Green Circle, Blue Square, Black Diamond

Moving into the month of November got me thinking about snow and skiing, and how, like art, skiing is one of those things you can do your entire life and still improve. I've been teaching art at the university level for more than twenty years, and skiing off and on for nearly as long. Over that time, I've observed how different levels of interest, ability, and commitment among students affect not only individual experiences, but also the learning experiences of those around them.

The analogy is simple: the bunny run and black diamond runs are not the same. But they exist on the same mountain, and the people using them influence one another's experience. In a classroom, differences in interest and investment become apparent over time. Some students are deeply engaged, while others seem considerably less interested. And sometimes those differences make the experience more interesting, while other times they make it more challenging.

Bunny Run

The bunny run is where inexperience is expected and skill begins to develop, where falling down and getting back up are part of learning. And of course, that's part of education: trying new things, seeing how they work, and showing up with your work to share. But at a certain point, it becomes obvious that you're just going through the motions and not actually doing much of anything at all, at least not for yourself. And this is problematic.

There's a strange relationship between time and activity that parallels the learning curves of skiing and making art. The more you understand and the more your abilities develop, the quicker you can get to work and the faster you can go. But naturally, concepts evolve, and you seek, one hopes, bigger obstacles and greater terrain to explore. Staying on the bunny run will eventually help improve your ability, but those skills won't necessarily translate so easily to the blue and black slopes, at least not right away.

In a four-year university program, students have time to explore, experiment, discover, and refine their interests. But if, by say the second or third semester, they haven't begun demonstrating an invested interest through their actions, rather than simply expressing one, there lies the concern. The remaining years risk becoming repetitive, uninspired, basic, and unrewarding. Without a developing investment in the work, the learning curve begins to flatten. Hence the bunny run. And I'm not saying stay off the trail. I'm saying work your way up and know your limits. Or, better yet, know whether you should continue up the mountain..

Tow Rope

Teachers see potential, and we support it. That potential isn't always obvious to the person who possesses it, and part of teaching is helping students recognize what's possible. But recognizing potential and realizing it are two different things. A tow rope gets you up the hill, but you still have to hold on. It provides assistance, not motivation. Nobody can hold on for you.

We experience different levels of investment, mainly during critique, where effort is put on display, but also during instructor demonstrations and independent workdays. Some students rely on others to help complete their work, not in a collaborative way, but sometimes sharing that their peers, partners, and even parents participated. There's something endearing about parents helping their children, and as a parent, I hope to continue helping my own children as they grow older and their lives become more their own. But in an art class, where personal interest is supposed to translate into work, having someone else do some of that work complicates things.

Others seem to lack the drive to use the available time for related, worthwhile activities like sketching, planning, writing, discussing, or refining their ideas. It's as if there will be time later to do these things. But that's not necessarily the case. When students don't know what to do next, is it because they've run out of things to do, or because they haven't learned to recognize what needs doing next?

An instructor can provide guidance, encouragement, opportunities, and support, but they can't supply someone else's interest indefinitely. Growth requires some investment from the person doing the growing.

Blue Square

Making work, documenting it, sharing and showing it, promoting it, selling it, and discussing it are just a handful of the different ways artists demonstrate commitment. Some artists will focus more on certain activities than others. And that's the kind of commitment I'm getting at. It's that you're doing something for your art practice.

Interest and ability are deeply connected, but they're not the same thing. Some students make a strong effort to improve. They practice, experiment, ask questions, and gain more independence. And it's exciting to see how quickly someone's interests can develop when they begin working through their own ideas. Others seem content to remain where they are, completing what's required without pursuing much beyond it.

There's also the question of risk-taking, of making work for the sake of making work. Art for art's sake! Too many students who hesitate to go beyond their first idea don't seem to understand why that's so important. It's a frustrating conversation to have, because it comes back to interest. Telling someone that if they were more interested, they'd try more things doesn't land particularly well. But the first idea might actually be strong. It's only after trying out other possibilities that you can begin to recognize that. And holding your one idea up against other people's ideas isn't the same as working through several ideas of your own. There's something worthwhile in that process, regardless of whether any of the ideas turn out to be particularly successful.

Of course, there are other classes, and students can have families, jobs, extracurricular interests, and obligations that compete for their time and attention. I understand that. Yet, something initially drew them toward art, enough to pursue a degree. Somewhere along the way, however, that interest may have stalled or even stopped altogether. Maybe they're not waxing their skis anymore. Hesitation is natural, but what begins as a brief pause can sometimes become permanent. Students may continue participating without necessarily developing the curiosity and initiative that brought them there in the first place. The issue isn't necessarily how much time someone has available, but what they're willing to do with the time they have.

Blue square trails are where the fundamentals are put into practice, confidence develops through repetition, and decision making becomes more independent. The challenges haven't disappeared, but the skier has developed the experience and ability to approach them differently. Do you buy the season pass, or will the lift ticket on your coat zipper be the sign to others that you're someone who's just starting, there for the first or only time, or totally uninvested? A single lift ticket doesn't indicate a lack of commitment, just as showing or selling work doesn't necessarily indicate a meaningful artistic practice. However, over time, the distinction between expressing interest and demonstrating it through action becomes increasingly apparent.

