I have never been good with math. I am sitting
here, in a hand-me down arm chair that overlooks a sliver of yard outside my
apartment window, trying to calculate what percentage of the art of teaching art is a function of preparation, and what percentage is a function of improvisation. In the face of a particular group of students, a particular set of circumstances, a
particular exercise, material, or process, and shifting moods and energies from
day to day, the best laid plans can take unanticipated directions. The extent to
which I embrace the specificity of the moment and risk going with the flow
(which often equals trusting instincts and venturing “off the map”), or,
instead, attempt to impose a predetermined structure and narrow set of outcomes
on my students, seems to have an awful lot to do with the energy that develops
amongst the group as the semester or session
unfolds.
In my own experience, 60/40 feels accurate: 60%
preparation, 40% improvisation. However (and here’s where my inherently
non-linear nature makes mincemeat of math), while it seems necessary to prepare
abundantly for each class, my own experience also suggests that on any given
day, perhaps only 20% of that 60% of preparation will be put to use before some
change or unanticipated development renders the rest of the plan moot or in need
of revision. Still, arriving 100% prepared for that 60% of preparation seems to
ground me enough in both the bigger picture and the details of a given lesson,
that I can make informed choices in the moment about how to steer the ship.
The past five months have me reevaluating the
profound impact of chemistry and context – in other words, that “40%” – on the
way a learning experience unfolds. The three college classes, two community
center classes, one workshop, and several private lessons I have taught during
this time have offered me a rich set of data in which to ground my reflections
on the intricate art of teaching. The same passion, enthusiasm, and attention to
detail brought to the delivery of a given set of techniques and forms, for
example, produced – in three different class contexts – profoundly different
results in terms of work produced, individual student attitudes throughout the
process, and the dynamic of the group as a whole.
One conclusion I’m drawing from this (which
feels, to this highly sensitive person, like a revelation), is that when things
don’t go so well – when energy is low, when attitudes are bad, when students
fall behind or are unmotivated to fully execute the exercise at hand – the
not-going-so-well-ness is not always solely a reflection of my failing as an
instructor. An environment poorly designed to support ample workspace, focus, or
respect of class-time can, for example, dramatically undermine attempts to build
a cohesive group dynamic or maintain students’ attention throughout critical
periods of class. A particular group of people, when thrown together, can fail
to truly gel, despite wholehearted and repeated attempts on the part of the
instructor. An academic culture of over-commitment (to jobs, to too many studio
classes) can undermine student progress in a way an instructor’s best efforts
at instilling successful work habits cannot address. Rather than frame these
realizations in terms of “blame” or absolution from responsibility, however, I
am instead compelled to marvel at the tremendous grace and serendipity inherent
in winding up with a compatible group of students, or in having the opportunity
to teach in an environment that is truly conducive to learning.
The universities where I have had the privilege
to teach art Foundations courses and Ceramics courses are institutions whose
Schools of Art are doing the best they can with what they’ve got. Art programs
in this day and age are notoriously underfunded. Ceramics programs are almost
always (in my experience) sited in basements and/or leaky, decrepit buildings
that don’t offer ideal ventilation or drainage for the dusty, muddy, toxic
business of clay. And state universities are often overwhelmed by the sheer
number of art students vying for in-class workspace, storage space for
cumbersome materials, and sufficient space to work in outside of class time
(meaning, space that doesn’t interfere with students who are,
themselves, in class). Likewise, these art programs often struggle
to find sufficient classroom spaces for the numbers of classes
taking place at any given time on any given day. This translates, from an
instructor’s perspective, into experiences like arriving prepared to teach at
the start of one’s class period, and having to wait twenty minutes while the
instructor who taught in your classroom during the previous period finishes
talking with students, slowly packs up her materials, and departs. Meaning your
own scheduled activities – a critique, for example, or a demonstration, or
introducing a new assignment – must be postponed by twenty minutes of valuable
class-time, unless you’re foolish enough to begin them in the context of such a
distraction.
Another side-effect of competition for classroom
space is the mass accumulation of student art projects throughout the semester:
they multiply exponentially, exceeding available shelf and table space, until
you and your students become accustomed to their visual and spatial “white
noise”. One unintended result is a devaluing of the classroom space, and a
difficulty on the part of teacher or student to feel a sense of ownership of the
space…Which leads to an underlying discomfort in the room, a mild disgust at the
room’s perpetual state of unkemptness, and an eagerness to depart as soon as
class is adjourned. In such situations, efforts to improve the quality of the
classroom environment often meet a rapid demise: unless the majority of teachers
and students using the space care to work consistently to maintain it, a handful
of deep-cleans, floor-sweepings, or table-cleanings will amount to
little.
