Groping My Way Down Memory Lane...
8/9/06 10:27 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roxyTonight we cleaned out the attic over the garage. Talk about staggering down memory lane.
There was a lot of art work from my days as an aspiring artist—snort. I was amazed at how bad most of it was. Gosh—I kind of stunk. On ice. But it was obvious, even now, that I was enjoying what I was doing, and that’s the most important thing, always. Anyway, that’s what I think. *nods*
I went to art school at the Art Institute of Philadelphia. They’re a chain of schools—pretty good schools really. We had a lot of fun back then, the school was still on Cherry Street, in a refurbished warehouse or factory or something. The people I went to school with were pretty cool. We looked out for each other, and being artists in training, we didn’t (mostly) give a shit what race, religion or sexual orientation you were. We were just there to be creative. And have fun. This was the place where I learned to be a little better about being laughed at. This was the place where folks learned that a person could be chubby, short and quiet, but still be bitchy as a mother fuck. (I like to do my part.)
In my painting class, they called me Ms. Durer, after Albecht Durer. It was *not* a compliment. But it was kind of funny. My teacher would look over my shoulder and giggle. Bastard.
My 3-D design teacher told me my stuff was shit, but at least it was interesting shit. Yeah—I had to agree with her. She was mostly nice to me though, especially when I let her know she didn’t scare me. I don’t know why, she scared a lot of folks. We had an understanding, us. She knew I sucked, and I knew I sucked, but she agreed to grade me on effort,. And a promise from me not to kill anyone. Worked out pretty good.
I remember one semester in painting class, we had a tiny little nun join us. Sister John, or, as we called her behind her tiny little back, (of course) Sister John Wayne. My teacher, F (I loved F so!) came to me before class and begged me not to curse in front of sister. What, I said, do you think I’m a heathen? Of course I won’t curse in front of sister. I’m a fairly good Catholic girl…sort of.
Soooo….one day, after begging all over school for the price of a cup of coffee—(thirty cents in the day) I managed to caffeine up. Put it on a stool next to the water I was rinsing my brushes out in. Yeah—of course, I rinsed my brush out in that hard-earned cup of coffee. I looked down, saw what I’d done and freaked a little. Just a little, something like, “Mother-fucking mother fuck! What the fuck!! My fucking coffee! Fuck me!! Fuck life. Fuck coffee!!”
I noticed that it was dead quiet in the class, and poor F was standing in the door way, looking like he either wanted to kill me, or die himself.
Yeah, Sister John Wayne was standing right next to me.
What could I do? I said, “Shit, sorry as hell about that, Sister.”
And she said ,”It’s perfectly all right, dear.” And smiled, as she painted another one of her itty –bitty tiny canvases of snails and flowers. She was pretty cool, too.
No point here—just rambling. *G*
There was a lot of art work from my days as an aspiring artist—snort. I was amazed at how bad most of it was. Gosh—I kind of stunk. On ice. But it was obvious, even now, that I was enjoying what I was doing, and that’s the most important thing, always. Anyway, that’s what I think. *nods*
I went to art school at the Art Institute of Philadelphia. They’re a chain of schools—pretty good schools really. We had a lot of fun back then, the school was still on Cherry Street, in a refurbished warehouse or factory or something. The people I went to school with were pretty cool. We looked out for each other, and being artists in training, we didn’t (mostly) give a shit what race, religion or sexual orientation you were. We were just there to be creative. And have fun. This was the place where I learned to be a little better about being laughed at. This was the place where folks learned that a person could be chubby, short and quiet, but still be bitchy as a mother fuck. (I like to do my part.)
In my painting class, they called me Ms. Durer, after Albecht Durer. It was *not* a compliment. But it was kind of funny. My teacher would look over my shoulder and giggle. Bastard.
My 3-D design teacher told me my stuff was shit, but at least it was interesting shit. Yeah—I had to agree with her. She was mostly nice to me though, especially when I let her know she didn’t scare me. I don’t know why, she scared a lot of folks. We had an understanding, us. She knew I sucked, and I knew I sucked, but she agreed to grade me on effort,. And a promise from me not to kill anyone. Worked out pretty good.
I remember one semester in painting class, we had a tiny little nun join us. Sister John, or, as we called her behind her tiny little back, (of course) Sister John Wayne. My teacher, F (I loved F so!) came to me before class and begged me not to curse in front of sister. What, I said, do you think I’m a heathen? Of course I won’t curse in front of sister. I’m a fairly good Catholic girl…sort of.
Soooo….one day, after begging all over school for the price of a cup of coffee—(thirty cents in the day) I managed to caffeine up. Put it on a stool next to the water I was rinsing my brushes out in. Yeah—of course, I rinsed my brush out in that hard-earned cup of coffee. I looked down, saw what I’d done and freaked a little. Just a little, something like, “Mother-fucking mother fuck! What the fuck!! My fucking coffee! Fuck me!! Fuck life. Fuck coffee!!”
I noticed that it was dead quiet in the class, and poor F was standing in the door way, looking like he either wanted to kill me, or die himself.
Yeah, Sister John Wayne was standing right next to me.
What could I do? I said, “Shit, sorry as hell about that, Sister.”
And she said ,”It’s perfectly all right, dear.” And smiled, as she painted another one of her itty –bitty tiny canvases of snails and flowers. She was pretty cool, too.
No point here—just rambling. *G*
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8/10/06 05:43 am (UTC)