When you move to a new place, you often learn new terminology. Recently, I've heard many references to "single tracking." This is when trains going in multiple directions all share one track due to some malfunction with another track, causing major travel delays. This seems to happen frequently on the Metro lines in DC.
It's reminded me of a conversation I had recently with a colleague about the existence of a "single track" in academia. This colleague expressed that there seemed to be only one acceptable course to follow as a faculty member seeking tenure and promotion to full professor. While some may argue that there are many valid approaches to professional development, they do lie within a certain range of activity. Basically, the expectation (for a visual arts faculty member) is to show your work at galleries and museums of increasing stature over the course of your career, to speak at conferences or give workshops, and to be published in books or magazines.
I'm oversimplifying a bit, but the point is that some activities are valid (or deemed to be worthwhile as demonstrated, in part, by promotions or raises based on the sum of those activities), while others have very little worth. So while doing an art workshop with people from your community may have some worth as "service," it would have more value if you then had an exhibition of these works at a gallery. It would have even more value if it was an exhibition of your own work done in collaboration with the community. And that value would be further increased by the status of the gallery.
But to look at it another way, which of those activities is really the most valuable? Is it the experience and learning for the people in the workshop, or the experience of the people who see the exhibition? Both have value in different ways, but I would argue the core strength of such a project is in its original intent--that is, in the workshop designed as an experience for the workshop participants. As an artist, shouldn't this be what I care most about?
Unfortunately, our current academic structure places the emphasis on public stature, not individuals' experiences. Thus, in order to be successful, a faculty member has to choose which activities to pursue according to their effect on professional standing. This is not to say that you may only pursue those most "valuable" activities, but you must arrange your time and efforts in such a way as to put the bulk of your energy into these areas.
I have been asking myself over the last six months about the value of what I do. This idea of "single tracking" has caused me to realize that I've been on one track that runs certain equipment at a certain speed to a certain destination. I have defined what is of value, to a large extent, based on that track. Now I've hopped the rails and am free-wheeling over rough terrain, shaking loose my bolts and rattling my engine. This is redefining how I think about what is of value in my work.
If I am to continue making work that has no tangible reward--its purpose is not to make money and no there is no direct professional consequence (as in faculty status or salary)--why am I doing it? I believe that art can change people and can therefore act to change the world, which sounds naive even to my own ears. But I make work that is about experiencing a viewpoint that is not your own, causing us to question our perception of the world around us--and I really do hope to produce change, little by little, in the people who interact with my work. That has led me to working with people with disabilities, to open up the gallery for viewers to become participants in making a work of art, and to explore in greater depth what an artist in community might look like.
Pulling my roots out of the fertile Iowa soil only to be plopped into the hard clay of Virginia has resulted in transplant shock (a time during which a plant has to adjust to its new environment before its roots regain their strength and start working their way into the soil). I'm in the process of being transplanted, my roots and leaves in shock but recovering and beginning to grow again before new flower buds will set and fresh fruit will ripen on the vine.
Monday, January 9, 2012
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Motivation
As recently as September, I presented myself in this blog as "very self-motivated." I was always that irritating student who got the assignment done weeks before it was due while most everyone else spent the night before typing the paper or finishing the construction of their piece. Although I found it difficult to balance teaching, service responsibilities, and my own research, I continued to pursue all three with dedication during my tenure as a college faculty member, continually developing and challenging my abilities. I did the work that needed to be done and didn't really give it much thought.
Six months into my new life adventure, I'm questioning the notion of self-motivation. What does it mean to be "self" motivated? Without any external force requiring me to make work, I'm finding my motivation is falling flat. I realize that as a student, I did the work because it was required of me to complete a course. And even though I have been entirely self-directed in my art-making as a faculty member, professional development was a requirement of the job. In order to be a successful faculty member at a state university, you must create and publish (or exhibit) research.
With no external pressure, I find that I am uncertain why I make things. The artwork I have spent my time pursuing the last nine years is not a source of income, and it is truly hard, though generally satisfying, work. My creative process is not something I have pursued because I thought it was "fun." Sure, I began crafting at a young age because I enjoyed it, and I still do. But as my profession, it takes a tremendous amount of energy and time.