Shared Terrain

Students often recognize different levels of investment among their peers and gravitate toward others who share their interests and attitudes. Some encourage one another to improve, experiment, and take greater risks, while others come together, strangely, around their shared disinterest. And when students are genuinely interested in what they're doing, that enthusiasm can influence the entire class.

And maybe it's not disinterest at all. Maybe you simply prefer something else, like snowboarding instead of skiing, or painting instead of sculpture. You're still on the same trail, going more or less in the same direction, just using different tools. And regardless of what brought you there, you're still sharing the terrain with everyone else.

Even with good instruction and intention, a majority dynamic can radically change the mood. I've experienced this a few times. It can happen during a single class or, worse, continue throughout the semester. That doesn't mean the instructor has lost control. These are adults, and rather than telling someone who doesn't seem interested to leave, you carry on for those who are. But the disengagement remains, affecting the experience of everyone involved. And so it becomes a vicious cycle. Students may even redirect the group until the expectations begin to bend toward their level of engagement.

The curriculum establishes the terrain. Faculty provide instruction, guidance, and opportunities. Even so, students have considerable influence over how that terrain is experienced by themselves and others. And the instructor is just one of many people in the room. Students have classmates and peers who they should recognize as resources, but also as examples of different levels of interest and investment. I can often recognize when someone is more interested or invested in something than I am. It shows in their attitude and work, although resources and circumstances can influence what that work looks like. And students should be able to recognize that in one another, too. There's a great deal to be gained from working alongside people who are pursuing something with genuine interest, even when that interest differs from your own.

The first two class exercises or projects are often the most revealing. A student's interest begins to become evident in how they approach the work, and continues to reveal itself as the work develops over time, even in only a few weeks, in the growing discussion around their ideas, and in the time put into the studio. Are they physically present? Are they working, experimenting, and becoming more engaged with what they're doing? Are they trying tools, even when they don't need them? Testing materials? Visiting the hardware or art supply store? Attending lectures? Studying other artists? Do they know where the campus art gallery is? Have they been to the local museum? Are they looking for opportunities? These are things we can observe, even when the resulting work isn't particularly successful.

Asking direct questions like, "Well, if you're not working on this, why?" or beginning with a leading question like, "Are you working on your own personal portfolio?" even when you suspect they aren't, can back students into a corner. And that's not necessarily a productive place for the conversation to go. Telling students what to do, beyond the standard instruction, isn't particularly helpful either. That's not to say I won't ask good questions, offer suggestions, or help them work through their ideas. That's teaching. But continually having to tell someone to get to work, or find something worthwhile to do, is something else. At some point, the initiative has to come from them.

From an educator's point of view, this comes at a cost, particularly in time and money. But more importantly, it takes away from the experience that those who are deeply invested could be having. It's a drain on energy. A high-speed lift gets everyone up the mountain. But getting to the top doesn't necessarily mean you're prepared to ski down. You may have advanced, but that doesn't tell us much about your interest or the effort you've made along the way. And now you're sharing the same terrain with people who may have approached the experience quite differently.

The time and attention spent continually encouraging students who demonstrate little interest is time and attention that might otherwise support students who are actively interested in doing the work. Of course, not every objection or difficulty is evidence of disinterest. Sometimes the instruction needs to change. Sometimes the expectations need reconsideration. And sometimes the problem isn't the terrain at all.

Black Diamond

You could potentially ski a black diamond slowly and safely, but that would affect the experience of those around you who have to navigate not only the same terrain but also someone moving at a different pace. The black diamond run remains the same, but the activities are changed. You don't have to ski a black diamond. But if that's where someone else wants to go, should they be expected to stay on the bunny run with you?

When you already know how to ski, taking a friend skiing for the first time can be difficult and frustrating, particularly when you know they're unlikely to continue, and the experience won't mean much beyond sentiments like "I didn't like that" or "It wasn't for me." Of course, memories are important, and there's nothing wrong with trying something and deciding it isn't for you. But why does someone else need to give up their own experience for you to have yours? I just wanted to ski.

However, I vividly recall teaching my children to ski. Knowing that they had never done it, I was patient and understanding. I saw potential in them, just as I do in my students. There were times when we simply brought them to the edge and let them go, knowing that if they fell, they would get back up. After that, the bunny run was a space of nostalgia, even for them at four or five years of age.

Pushing someone over the edge won't necessarily advance them to the next level, but it gives them a sense of the risks, uncertainties, excitement, and challenges that lie ahead. In the case of my children, it was their interest in skiing that helped them overcome their fear and accept the risks. They had to improve to continue. Or else, get off the trail. And that's okay. Teachers see potential, and we support it. But potential is only the beginning.

The point isn't that everyone should eventually ski a black diamond, or that every student or artist should pursue the same ambitions. It's that the opportunities to learn, improve, and explore more demanding terrain are there, and what we do with those opportunities affects more than just ourselves. If you continually need someone else to tell you to keep going, it's worth considering why you're doing it in the first place.