I have loved art for as long as I can remember. The house I grew up in was pretty much an art studio, an extension of my mother’s love for crafts. She had an official studio in the basement, but our family’s art projects spilled over into the kitchen, living room, project room and beyond. My mom made batik T-shirts on the kitchen counter. Our huge closets were bursting at the seams with art supplies. I spent hours on my bedroom floor drawing and making balsa wood furniture for my dollhouses. My father had a woodshop in our garage. In high school, I would forego advanced math, typing and chemistry so that I could fill my schedule with art electives. Graphic design was my favorite. My mom took me on several road trips to tour colleges with good art programs. I don’t remember much about those schools but I do recall falling in love with RISD (Rhode Island School of Design). During the summer before my senior year I attended a pre-college program for a few weeks there.
I lived in the dorm and frequented a hip coffee shop in an old Victorian house. I made an etching of a dog in the water and a self portrait monoprint. I pulled my first all-nighter to complete a pastel still-life of red peppers while sitting in the dorm hallway with my new friends. I ate in the cafeteria with boys who wore eyeliner. I shared a bottle of red wine with my precocious roommate. I couldn’t wait for the freedom of college and all I wanted in the world was to return to RISD. I tossed all my other college brochures and I applied early-decision.
When I look back on my high school portfolio I see that I was a pretty immature artist. My drawing skills were adequate but my subject matter was cliche and it lacked anything conceptual. I had no 3-D work and a limited variety of media. I can say all of this now because I grew up to be a high school art teacher. When competing with the best students in the country for a prestigious art school I’m sure I looked intensely average. My SAT scores were good but my grades were mediocre. When I received the thin envelope from RISD, I slunk off to the bathroom to find out in private that they had rejected me.
The fog of disappointment that enveloped me obscured my ability to see any alternative path. I indulged this hopeless feeling for a while and built myself a suit of armor made of defiance. Forget it, I reasoned, if RISD didn’t want me I wasn’t going to go to any college. The deadline was approaching for regular college admissions. I can’t remember if my parents were worried or if they tried to get me to make a plan B. One day, I ran into my friend Sue Etler in the front atrium of our high school.
“What are you up to?” I asked her.
“Just going to my guidance counselor to turn in my application for Syracuse,” she replied.
She wanted to major in art so I followed her to the counselor’s office and before I knew it I was applying to Syracuse too.
It’s astonishing to consider how little thought went into such an impactful life choice. College sets you on a trajectory which dictates the rest of your life. If I had my wits about me, I would have selected a small liberal arts school with an emphasis on creative thinking. I tend to thrive in open-minded intimate settings that are off the beaten path. But I probably didn’t even know this about myself then. Somehow I ended up in a big sports-obsessed party school with the stormiest weather in the country. Most of the girls had surprisingly big hair and a devotion to make-up that eluded me.
During freshman year I trudged up and down a steep and icy hill while the wind tried to snatch my giant art portfolio from my hands. I found a temporary sense of belonging with a group of fun-loving and mostly wholesome art students, but kindred spirits were hard to find. Our studio classes were in a beautiful old building that looked like a castle with creaky hardwood floors and ornately carved wooden banisters. Unfortunately I spent quite a lot of energy being a rebel without a cause pushing back against my professors for no good reason. I wish I hadn’t had such a chip on my shoulder regarding authority figures.
Sophomore year I tried joining a sorority and while it provided me with a pseudo family and lots of memorable times, it still didn’t feel like my cup of tea. I’m not a conformist or a school-spirit kind of person. Decorating parade floats, curling my hair in a bathroom full of girls and attending frat parties were not my idea of fun. My ‘sisters’ were nice but they just weren’t my type of people save for a few mischievous dissenters. Fortunately that year I befriended Rayna who lived in my dorm and remains one of my closest friends to this day.
I was never dissatisfied with Syracuse. My classes were interesting enough and my social life was fun. Only in hindsight is it clear that it wasn’t the ideal fit for me. I didn’t realize I was missing anything until I found my place and my people. This happened during my Junior year when I discovered the Outing Club which was full of down to earth, outdoorsy, unpretentious types. We spent our time rock climbing, caving and backpacking. I had finally found my lifelong friends. That same year I also began taking photography classes in the SI Newhouse School of Communications where I began to love the craft and discover my passion. The following summer I did a semester abroad in Florence, Italy which solidified my commitment to photography and inspired my love of art history. Over time I was able to carve out a place for myself at Syracuse and that’s when the giant university began to feel smaller.
Sometimes I wonder how different my life would have been had I chosen a different school. But I treasure my memories from Syracuse and the friends I made there who are still such an important part of my life today. I guess it’s a testament to the fact that with persistence and self-awareness a person can find where they fit no matter where they are enrolled.