I didn't expect to feel this way. I was really looking forward to finally having the time to dedicate to my artwork, free from the multi-directional pull one experiences when balancing the requirements of an academic life. This has caused me to recognize how motivated I am by external factors--what others expect, think, or need. My guess is that this is actually quite normal--but how many of us recognize it? How many people ever have the chance to stop whatever it is that they are doing for an extended period and the time and space to examine their life from that new vantage point? What would we each discover given that opportunity?
This is a difficult time for me personally. I have uprooted my life in the hopes of something yet to be, but I'm in between what my life was and what it will be. I still believe I have made the right decision to let go of my identity as "Erica, the professor" to pursue a new understanding of myself and what my life is. But it's hard to be patient--let's get there already! This time is my opportunity to let the outside world fall away and to discover who I am underneath the external motivations that have driven me this far.
Six months into my new life adventure, I'm questioning the notion of self-motivation. What does it mean to be "self" motivated? Without any external force requiring me to make work, I'm finding my motivation is falling flat. I realize that as a student, I did the work because it was required of me to complete a course. And even though I have been entirely self-directed in my art-making as a faculty member, professional development was a requirement of the job. In order to be a successful faculty member at a state university, you must create and publish (or exhibit) research.
With no external pressure, I find that I am uncertain why I make things. The artwork I have spent my time pursuing the last nine years is not a source of income, and it is truly hard, though generally satisfying, work. My creative process is not something I have pursued because I thought it was "fun." Sure, I began crafting at a young age because I enjoyed it, and I still do. But as my profession, it takes a tremendous amount of energy and time.
I didn't expect to feel this way. I was really looking forward to finally having the time to dedicate to my artwork, free from the multi-directional pull one experiences when balancing the requirements of an academic life. This has caused me to recognize how motivated I am by external factors--what others expect, think, or need. My guess is that this is actually quite normal--but how many of us recognize it? How many people ever have the chance to stop whatever it is that they are doing for an extended period and the time and space to examine their life from that new vantage point? What would we each discover given that opportunity?
This is a difficult time for me personally. I have uprooted my life in the hopes of something yet to be, but I'm in between what my life was and what it will be. I still believe I have made the right decision to let go of my identity as "Erica, the professor" to pursue a new understanding of myself and what my life is. But it's hard to be patient--let's get there already! This time is my opportunity to let the outside world fall away and to discover who I am underneath the external motivations that have driven me this far.
Saturday, November 12, 2011
Artist in Transition
Why are labels so important to us? We all have a need to understand who we are and why we are here, but it seems that we need to label ourselves in order to achieve that understanding. I'm the "academic" the "artist" the "redhead" the "fill-in-the-blank." Why is categorization so important to our ability to understand the world? Perhaps those convenient little boxes really just give us the illusion that we comprehend what's going on around us.
I did a project with a group of students in 2010 called the No Label Project. (Our website is no longer active, but you can view the homepage here.) On a single day, we passed out nearly two thousand large, bright red stickers that simply read "NO LABEL." We asked people to wear these stickers on their person for the day, and to use it as an opportunity to talk about how we are all labeled. We were particularly interested in the idea of "disability" as a label. A "disability" is a different way of functioning in the world, but we're quick to peg someone as "the blind girl" or "the stutterer" or "the kid with ADD." These things may be part of our experience of the world, but they don't define who we are.
Being a person who stutters, I am very aware of the effect of labels. I used to call myself a "stutterer." It was such a part of who I was, I couldn't actually imagine myself without it, except in some far-off dream of the future. When I finally realized that this was creating a problem for me in speech therapy--that I couldn't let the stuttering go and still be "Erica," I started saying "I am a person who stutters." This seems so simple, but it really changed how I think about who I am. Rather than being a "stutterer," stuttering is something that happens to me or that I do. We don't call someone an "ADDer," because ADD isn't who they are. It's something someone struggles with, but it isn't synonymous with who they are.
