work, Burroughs’ own work, it was everywhere. I stared at that mark making and brush work and portraits and whatnot for so long. I was so inspired. I miss the paint on the floor, especially the stain that was my fault. I miss the smell of linseed oil every now and then. I miss the maze that was tables and easels that you had to shuffle through without disturbing any work. I miss the chemical burn mark on that one table. I miss critiques and the way people work stop and then shuffle-run through it while we were in the hallway. Critiques would hurt sometimes. Patricia was always amazing and everyone was good in their own way but I wanted to be the best. Good wasn’t good enough. I wanted to be better. Now I’m here in college knowing that the majority of students here FAR exceed my skill level. It doesn’t bother me so much anymore. I think. I know I have to keep working and I’ll get there soon. But, instead I’m in writing class. I’m not in my studio. I’m going over the structure of a topic sentence that I’ll eventually use in a stupid essay about stupid political and social ethics that I don't care to write about. Part of me wants to revolt and turn this essay in instead. I know that would yield no benefit. I know I would get a 0. I know Conor would’ve appreciated it regardless. I know I should have switched to Conor's class. Curse the part of me that’s still in high school. Where they govern us like prisoners and nothing is in your control and you can’t change anything. If you don’t like the class you’re in too bad. If you fail it’s your fault. If the teacher and you don’t click then you’re being disagreeable. You’re not just another human being. You are ward of the school. You are cattle. Stay on the right side of the hallway. Don’t run. Don’t speak in class. Don’t do math that way, do it my way. Write what I said to write. I don't care that you don’t care about it. I know this will not benefit you in any way in the future. I know you’re right. Do it anyway. I am in power. Do as I say.

Art is different. Sure you have those teachers but there’s an understanding in the art department. That your art is your own. That it’s subjective. That it will live past you. Past this class. Past this teacher. Past the grade. That it will become its own being and develop meaning that you didn’t even put into it as time goes on. That it is every layer you painted on it as well as the paint on the floor. And the pillar in the middle of the class. And the eraser shavings on the easel. And the underclassman who watched you do it. And the music you listened to while making it. And the hour and a half dedicated to it daily. And the side conversations you got distracted by. And every change you made on your own. And every change you made because Burroughs suggested it. And every reference you used. And every time you didn’t use a reference because you thought you knew what it looked like. You didn’t. That it is every splatter in the sink from washing your brush. And the layer of dove soap you used up doing the same. The person you made eye contact with at the sink across from you. The brush you had to switch to because someone stole the other one. The laugh you let out when the group across the class said something wild. The tears you let out hidden behind your easel because there are other things going on. There are so many other things going on. There's so much going on. It's the partner that became an ex in the middle of the project. It’s the friends that you lost that you still see in every brushstroke.

Art is so much more than what’s on the page. Yet it’s nothing except what you see on the page. Does that make sense?

The art is the depression you fought to make it.

I'm proud of you.