It all began in the fall of 2005, when I was eager to begin a new journey as well as the process known as 'graduate school.' Upon arrival at the green Goddard campus on a humid July day in Plainfield, Vermont, I merrily strolled through the adjacent woods as I hopped along from the iconic Clocktower to the expansive Library. This summer week was chock full of forging new connections with a myriad of talented musicians, performers, and visual artists, from across the U.S. We were a large community (of over 100 people) of interdisciplinary artists and we came together in the dining hall, and elsewhere on our quaint school grounds, to hob knob, rub elbows, intellectualize about art, plan our studies, and meet with mentors.
As the unwavering routine of that first residency played out, I became acutely aware of the idiosyncracies and unique quirks of our MFA program. Just like anything else, improvements could be made. In example, it could not be agreed upon as to what kind of school we were. Some argued that we weren't an art school, yet we always included an art gallery in our week long gatherings. Student presentations ran the gamut - from hastily thrown together to well-thought out. Thus, a few of us questioned what we felt was a lack of subjective standards applied to all students - across the board. Nonetheless, it was the people who defined the program. Today, after four years of this process, a question still remains, however. "How do we create a diverse program that honors each individual's distinct voice?"
My first semester was productive yet I was painfully aware of how small my world, back in San Diego, was. I could count on my fingers the total amount of people who made up my weekly community members. My own self-imposed isolation had hit an extreme note. When I followed up on a peer's scathing email to the entire Goddard community, at the end of that fall season, it was not my intention to hurt or anger others. At that time, I felt that was I simply trying to present an unbiased viewpoint of my experience. I also felt that I was attempting to contextualize my peer's criticism (he had referred to Goddard as the lint at the bottom of the graduate school washing machine but he never said why he felt this).
The anger and resentment at the following, spring residency was palpable. It was a silent storm, brewing just below the surface. There were no attempts made, by the advisors, faculty, or leaders, to create a safe space where our community could come together to address all of the emotions and to attempt a dialogue about what had transgressed. (Aside from some bizarre opening forum in which a few invited members of the community went on stage to share why discourse was not a relevant word for our 21st century community. 'Discourse,' by the way, was the word that I chose to use in my pages long email.) Instead, a malignant tumor began festering. I continued to crawl deeper into my own hole, even as I tried to look forward to my new advising group and to a new year, semester, and teacher, as well.
Upon my first meeting, with said teacher, I shared fresh insights and where my artistic work had taken me over the course of the past semester (I had begun to work with the metaphor of how a forest needs fire in order to grow). After which I was told to "Get real." I was not offered any context for why this was said or what was meant by it. (And, at the time, I did not have the courage to ask.) It was the most confounding thing. Especially when I had to sit back and watch as one of my peers bought in to the whole objectification of her person as she made numerous hot, and sexy costume changes when she performed the role of MC for the habitual, residency Cabaret night. There were also the advising group meetings during which we would walk along the scenic campus discussing ideas of 'consumption of the self' only to then return to the library, where said individual sat in a plush, leather chair and snapped self-portraits of her gorgeous face. Perhaps, this was "real" for her. (????)
Now, I was angry and now I did not have any outlets for my emotion. I began to suffocate. I crawled deeper into my relationship, desperately hoping that this would provide a way out. As for my arts practice, I had no focus and no discipline. It was impulsive, and whimsical. Upon my return home, my boyfriend and I would disappear from San Diego often - to go camping, snowboarding, wherever. We just didn't want to be "here" and, together, we fed this bad habit of each of ours. I barely followed through on this second semester and I hardly made it to the following summer residency. I was an emotional mess, but I tried again - to be positive and excited about a new start, a new semester, and a new advisor.
After sharing a written piece with my fall '06 advising group, my role model responded by saying that she didn't understand why I had chosen to share what I did. (Early on, I felt that there was a desire to box me into a "dancer" label. And, I have never been just a dancer.) Then, when I went in to visit with her, one-on-one, she invited in a man whom I did not know (the Director of Student Affairs) to tell me that she thought I needed therapy. "Well, geez, thanks. But, seeing as how I am spending close to 20 g's a year for this program, I simply cannot afford the additional expense." Good thing the Director of Student Affairs was there - he offered no hard solutions, only his flimsy business card (with a Vermont area code, no less).
After making my G3 presentation during that residency, my advisor from the semester before offered this advice: "Forget the painting of masks on palm bark," she said. "It's distracting." Suffice it to write, I withdrew from my studies that semester. And, I climbed farther into my relationship. Of course, neither of these were wise decisions. Both mine and my partner's anxiety had us literally crashing his Volkswagen into a telephone pole along a winding road in the mountains east of San Diego. I had no sense of boundaries. I allowed him to pull my hair, and be abusive in other, less obvious, ways. Yes, I was sick. Yes, I needed help. Sometimes, though, time is the best healer of all.