Fast forward to today. I feel as though I have lost "who I am." I didn't realize that being a "professor" or an academic had come to overwhelmingly define me in my own eyes. Without that title or that label, I feel lost. Am I an artist, a maker, a stay-at-home-wife? What is my new paradigm to understand myself and my purpose?
Matthew and I attended a small group Bible study last Sunday, and someone asked us what we do. Matthew's a geospatial researcher who works for the Army Corps. I said "I'm an artist in transition." I was teaching and now I'm making, but I'm not really sure what I'm doing. For the first time, I found a label that seemed to fit. And I really hate labels, but I still seem to depend on them. Without one, would I be anything at all?
I did a project with a group of students in 2010 called the No Label Project. (Our website is no longer active, but you can view the homepage here.) On a single day, we passed out nearly two thousand large, bright red stickers that simply read "NO LABEL." We asked people to wear these stickers on their person for the day, and to use it as an opportunity to talk about how we are all labeled. We were particularly interested in the idea of "disability" as a label. A "disability" is a different way of functioning in the world, but we're quick to peg someone as "the blind girl" or "the stutterer" or "the kid with ADD." These things may be part of our experience of the world, but they don't define who we are.
Being a person who stutters, I am very aware of the effect of labels. I used to call myself a "stutterer." It was such a part of who I was, I couldn't actually imagine myself without it, except in some far-off dream of the future. When I finally realized that this was creating a problem for me in speech therapy--that I couldn't let the stuttering go and still be "Erica," I started saying "I am a person who stutters." This seems so simple, but it really changed how I think about who I am. Rather than being a "stutterer," stuttering is something that happens to me or that I do. We don't call someone an "ADDer," because ADD isn't who they are. It's something someone struggles with, but it isn't synonymous with who they are.
Fast forward to today. I feel as though I have lost "who I am." I didn't realize that being a "professor" or an academic had come to overwhelmingly define me in my own eyes. Without that title or that label, I feel lost. Am I an artist, a maker, a stay-at-home-wife? What is my new paradigm to understand myself and my purpose?
Matthew and I attended a small group Bible study last Sunday, and someone asked us what we do. Matthew's a geospatial researcher who works for the Army Corps. I said "I'm an artist in transition." I was teaching and now I'm making, but I'm not really sure what I'm doing. For the first time, I found a label that seemed to fit. And I really hate labels, but I still seem to depend on them. Without one, would I be anything at all?
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Celebrating the Small Successes
Nearly six weeks gone by and no post. For shame! Thanks, MaryBeth, for prodding me a little.
I have had my first small success. I finally made a totally wearable piece of jewelry for a reasonable cost that I am proud to say is mine. It was harder to get there than I expected. The piece is a brooch, made from a vintage doily soaked in red epoxy-based resin, cured and trimmed in the form of a hemisphere and set, gemstone-like, in a simple silver bezel.
Digging into my jewelry roots, I have found it surprisingly difficult to make something unexpected. The first pieces I made were brightly colored earrings (an example is pictured below), constructed of hollow boxes filled with resin and sanded to a smooth surface. They are really quite cute and I have enjoyed wearing and gifting them, but they are also similar to other jewelry I've seen and I can't say I want to be defined by them.
This leads me to ask:
Are we defined by what we make?
Why I am so afraid to be associated with jewelry I feel is just "average" or "the norm?" Is it because I don't want to be viewed as average or just so-so? I think this is, in part, the case, but I also believe I have a unique perspective--as every person does, and want to demonstrate this by what I produce.
Up until now, I have been doing this by making artwork about my own experiences--first about stuttering and more recently about handcraft itself and the power of art to communicate and transform. This somehow seems like "important" work--that somehow I can change the perceptions and ideas of others through art. But that may just be my ego elbowing into things. It has also, to some extent, been the view of the art world in general--"Craft" is often viewed as the ugly stepsister to "Art." I don't believe this, but the concept has pervaded my worldview.
