The Critique
My college years attending art school were some of my most formative, especially in teaching me how to withstand criticism. One event, in particular, contributed more than any other to the thickening of my proverbial skin.
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Fitting in was easy. I wore the required black wardrobe: turtlenecks, indoor toques, and enough eyeliner to scare small animals. My favourite shirt prominently sported an anarchy symbol—ironic, because deep down I worshiped order and rule-following. I stayed up to date on my opinions of Butler and Baldesarri, but no amount of counter-cultural feminist lit would prepare me for what was to come.
In our third year, two French exchange students arrived for the fall semester: Fleur and Jacqueline. They had come from a prestigious Parisian art school named École nationale supérieure des Beaux Arts and we were all intimidated. Their school was obviously better than ours; I mean, it was right there in the name: superieure!
The pair glided through our modest hallways, dripping French-ness, while we watched from afar, slack-jawed and starry-eyed. Both Fleur and Jacqueline had the sleek physique, slow-motion elegance and general aloofness of a pair of swans.
Also like swans, the two girls snacked on small cubes of baguette. At lunch, Jacqueline would unfold a bundle of parchment, tied in twine, to reveal a perfectly curated meal: five grapes, a slice of torn white cheese, two perfectly round disks of cured meat. On occasion, Fleur might add a pot of fig jam or a dab of grainy mustard. Meanwhile, the rest of us dirtbags were at Harvey’s, where asking for “extra pickles and no mayo” was the closest we got to a curated lunch.
Until this point, our painting critiques were about as groundbreaking as our burger toppings. Everyone took a turn stroking each other’s egos, and having theirs stroked in return. “I love your use of colour,” someone would say. “Yes, it really brings out the excellent brushwork,” another would add. Even the faculty were guilty of glad-handing, congratulating each other for having such harmonious classrooms.
But that day was different. Fleur and Jacqueline were present, and the air hung thick with turpentine and fear.
I brought in a recent painting of the local strip mall parkade and babbled about how it fused Edward Hopper’s Americana with the quaint peasantry of Pieter Bruegel the Elder.
My peers responded with automatic praise, and just as I thought I was in the clear, Fleur stood up. I noticed and let out a sudden, quiet but detectable whimper. Her perfect, sample-sized body turned toward me, and I felt my breasts—already on the decline—descend another half inch.
“What is all this, how do you say, mamby-pamby sweet-talk?” Fleur asked, genuinely puzzled. “At École nationale supérieure des Beaux Arts, we tell the truth when something is shit—and this is shit.” She probably held a pen as she said this but in my mind she exhaled smoke from a ridiculously long cigarette, stilling the room into silence.
I wasn’t the only one raked through the coals that day by Fleur and Jacqueline’s scrutinizing eyes and sharp tongues. I’d like to say it made me feel better not to be the only one, but it didn’t. Because the truth was, they were right. Our class, its methods, our mentality, my painting—they were indeed “shit.” Our cohort had grown complacent, coasting through college making mediocre artwork and lying to one another, too afraid of bruising our delicate Canadian egos.
Today, I follow the same principle I learned from my French confrères that semester. When asking for feedback—and when feedback is asked of me—I try not to mince words. I resist the urge to sugarcoat. I work hard to mean what I say, and to say it with a modicum of conviction, and not without kindness.
I still order burgers from Harvey’s—extra pickles, no mayo—but I also carry a small pot of fig jam, just in case the occasion calls for it.