In Part I, an art teacher ridicules me. 

In Part II, Jackson Pollock steals my appreciation for art

In Part III, an art teacher throws me out of her art class 

An English Solution!

Part IV of Jackson Pollock, Art Thief!

The principal had arranged for an English teacher who spoke some Spanish to serve as an interpreter. On the day of the appointment, we met in the principal’s office. He took us to an adjoining conference room. We all sat at one end of a long conference table. My academic file was opened and spread out before us. They pored over my records.

My dad was upset because he was missing work. The art teacher was upset. The principal and the English teacher were confused as to why a kid who got consistent “A”s and “B”s in all his subject was failing art. Because no one ever fails art. The events of the day I got ousted from art class were reviewed. Did I curse at the teacher? No. Did I break something? No. Then why was I thrown out of the class. The art teacher was not able to articulate the anger she felt towards my cavalier attitude. I couldn’t articulate my growing contempt for the “Art Scene”.

Confused and upset my father gave me the “wait until we get home look.” I slunk in my chair. Dad never had much formal education, but he was very intelligent and even he knew that “no one ever fails art.” They probed me further. Did I get into an argument with a fellow classmate? No. Did someone threaten me? No. Did someone make fun of my artwork? I paused. No. At that time, I was not able to link the experience in the second grade with my visit to the art museum or why I felt that I could not create art.

Seeing that the discussion was going nowhere and noticing that my father’s rage was about to redline, the English teacher offered a solution. He noticed that my English skills were very good, and that if it was okay with the art teacher maybe I could do a report and turn it in for a grade. The art teacher spoke up, “But, I get to choose the assignment.” My father and the principal thought it was a good idea. They all turned to me. I said, “Okay.”

The next day, the art teacher gave me my assignment. In my class, we had a Korean kid by the name of Parks. He was your stereotypical Korean Kid: black, horned-rimmed glasses, ill-fitting shirts with the tails always half-hanging out, a pocket protector, high-water pants, white socks and fake-leather shoes.  Academically, he excelled in everything except for subjects that required a strong command of the English language. He even excelled in gym and art class. Especially art. He was so good that the teacher had him paint the closet doors in our classroom. She had him paint those Asian scenes you see in triptychs: minimalist scenes of people walking alongside a mountain or something like that.

My assignment was to write about Parks and the murals. Also I wrote about how Parks and his family escaped from North Korea to South Korea five years prior to coming to the United States. I turned in my report and got an “A” and passed the second trimester with a “B”.  Plus, I had to promise the art teacher that I would at least try to complete my art assignments. I agreed.

However, whenever I turned in my assignment a strong sense of revulsion would churn in my stomach and I would feel sheer terror until the end of the art period. I finished the seventh grade with a “B” in art. Luckily, in the eight-grade, I was able to choose shop class over art and avoided art altogether. Which was ironic since shop class involved being creative only you are creating for function.

Over the years, I ridiculed art and the whole “Art Scene”. I would make fun of it. I would make comments like “The impressionists? They don’t impress me.” Or “Abstracts? I don’t get it.” Or “The Renaissance? Those old paintings!”

Just one more part, I swear!

© Trudge164, 2009

Links to

Part I

Part II

Part III