In conversation with @fleurdechair the other night, I was recounting how I was virtually blacklisted from fine arts classes in undergrad because of a hateful, gatekeeping professor (short story thread):
This person, who was supposed to educate and safeguard my creative young mind, told me I should go be a writer, and stop doing art. She had been assigned to me as a mentor by the school: I had never had her as a professor. I just didn& #39;t make the & #39;kind& #39; of art she liked.
I got unofficially blacklisted from the fine arts department because I told her – rightfully – she could shove it, that I& #39;d been making art my whole life and wasn& #39;t going to stop, and that one day I& #39;d be a professor and a successful artist, and I wouldn& #39;t even remember her name.
Now, probably 15 years after that conversation, I teach full time as an art professor, and I have a strong, growing career as an independent filmmaker. It& #39;s great.
And you know what? This week, when I remembered this story, I realized...I have, indeed, forgotten her name.
And you know what? This week, when I remembered this story, I realized...I have, indeed, forgotten her name.