For the Love of Art

To say I’m no expert on art is akin to saying I’m no heart surgeon. In other words…Duh. I took an art class at Merced College and remember not a thing. I learned to appreciate the power of art when I taught low-level seniors the last decade of my career.

Those seniors, they were like the Sweathogs Mr. Kotter spent time with. If you’re old(er), you know what I’m talking about. It was a 70’s sitcom about a kind-hearted teacher and his, shall we say, academically challenged students. Vinnie and Horshack and Epstein and Freddie “Boom-Boom” Washington challenged Mr. Kotter every week. That was for laughs. Mine was for real.

My job was clear and incredibly gratifying. I had the privilege of ushering seniors into adulthood, sort of a shepherd leading reluctant sheep toward graduation. For many, they walked the stage and accepted a diploma, something nobody in their family had ever done.

High school is an educational culture driven by test scores and college choices. Most weren’t going to college; they just wanted to hold aloft the ultimate prize on graduation day, to receive the hugs of family and friends, to cry and laugh and celebrate. Virtually all of my students worked, some of them with two jobs. Far from lazy, they just weren’t good at the game we call “school.”

The great thing about teaching these seniors was they had moved past testing. Grades 9-11 were ruled by ACT tyrants. The curriculum, both reading and writing, reinforced testing, a real yawn-fest. It was boring to teach and worse for the students to endure. But seniors? No testing for them.

And the Sweathogs? Let’s just say they’re not a priority in the school hierarchy. And that, I discovered, was my edge. Because this group resides in the suburbs of the school population, I could do any curriculum I wanted. Nobody in administration cared what I taught. Plays, novels, essays, movies, anything I wanted to do was fair game. “Just get them to graduate,” I was told.

These young people, they may not be “school smart,” but they’re far from ignorant. Nothing reinforced that more than their reaction to art. Once a week, I’d project a painting or photograph on the big screen. Rembrandt, Picasso, Van Gogh, Monet, Kahlo, and others. We’d sit and stare and just talk for ten minutes. Or longer. No assignment. No quiz. No right or wrong. Just people looking at a painting. Some pieces they liked. Others, not so much. Either way, they loved it. I know that because they’d ask me to do it more often. They’d refer to a painting a week or two later.

At first, they were insecure, confused. “What does it mean, Mr. Hurley?” Or “Will there be a quiz on this?”

I’d pause and point at the image on the screen. Finally, I’d ask, “Do you take a quiz after you watch a movie? Do you write an essay after you hear a song?” They were suspicious. I knew they thought it was some sort of trick, teacher sleight of hand, a back door to the kind of work they weren’t good at.

Over time, they transitioned from students to people. We were just people sitting around discussing a painting. I’d provide some context, but it didn’t take much. Gaining confidence, they’d comment on light and shading or color contrasts. Year after year, I’d put up many of the same pieces, and year after year, I’d be amazed how they continued to analyze, teaching me and making me think.

That guy is just working like it’s a regular day and the kid is falling into the ocean. It’s crazy, they’d say about The Fall of Icarus.

The prodigal dude has a serious brew and look, a peacock behind his lady! Yep, that Prodigal Son in the Tavern tells quite a story.

“Migrant Mother” by Lange evoked a somber response. Mr. H., that is one sad woman! Check the lines on her forehead. I’ve seen that look before.

At the end of the year, I’d drop by the fieldhouse where all the seniors gathered prior to walking the stage. As the mass of robed teens milled about, the mood was celebratory, winsome, sometimes even giddy. Lots of pictures and story-telling. I’d wander about, congratulating all the graduates I knew.

I think the happiest of all the grads were the Sweathogs. June after June, I received more gratitude, more hugs (by far) from that group than any other group I taught. Beyond the thank-you’s, the most common comment was about the paintings. They recalled very little of the grammar or the writing or the stories we read. But the images. The images stuck with them.

Next up: my favorite artist. Who is yours?