One-time aspiring artist Caroline McEneaney leaves an impression on her professor…
I’d say I’m asked on a weekly basis how I ended up here, in Abu Dhabi, writing for a magazine. It’s small talk and an understandable question, but I cringe every time I hear it. Aside from the fact that it’s a difficult one for anyone to answer – we all have so many experiences that brought us to where we are – I have particularly diverse background.
Or at least I think I do. When it comes down to it, the truth is that I have no idea how I got here. I seem to only know how I left places.
For example, the first career I ever wanted to pursue was to be artist. From when I was a child, that’s what I wanted to be. I went through phases of wanting more practical jobs, like being a teacher or a lawyer. And I went through phases of wanting less practical jobs, like being a tattoo artist. But I came back to the idea of being an artist many times and ended up going to university to study it.
At the start of my first year, I was wide-eyed and excited to start my four years of learning how to be a professional artist. I still find it curious that a person goes to school to learn to be an artist, but at the time I wasn’t complaining. I was away from home, and I was going to leave here well on my way to being the next Damien Hirst or Jeff Koons.
Our first assignment in our first class was deceptively simple. We each received 50 pounds of clay. With the giant heavy bricks sitting in front of us, our professor explained that we were to explore the nature of the material. We were allowed to use only one tool, and perform only one action. For example, if you used a knife, you could cut the clay as many times as you wanted to, but you could not also smush the clay with your hands.
The professor walked out of the room, and our previously healthy egos instantly deflated. The instructions were so simple that we were all paralysed. What was he really asking? How deep did this one go? Was he leading us to the crucible where art meets philosophy on some higher plain of understanding?
I stressed about it for days. There had to be an answer. And then, the lightbulb switched on. I knew what I was going to do. I would beat him at his own game.
At 10pm that night, I went to the classroom. I grabbed my 50 pounds of clay and began to set up. Apparently the rest of the class was stumped as well since I was the first to start the project. I placed the giant brick on the floor in the centre of the room and laid my back flat on top of it. I stayed there, not moving, for six hours.
Delirious at 4am, I stumbled back to my dorm and slept for the rest of the night. A few days later, returning to class for the first time, I did indeed learn one of the properties of clay. Lying on top of it for six hours does nothing. The professor looked at what I’d done, turned to face us, and asked the class which one of us hadn’t finished their project. Maybe being an artist wasn’t all crystal skulls and balloon animals after all.
