One week in 2002, an artist friend, then teaching a once-a-week four-hour undergraduate drawing class at Bennington, asked me to fill in for her. She had to go out of town to prepare her work for a gallery show, and thought I might be able to share a few things with her students. Like what, I first thought. Like what, I might still think.
At that time I hadn’t accomplished much in the writing field or any other field for that matter—mostly, I had a small collection of small abstract drawings, an even smaller collection of short poems, and a somewhat inactive Master of Social Work degree. So these were my credentials, and my friend, for some reason I couldn’t quite put my finger on, thought I had something to offer these young minds. Despite my diffidence I said yes.
The day of the class I arrived early to make sure everything was ready—I was terrified the slide projector would either not be there, or if it was it wouldn’t work, or I wouldn’t be able to work it. I might knock it over, it might overheat and explode, I might faint or hyperventilate under the pressure to sound interesting and smart. I had envisioned an entire set of worst case scenarios, as I always did.
When I made my way into the large studio where the students spent the first part of the class sketching the nude model of the day, I sat down at the back of the room, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. When the model suited up and the students left their easels, they made their way towards the door. One girl passed by me, and asked in a less than friendly tone, and with what I might call some attitude:
“Are you…like…our substitute??”
The term substitute immediately brings to mind those poor souls brave enough to fill in for 10th grade Chemistry or 7th grade English. The first sight of this substitute and all hell breaks loose.
And on this promising note I began class.
My lesson plan included the following:
1. Don’t lock knees and faint while standing in front of classroom.
2. Don’t trip over cord to slide projector.
3. Show slides of my drawings right side up.
4. Pass out packet with my poems, writing exercises, and author’s quotes.
5. Pass around art books.
6. Ask class if they would like to do some writing exercises.
I made it through to number three, successfully showing my slides and commenting a little on each one. By the third slide, the girl who had asked if I was the substitute blurted out, “Were you… like…on drugs when you drew these?” I said I didn’t think so, and she seemed disappointed with my answer and unwillingness to discuss the many benefits of hallucinogens and other mind-altering substances. The rest of the class continued to say absolutely nothing and either stare or glare at me.
I then made it to number four, and passed out the packet I had prepared for them. I read some of my poems and the troublemaker piped up again, and asked, “Are these… like… published in something?” I said that a few of them were, but in a little unheard of academic journal. I decided to leave out that it was a journal of social work, and that it also happened to be a special issue featuring work by current inmates at a federal penitentiary.
I passed around my favorite art books, like those of Paul Klee and explained my interest in his work and his life. All was silent. Very silent. Painfully silent.
And last but not least I asked if they might be interested in doing at least one writing exercise—and what came from this? More silence, blank looks, and a very definite scowl from the direction of the troublemaker. I remember standing there thinking—what the hell do I do now?
It seemed I didn’t have to do anything. A student asked, “Is class over?”
***
A couple of weeks later I heard from my friend who had returned to her class, and she asked how it went. I gave her a brief recap, including of course the substitute comment, and their blank stares and glares. She didn’t sound surprised. But then she told me something that surprised me. She said that past week, many of her students had brought in something they wrote based on the writing exercises I had given them. She asked, “How did you get them to do that?” I said I had no idea.
So maybe their glares were just stares, and the long measures of silence meant they were listening after all. I only wish I could have seen what they wrote about—
