The Path of a Young Artist

I can only imagine the distress and agony my parents felt when I told them of the future I wanted. I didn’t give them any warning---I mean all those years, I’ve been telling them that I wanted to be the first Filipino astronaut, and then after that, a scientist. It was only during my senior year in high school, when it was time to fill out college applications, that I decided to “officially” decide to be an artist.

It really shouldn’t have been much surprise for anyone, (maybe except for my math and science teachers), since people have always asked me if I dreamed of being an artist when I was younger and to which I used to reply, “No! I don’t want to be poor.” I was probably eight when I used to get angry at that question. Why would these people want me to be poor?

I didn’t draw a lot, but when I did everyone seemed to like it. I remember my first art teacher, Mrs. Austin, she admired my work, always commenting on what I constructed or painted. I drew oak leaves using colored chalk---not as exciting as it sounds---and it turned out pretty good, good enough for it to be posted in the Washington Post in the Arts & Style section one Sunday morning. My parents bragged about it to their friends. So did I.

And years would fly by, and again and again, accolades, awards, titles would collect and pile up, not just for my art but also for my academics. By the time I graduated from high school, I became the “artist guy” and the Valedictorian. How could this be? An artist, smart? Our local newspaper called me a “Bucking Valedictorian” breaking tradition. I found it funny, ironic, and painful at the same time. I didn’t know whether to take it as a compliment or as an insult.

I was suppose to be a doctor.

I was suppose to be an engineer.

Some rich, smart guy.

Not a poor, worthless, painter desperately selling his livelihood down by the Shell Station.

My parents are Filipinos, which means I should have been a nurse. The only time when a filipino goes to art school is when a) they’re rich and b) they’re chinese-filipino. Unfortunately, we fit in neither category.

I feel guilty being an artist. I feel guilty for using my parents’ money to study in some unreasonably expensive art school. I feel guilty for not making use of my skills in math and in science. I could have easily gone the other way and put a smile in everyone’s face... except for mine. Now, I bear what most young artists have to live with: the fear of working three side jobs just to eat every night, FIND a job, endure the ridicule from everyone.

I know my parents are trying their best to play nice, and smile every time my future comes up in a conversation, but I know, and they know, what everyone is thinking. One night, I overheard my dad talking to one of our relatives, and our relative raising his brow when he heard of me being an artist. I could sense the embarrassment in my dad’s muffled voice. I never bring up art-related news in the table anymore, because no one cares, which garners the usual “mhmm” response.

I’m beyond grateful that they support me enough to still help me pay for my education. I’m lucky, knowing a handful of other parents that would immediately disown their asian child upon hearing such unfavorable news. I just wish they could realize the importance in what I do. But I’m not in any position to ask for anything more. Already to them, it must feel like I’m asking them to throw their money in a fiery incinerator.

Art school is no easy feat. (Please bear with me as I defend my fellow artists.) A lot of my other friends in “normal” universities always complain about tough exams and those infamous lengthy lectures, or that crazy professor who lowered your grade for using MLA instead of APA in one paper. Alright, we don’t have exams, but we do have six hour long studio sessions and we also have to deal with judgmental teachers, stubbornly set in teaching you “their” vision of art. And instead of exams or quizzes we get weekly/long term projects, and also weekly critiques where instead of privately receiving a letter to tell you how much you fail, you have an entire class decide how terrible you are in a 45 minute group discussion. Alright, that might be an exaggeration, but so are the other rumors you hear from normal college classes. We can’t even afford to skip classes, due to our naturally small class. The teacher knows our names, and we’re not just numbers in a class of hundreds. Our grades suffer if we’re even late too many times.

And procrastination? Artists are known for their laziness, how else could their low grades in school be explained. If we procrastinate, there’s a high probability of failure in the class. And on top of that, there’s the judgmental teacher you have to deal with, and your critical peers. Impressions are everything. Trust me, you don’t want to be known as the “what’s he doing in art school?” guy. You can cram and study the night before an exam but projects require a lot more than a single night. Oil paintings that take a week to dry are a pain in the derriere, just because it adds more complications in my schedule, like when to actually start so it will be dry by the time I turn it in. [Good] artists learn the rigidity of deadlines and micro-time management skills earlier than our other peers. So my question is, who’s the lazy one? The guy who hasn’t attended half the lectures and leeching off his friend’s notes or the other one who’s pulling out his hair, trying to figure out how he can complete the 4’x4’ painting, six page paper on abstract expressionism, 500-foot wire sculpture, landscape drawing, and an elaborate fabrication explaining the concept behind the painting by next monday.

And then there are the arguments that artists are not smart and contribute nothing to society but their pretty pictures. In art school, I’ve learned to accept those childish paintings we’ve all seen in art museums as art. A lot of us might look at those and say, “I could have done that!” Well sure, a lot of art can be reproduced by someone else, but it’s the originality, the artist’s defiance against the norm, against society and even against his fellow artists that earns him/her respect. It’s always the one who has the first food idea that is rewarded, and not the others who follow and copy. And then there’s the crazy, controversial, conceptual/performance art, which doesn’t quite fit under my umbrella but I’m still open to. A guy flips a urinal upside down and calls it art (all you art-buffs out there know what I’m talking about). It takes intelligence and extreme awareness to be a good artist. Technical skills and dextrous hands are no longer enough, it takes a brilliant mind to be an artist today. Bruce Nauman once claimed in his neon sculpture “The true artist helps the world by revealing mystic truths.” As artists, it’s in our nature to respond and reflect upon our surrounding and environment. You can tell heap about a culture and the time they lived in just by studying their artists. We work behind the scenes, concealed by the curtains, while most of everyone else is getting recognition and praise for their contribution to the world on the front stage. Young artists today strive to question our current systems and institutions. We change the world little by little like everyone else.

So what now? I live everyday, accepting the fact that nothing I do will ever make my parents or the entire world understand what I go through as a young artist: The ridicule we face, the scoffs we hear behind our backs, the whispering among family members and friends. Not to mention our own self doubts and uncertainty that comes free with being a confused adolescent. The path I’ve chosen is a tough one, but already, I feel like a stronger person.

(I know not every artist has the same story as mine, but there are some out there who share my pain.)