All of which is to say, art instructors,
particularly at overcrowded, underfunded state institutions, face some inherent
challenges. Given this reality, winding up with a group of students who don’t
quite gel, or the majority of who boast poor attitudes or too many commitments,
can significantly add to the challenge of communicating content, conveying
techniques, and inspiring investment in the work. I had this experience
recently: teaching a subject I love, in an interruption-heavy environment, to a
group that made me wonder if I was accidentally speaking Laotian or if there
was a giant meteor plummeting towards Earth that they could see but I couldn’t,
inspiring wholehearted apathy given our impending demise. At first, I took the
disconnect personally. It must be something about my delivery, or the pace of
projects, I thought. I adjusted my approach, tried different ways of connecting
with the students, even addressed the awkwardness head-on (in an e-mail titled
“Tough Love (sort of)”…FAIL). Nothing I did or didn’t do
seemed to have much impact on the result. For a long
time, I was profoundly dispirited by the situation. Finally (and with some help
from wise friends), I chose to stop trying to so hard to win over or to motivate
the five or so students who seemed committed to remaining in their own little
(disrespectful, apathetic) worlds, and instead focused my
greatest efforts on those students who seemed invested
and open to receiving what I had to offer. This act of surrender relieved
anxiety and, as such, I believe, made me a better teacher for the rest of the
semester. However, that “Dead-Poets-Society” part of my teacher-self remained
unsatisfied – that part of me that, like Robin Williams’ teacher character,
wants to win over even the most recalcitrant
student.
Fast forward to two recent teaching experiences:
a two-day workshop, one week ago, and the three-week-long “Maymester” class I am
currently teaching. The two-day workshop, on the topic of building a life-like
human head and facial features in clay, was my first workshop of this duration.
Having taught these techniques over the course of eight-week, one-day-a-week
classes at community centers before, I was well aware of the challenge of
covering all steps of the process in the time allotted, while keeping students
of all skill levels comfortable, confident, and up-to-speed. In past
experiences, one overwhelmed beginner who begins to verbally sabotage herself
can undermine the can-do spirit of
the group in the face of such a challenge, as can defensive, unnecessarily
territorial behavior by a student who seeks the instructor’s guidance, then
lashes out when the instructor touches his work or suggests changes. My workshop
experience a week ago was, instead, marked by grace. Not only was I excited (as
I always am) to share these techniques and to inspire students to take them in a
personal direction, but I was met with the most gracious, courageous,
enthusiastic group of adult students of all skill levels (one had never touched
clay!) you can imagine. Not only that, but the wonderful women hosting the
workshop could not have done more to prepare the facility and the classroom, to
make us all comfortable, and to grease the wheels for a smooth-sailing
experience from start to finish. To top it all off, I was fortunate to be
assisted by a woman I taught summer camp with last summer, and who worked with
me this spring as an independent study student at Georgia State University. Her
poise, knowledge, and unfaltering attention to our students freed me up to do
what I do best. It was a situation that felt designed to encourage success, and
indeed, students went away feeling fulfilled and inspired, as did I.
Likewise, I am currently engaged in a new-to-me
teaching experience – covering a standard college semester’s 15 weeks of content
in a turbo-charged 3-week “Maymester” version of Three Dimensional Design, a
class I have taught several times. Instead of the normal studio art class
schedule of two three-hour-long meetings per week, we meet five days a week, for
6 hours each day. Preparing for such a course requires tremendous work, and I
suspected previous approaches wouldn’t suit the format, so I have reinvented my
approach with the help of an amazing book I learned of this spring. The dramatic
differences between the current experience and my experience of teaching the
same class this spring, render me slack-jawed on a pretty-much daily basis.
Here are a few comparative observations:
Numbers: I teach 10 students this May
as compared to the 20 in my spring 3D Design class. The current group bonded
more readily, engages willingly in substantive, sustained, incredibly
interactive discussions, and achieves focus effortlessly during work sessions,
relieving me of the responsibility of enforcing of “no cell phone” rules or
reminders to tone down chit-chatting (behaviors that feel heavy-handed and don’t
come naturally to me anyway).
Chemistry: Not only is this group, to
a person, astonishingly good-natured, open, and willing to apply themselves,
they have really gelled with one another, even given significant differences in
age, background, personality, and professional
goals.
Class Culture: A collective sense of respect for what I, as instructor, have to
offer, and a fundamental trust in the notion that applying themselves
wholeheartedly to each exercise will lead to an incremental development of
crucial skills that will make them stronger artists and designers, seems to come
naturally to this crew. Therefore, I can relax and be myself, and give them the
best of what I have to offer, instead of having to expend significant energy
“policing”, “babysitting”, or “selling” the virtues of a given assignment. As a
teacher, I *thrive* under such
circumstances.
Class Environment: Because it is Maymester, few classes are in session and the
School of Art is a ghost town. My class is the only one using our room all
semester – a first for me. We spent the better part of an hour on the first day
making parade-like expeditions to the dumpster (three stories down), arms full
of the carcasses of art-projects-past, abandoned by students with too little
room to store their work, or zero interest in hanging on to reminders of
grueling assignments. We swept the floor, scrubbed tables with disinfectant
wipes (which turned pitch black), and sponged down the chalkboard. Not only did
this experience give the students ownership of the space, it gave each of us a
sense of comfort and trust, knowing that the room would stay as we left it, and
will stay as we leave it day to day.