I sit here imagining Snow White's stepmother as the ugly witch poisoning the apples from which Snow White will later take her fatal bite. I was so afraid of this scene when I first saw it in the movie theater as a young child I literally ran out. But isn't that how some ideas become part of our lens for viewing the world? We ingest just one little piece at a time until--BOOM--it's got you! Okay, perhaps a bit melodramatic, but my point is that what we believe about the world comes from many, many experiences over time. We may remember some of the major ones, like the day you ran a staple right through your finger moments after your Grandma told you not to touch the stapler (I was four), but forget the minor ones, like, oh....when you burned a batch of cookies. You don't remember the kind of cookie or how old you were or any of the other circumstances, but you learn to check your cookies' progress more often as they bake to ensure you get just the right brown.
I digress.
I am happy to report my second small success--my first sales! I sold a few pairs of earrings through a small craft sale hosted by a friend in Alexandria, Virginia. Onwards and upwards!
I have had my first small success. I finally made a totally wearable piece of jewelry for a reasonable cost that I am proud to say is mine. It was harder to get there than I expected. The piece is a brooch, made from a vintage doily soaked in red epoxy-based resin, cured and trimmed in the form of a hemisphere and set, gemstone-like, in a simple silver bezel.Digging into my jewelry roots, I have found it surprisingly difficult to make something unexpected. The first pieces I made were brightly colored earrings (an example is pictured below), constructed of hollow boxes filled with resin and sanded to a smooth surface. They are really quite cute and I have enjoyed wearing and gifting them, but they are also similar to other jewelry I've seen and I can't say I want to be defined by them.
 |
| www.etsy.com/shop/EricaDuffyVoss |
Are we defined by what we make?
Why I am so afraid to be associated with jewelry I feel is just "average" or "the norm?" Is it because I don't want to be viewed as average or just so-so? I think this is, in part, the case, but I also believe I have a unique perspective--as every person does, and want to demonstrate this by what I produce.
Up until now, I have been doing this by making artwork about my own experiences--first about stuttering and more recently about handcraft itself and the power of art to communicate and transform. This somehow seems like "important" work--that somehow I can change the perceptions and ideas of others through art. But that may just be my ego elbowing into things. It has also, to some extent, been the view of the art world in general--"Craft" is often viewed as the ugly stepsister to "Art." I don't believe this, but the concept has pervaded my worldview.
I sit here imagining Snow White's stepmother as the ugly witch poisoning the apples from which Snow White will later take her fatal bite. I was so afraid of this scene when I first saw it in the movie theater as a young child I literally ran out. But isn't that how some ideas become part of our lens for viewing the world? We ingest just one little piece at a time until--BOOM--it's got you! Okay, perhaps a bit melodramatic, but my point is that what we believe about the world comes from many, many experiences over time. We may remember some of the major ones, like the day you ran a staple right through your finger moments after your Grandma told you not to touch the stapler (I was four), but forget the minor ones, like, oh....when you burned a batch of cookies. You don't remember the kind of cookie or how old you were or any of the other circumstances, but you learn to check your cookies' progress more often as they bake to ensure you get just the right brown.
I digress.
I am happy to report my second small success--my first sales! I sold a few pairs of earrings through a small craft sale hosted by a friend in Alexandria, Virginia. Onwards and upwards!
Monday, September 19, 2011
Time
It's really amazing how, when you have no nine-to-five job, no friends [geographically nearby], nowhere to go, you can still have no time to work! One thing I have learned about myself is that I will always be busy. It won't matter how many hours I work away from home (or don't), how many committee meetings I have (or don't), how many commitments or responsibilities I have (or don't), I always fill my time. Recently, my husband and I have had several out-of-town guests nearly back-to-back, so I've kept busy cleaning, doing laundry, cooking, and touring around the area. I've also decided to take the Master Gardener Program through the Virginia Cooperative Extension--something I've wanted to do for a while and finally have the "time" to do it. Not to mention this is the time of year to get a few new shrubs in the ground and dig some compost in around a few straggly azaleas. Who has time to work?
