When I was young and naïve, I thought that I was good at art. People told me I was good; they complimented my drawings. Those small gestures swelled my head; I thought that maybe I might be prodigal. I gullibly traipsed through my days, the reassurance of talent glowing in my adolescent heart, buoying me into a cloud. Peoples’ praise lifted me; I entered contests, won, and the cycle continued. I felt that no matter what, my finesse at drawing could take me anywhere, and that as long as I had that, I was safe. I was secure. I had a safety net; something to fall back on. I was set for a career, a life without worry.
How very wrong I was.
Trapped in the cage that was my hubris, I opted to take AP Studio Art my senior year. It was a class I had anticipated taking since I heard of its existence. I was ready to stun people with my drawings and expert craftsmanship. I could barely contain my excitement. The first day of that class was preceded by a summer assignment: one piece of a concentration. (A concentration includes pieces that encompass your best craftsmanship on a theme that you choose to focus on, using whatever medium you believe you are most proficient at.) Our teacher was thrilled to see what we had brought him; he looked over the pieces hungrily, taking in the ambience of such diversity. I brought in my piece that day, confident to show off my abilities. My ego was prepared for a flurry of compliments. I wanted my piece to glow like a diamond in the rough, something truly spectacular amidst everything else.
Feeling like a connoisseur one minute and then an inept proletarian the next is not a feeling I would like to feel ever again.
The other students in that class, many of whom I knew, but had no gauge of their true talent, had pieces mine could not even begin to compare to. I stared blankly at the superiority of it all, trying to ignore my feeble contribution amongst a sea of excellence. I felt insignificant as a desultory, long-forgotten tchotchke, lost in the grand scheme of more important things.
It was then that I realized I wasn’t gifted. I wasn’t even good. I was mediocre at best. I had obliviously joined an elite group, just barely managing to secure my spot.
I didn’t take this project seriously enough. I thought. These people treat art as if their entire livelihood is at stake.
That unveiling was, though I did not know it at the time, one of the most influential and pivotal parts of my entire life.
Bequeathed though I thought I was, I was also exceedingly near-sighted. Never knowing of the broader horizon, I never looked for it. I used to be a big fish in a small pond; I’m not used to being a big fish in an ocean. It’s extremely intimidating, especially if there are sharks.
Oh, the sharks.
They are exemplary. Consummate, the very definition of ability. The ne plus ultra of art. Once gifted among the average, I was then average among the gifted. But, of course, in retrospect, I deserved it. If that’s not a wake-up call, I don’t know what is.
After that first day, I was forever changed.
Since then I’ve observed real talent, seen it in videos, advertisements, tutorials, paintings. Real life is the scariest. It’s overwhelming to know that someone has so much more talent now than I will ever have.
In all honesty, this realization was frightening, and even a bit disheartening. But then I realized that I was not aware of the huge opportunity I had.
If others were so good, then there was only one solution.
I must become better.
I realized that instead of floundering in the shadows, I had to rise to the challenge and come out into the light. This idea pervaded through my soul, and I became encouraged to be the best I can ever be. I realized that even though I knew I was never going to be the best, my awareness of that fact would help me to improve. My ability would not remain stagnant; dismay was shattered that day. Determination fueled me more than anything I had ever known. I was dispirited and demoralized, ashamed and overwhelmed, but I had to look past all that.
It was all behind me; a brighter future lay ahead, one in which I knew that I would spend every waking hour trying to be as skillful as I possibly could be.
Awash with resolve, I did not give up. I did not wallow in my own self despair as I might have contemplated, and I certainly did not stop drawing.
Today I go to that class every day, seizing the immaculate learning opportunities. I can’t compliment my peers enough on their astonishing prowess. As I walk through the classroom to reach my seat, I glimpse pieces of heaven in paint on canvas, furrowed brows, and smudged sketches. I see truly incredible things that inspire me every day.
I am still young and naïve.
I think I get better and see people truly blow me away. I enter contests blindly believing that maybe I’ll have impressed someone, but that’s just a desperate daydream.
Sometimes I think that maybe I’ve peaked, and nothing I ever do again will improve; I might be stuck at a plateau while others around me shoot up past me and out of sight. Sometimes I have less hope than your average hackneyed post-apocalyptic bestseller.
But I am nothing if I do not try.
And I know that every single person in that class, no, in the entire art world, knows that very struggle. They might be better than me, but there will always be someone better than them. It is, at times, infuriating, but they continue on as well. The struggle to reach the very top, the peak of flair and forte is in reach for someone. Pure, fantastical genius that seems unfathomable.
And while I may not be or ever reach that, if I look up to someone, maybe, just maybe, someone somewhere will look up to me.