The integrity of the space will not be violated. They can store their work
without fear of it being stolen or smashed, and they can breathe freely and
focus more readily in a cleaner, more harmonious work environment. I celebrated
this milestone by purchasing an essential oil candle for the space.
Ahhhhhh…
Schedule: The “Maymester” model
demands focus. It also encourages it. I wondered if our daily six-hour class
meetings would drag on, and if I’d be pulling teeth to keep students awake and
engaged for even two-thirds of our daily class time. Instead, I arrive at 8:15
and half my students have already been there for an hour working and chatting.
Class-time flies by (the students say this, too), and the depth of students’
engagement in critiques, PowerPoint lectures (which, in this group, become
discussions…YES!), and work-sessions exceeds my expectations to the point of
amazement daily. I have no doubt that this is related to the fact that this
class is each of my students’ only class this semester, and, further, that it is
their chief life priority for these fleeting but intense three weeks. I am
experiencing the dream of what school should be. While I recognize that the
standard academic calendar and the realities of students’ lives do not support
this kind of focus, I relish this brief encounter with my ideal teaching
scenario.
While I have strayed from my original topic of
the 60% preparation/40% improvisation ratio, I will now return to it. While I
prepared for this Maymester class to the best of my abilities in the time
allotted, I could not have anticipated that I would end up with a categorically
amazing group of willing, driven, mature students, or just how the
six-hours-a-day, five-days-a-week format would play out (being new to it
myself). If I were committed (as many part time college instructors smartly are,
out of sanity and self-preservation) to sticking with my original lesson plans
and pace, I would currently be missing out on the unique opportunities offered
by this incredible group of students and the unique Maymester format. I would be
teaching out of that “60%” place, in other words.
Instead, I am opting (at tremendous short-term
cost to my leisure time, relationship, and nightly sleep regimen) to capitalize
on what this group seems open to, hungry for, and capable of, and on what now
seems possible in this intensive educational format. I am reconceiving
assignments daily, allotting twice as much time as planned for the rich
discussions that continue to unfold during in-progress and final critiques, and
I am reconsidering how to pace and punctuate the class in order to focus our
time and effort on opportunities these students seem worthy of and ready for.
These students, sleep deprived and laughing about how late they stayed up
working on a project or how early they got up to finish one, have no idea that I
am right there with them, doing homework and research to continue to make this
class the best experience it can be for each of them – because they deserve it,
and because more is possible with this group and in this format than I could
have possibly imagined.
All of which makes me grateful for my openness to
the “40%” side of the teaching formula. I am willing to improvise, willing to
work responsively (as I often instruct my students to do in their art), which
seems a more fitting approach to life in general – to work with what
is rather that what ought to be,
or what one expected. Dwelling in the space of this “40% improvisation” feels
like how I imagine surfing to feel – like riding powerful, unpredictable waves.
It is exhilarating, exhausting, a bit crazy, and rewarding in ways both visible
and unquantifiable. The risk and moment-by-moment sensitivity and
decision-making required of dwelling in the space of “the 40%” also makes you
stronger and more fit – for teaching and for life…which, as we all know but
would sometimes rather forget, are full of surprises.
I am feeling really grateful for the range of
teaching experiences I have had over the past five months, and for the people
who have extended these opportunities to me. The challenging teaching experiences
have taught me to choose my battles, to learn how and when to surrender, and to
recognize that, as long as I am doing my best, things like awkward group
dynamics or subpar work ethics or results are not entirely a reflection of me.
My more recent experiences, in which circumstances seem to conspire to support
success and fulfillment, remind me, similarly, that the best thing I can do as a
teacher is to get over myself. I can prepare like crazy, show up, expect the
unexpected, and do my objective best to give the best of what I have to give,
while embracing the reality of a given set of circumstances, and responding as
artfully and with as much agility as I can muster moment to moment. Either way,
what happens is the product of many factors – of much more than my efforts
alone. There is liberation in accepting that, as a teacher of art, I am part
catalyst and part ship captain in a much larger, ever-evolving organism (the
class). I think the 60% is there to keep me grounded, and the 40%, to keep me
on my toes.
I am also feeling grateful for my students, who continue to be my best teachers. To those who have eluded my best efforts: I thank you for making me un-comfortable, and inspiring me to stretch beyond habituated approaches. I thank you, too, for teaching me the value of surrender, and of not taking things so personally. To those who have challenged me with your brilliance, openness, penetrating insights, and willingness to dive in day after day: thank you for inspiring me to be better, smarter, defter and more artful in my assignments, more articulate in my descriptions and analyses, more demanding, better prepared, and more dedicated in my own art practice. Thank you for the luminosity of your spark - in its light and heat, I sense the future...your potential...all you may envision, inspire, and create in your lifetime. Just the glint of this spark in one student's eyes is enough to ground me in the gravity of my work. I want our time together to prove a contribution to your development into the best, most empowered version of you that you may be. And to those students who have taken the time and effort to be kind or gracious, thank you for the beauty, generosity, and tenderness of these gestures. They touch me and soften me in the midst of our demanding work together, especially because they are never owed or expected. Because our work is really about you. And I like it that way.