Of course, I'm exaggerating a bit. I can set my own schedule and am enjoying the luxury of being able to take a class six hours a week. The real issue is making working in my studio the priority. I have always been very self-motivated and get a lot of work done in a compact amount of time, but making studio time the priority was a struggle for me during the academic year just as it is now. I love to garden, to cook, to read, to learn, to spend time with family and friends--I want time for it all!
I also struggle with is the enormity of everything I feel I need to do--develop a marketable line of work, market it, market myself, take time to make art art in addition to production work (jewelry), write a new artist statement, find exhibitions, apply for exhibitions. This whole thing is not as simple as making things I think people should want to buy. #1 You've got to make something you're truly excited about that you can get others excited about. #2 You've got to get that something at the right price point to the right audience. And in reality, this takes time.
So, I need to give myself a little grace and recognize this transition isn't going to happen overnight, or even over a few months. The good news is I've got three different series of work going on down on my workbench, a long list of places I'd like to show artwork, and more time than I can shake a stick at. I'll get there.
Of course, I'm exaggerating a bit. I can set my own schedule and am enjoying the luxury of being able to take a class six hours a week. The real issue is making working in my studio the priority. I have always been very self-motivated and get a lot of work done in a compact amount of time, but making studio time the priority was a struggle for me during the academic year just as it is now. I love to garden, to cook, to read, to learn, to spend time with family and friends--I want time for it all!
I also struggle with is the enormity of everything I feel I need to do--develop a marketable line of work, market it, market myself, take time to make art art in addition to production work (jewelry), write a new artist statement, find exhibitions, apply for exhibitions. This whole thing is not as simple as making things I think people should want to buy. #1 You've got to make something you're truly excited about that you can get others excited about. #2 You've got to get that something at the right price point to the right audience. And in reality, this takes time.
So, I need to give myself a little grace and recognize this transition isn't going to happen overnight, or even over a few months. The good news is I've got three different series of work going on down on my workbench, a long list of places I'd like to show artwork, and more time than I can shake a stick at. I'll get there.
Sunday, September 4, 2011
What I Want
Not since I was an undergraduate student have I been keen on running my own business. At the time, I thought making jewelry and selling it at art fairs would be pretty cool.
As a graduate student challenging the boundaries of the jewelry/metals field, I realized that I was much more interested in making work that I found conceptually difficult and deeply satisfying, with no regard for the need to sell the work. As I also loved teaching and thought I would do it well, finding a tenure-track job in my field was an awesome blessing. I reveled in the privilege of having a job that required me to pursue my profession as an artist but didn't require me to conform to market pressures. It seemed perfect for me!
But six years later I have made the decision to do exactly what I didn't want to do--the same thing in which I swore I had no interest. I am trying to transition into making salable work in order to contribute to our household income. After spending close to ten years focused on developing highly conceptual work, redirecting my focus to wearable, salable jewelry is a challenge.
I have friends and colleagues in the field--metalsmithing, art jewelry, whatever you choose to call it--who make beautiful, wearable work and whom I truly respect. This certainly encouraged me to think that there was another life beyond academia.
But running your own business is difficult, to say the least--the paperwork, the legal requirements and tax forms, the need to market your work, and to work with clients. As an undergrad, I worked for a jeweler with her own store and watched all the things she had to juggle. No thank you! Just trying to get my "business" up and running, I have been overwhelmed by the number and type of forms I need to file, the taxes required, and the detailed records I need to keep to correctly file said taxes. I have been nearly in tears, primarily from pulling out my hair, trying to do all the right things in the right way.
I mention all this in order to say I find myself wondering aloud, "what am I doing?" How on earth did I end up in Virginia, leaving my teaching job behind, trying to make a go as an independent artist? I had what I thought I wanted, but I gave that up, and am now doing what I don't think I want to do.
I have a dim view of most jewelry out there. Honest moment: in some sense, I have viewed making jewelry as a "lesser" form as compared to making "art." So I resist making jewelry that I think of as cliched, tired, or boring. But again, having not invested time and energy into making jewelry for quite some time, it's not as though I'm making jewelry I find fresh and exciting. I am making the same types of things I have treated with such disdain.
You can see why I'm having a problem!
But this is just a step in a larger process. I know that it is possible to make jewelry that is eminently satisfying and also marketable--there are many wonderful makers out there who truly do it well. It is a different way of thinking for me and learning to do both things simultaneously will take time, effort, and energy.
As a graduate student challenging the boundaries of the jewelry/metals field, I realized that I was much more interested in making work that I found conceptually difficult and deeply satisfying, with no regard for the need to sell the work. As I also loved teaching and thought I would do it well, finding a tenure-track job in my field was an awesome blessing. I reveled in the privilege of having a job that required me to pursue my profession as an artist but didn't require me to conform to market pressures. It seemed perfect for me!
But six years later I have made the decision to do exactly what I didn't want to do--the same thing in which I swore I had no interest. I am trying to transition into making salable work in order to contribute to our household income. After spending close to ten years focused on developing highly conceptual work, redirecting my focus to wearable, salable jewelry is a challenge.
I have friends and colleagues in the field--metalsmithing, art jewelry, whatever you choose to call it--who make beautiful, wearable work and whom I truly respect. This certainly encouraged me to think that there was another life beyond academia.
But running your own business is difficult, to say the least--the paperwork, the legal requirements and tax forms, the need to market your work, and to work with clients. As an undergrad, I worked for a jeweler with her own store and watched all the things she had to juggle. No thank you! Just trying to get my "business" up and running, I have been overwhelmed by the number and type of forms I need to file, the taxes required, and the detailed records I need to keep to correctly file said taxes. I have been nearly in tears, primarily from pulling out my hair, trying to do all the right things in the right way.
I mention all this in order to say I find myself wondering aloud, "what am I doing?" How on earth did I end up in Virginia, leaving my teaching job behind, trying to make a go as an independent artist? I had what I thought I wanted, but I gave that up, and am now doing what I don't think I want to do.
I have a dim view of most jewelry out there. Honest moment: in some sense, I have viewed making jewelry as a "lesser" form as compared to making "art." So I resist making jewelry that I think of as cliched, tired, or boring. But again, having not invested time and energy into making jewelry for quite some time, it's not as though I'm making jewelry I find fresh and exciting. I am making the same types of things I have treated with such disdain.
You can see why I'm having a problem!
But this is just a step in a larger process. I know that it is possible to make jewelry that is eminently satisfying and also marketable--there are many wonderful makers out there who truly do it well. It is a different way of thinking for me and learning to do both things simultaneously will take time, effort, and energy.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
New Direction
Today it is just over ten weeks since my husband, Matthew, and I moved to Virginia. He was offered a great job with the Army Corps of Engineers, and we decided to make the move. Any move has major consequences. In this case, I've taken leave of my job at the University of Northern Iowa as an Associate Professor of Art. I'm still feeling the shockwaves--did I really leave a full-time, tenured position? Yes. Yes, I did.
Monday, my friends and colleagues headed back to the classroom, and I headed downstairs to my studio. I decided to start this blog to record my experience leaving academia. I haven't been out of school, so-to-speak, since I started at the age of 5. After finishing my Bachelor of Fine Arts degree at the University of Michigan in 2002, I went straight into graduate school at Miami University, finishing my Master of Fine Arts in 2005. From there, I moved to the lovely city of Cedar Falls, Iowa to teach art (jewelry design & metalsmithing, foundations, sculpture, and theory) at the University of Northern Iowa.
Anyone who teaches can tell you it is a tough job, but for six years my life basically revolved around my classes and my students. (More details on that later.) My husband, Matthew, who IS the most wonderful man in the world, was working as a scientific researcher at UNI. As many of you know, research is funded through grants, and job stability is fairly non-existent. Matthew was offered his dream job with the Army Corps, doing research that will result in real world applications and not just on the pages of a published article. Given the economy, the changing academic environment, and this opportunity, we made the tough decision to move.
As a professor (whether assistant, associate, or otherwise) I felt a certain sense of status and belonging. I am valued as a professional because someone else says I am of value. As an independent artist, that is lost. Aside from the obvious problems attaining your self-worth via how you think others perceive you, when I am not "the professor--" teacher, maker, researcher, worker, what am I doing here?
It is only made worse when I try to introduce myself to the new people I meet here in Virginia. The first several times I couldn't seem to help saying I was a "professor on leave." Finally, telling people I am an artist who works in a studio in my home, the first question I get (if I don't cut it off at the pass) is to ask if I paint (the classic artist stereotype). When I say I make jewelry and sculpture, people often light up and tell me how much they love jewelry. I also hear a lot about the great artist communities in Northern Virginia and how I'll meet so many other people like myself.
The rub is, coming from academia, I have spent the last nine years making conceptually based artwork, specifically reveling in the fact that I don't have to care if I sell anything. And when I visit some of the art centers that have artists' workshops, I am not excited by what I see. I see salable paintings, sculpture, jewelry, etc., but not challenging, edgy artwork. So how do I, an admitted art-snob, make the transition from Professor to artist? (I capitalize as such to emphasize the crux of the issue in my own mind.)
Please understand, I don't believe that college faculty are superior to or more forward-thinking than independent artists. However, it is easy to fall into a certain mindset when you have the advantage of being in the security of a faculty position.
So, this blog is going to be me slogging through the experience of figuring out what I'm all about outside of the academic context I've known for so long. I promise it'll be messy, and my honest thoughts may ocassionally offend. If nothing else, I'll look back on this blog in five years and know that leaving academia was worth it.
Monday, my friends and colleagues headed back to the classroom, and I headed downstairs to my studio. I decided to start this blog to record my experience leaving academia. I haven't been out of school, so-to-speak, since I started at the age of 5. After finishing my Bachelor of Fine Arts degree at the University of Michigan in 2002, I went straight into graduate school at Miami University, finishing my Master of Fine Arts in 2005. From there, I moved to the lovely city of Cedar Falls, Iowa to teach art (jewelry design & metalsmithing, foundations, sculpture, and theory) at the University of Northern Iowa.
Anyone who teaches can tell you it is a tough job, but for six years my life basically revolved around my classes and my students. (More details on that later.) My husband, Matthew, who IS the most wonderful man in the world, was working as a scientific researcher at UNI. As many of you know, research is funded through grants, and job stability is fairly non-existent. Matthew was offered his dream job with the Army Corps, doing research that will result in real world applications and not just on the pages of a published article. Given the economy, the changing academic environment, and this opportunity, we made the tough decision to move.
As a professor (whether assistant, associate, or otherwise) I felt a certain sense of status and belonging. I am valued as a professional because someone else says I am of value. As an independent artist, that is lost. Aside from the obvious problems attaining your self-worth via how you think others perceive you, when I am not "the professor--" teacher, maker, researcher, worker, what am I doing here?
It is only made worse when I try to introduce myself to the new people I meet here in Virginia. The first several times I couldn't seem to help saying I was a "professor on leave." Finally, telling people I am an artist who works in a studio in my home, the first question I get (if I don't cut it off at the pass) is to ask if I paint (the classic artist stereotype). When I say I make jewelry and sculpture, people often light up and tell me how much they love jewelry. I also hear a lot about the great artist communities in Northern Virginia and how I'll meet so many other people like myself.
The rub is, coming from academia, I have spent the last nine years making conceptually based artwork, specifically reveling in the fact that I don't have to care if I sell anything. And when I visit some of the art centers that have artists' workshops, I am not excited by what I see. I see salable paintings, sculpture, jewelry, etc., but not challenging, edgy artwork. So how do I, an admitted art-snob, make the transition from Professor to artist? (I capitalize as such to emphasize the crux of the issue in my own mind.)
Please understand, I don't believe that college faculty are superior to or more forward-thinking than independent artists. However, it is easy to fall into a certain mindset when you have the advantage of being in the security of a faculty position.
So, this blog is going to be me slogging through the experience of figuring out what I'm all about outside of the academic context I've known for so long. I promise it'll be messy, and my honest thoughts may ocassionally offend. If nothing else, I'll look back on this blog in five years and know that leaving academia was worth it.
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