The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future as an

Art Critic

Yes, I heard you say "artist". Just listen--you're going to make a very good art critic one day, and you won't be eating out of dumpsters.

I've seen your application to art school, but I've seen a lot of others as well. That guy with the dreads who works in the video store across the road from the school--he's been to art school. The woman who fills the vending machines--same with her. It doesn't have to be that way with you, though. It could go like this:

You'll arrive at art school idealistic--you are going to be the refreshing breath of life that will excite both your teachers and fellow students alike--you're sure of it. The first few weeks challenge your perception of your own superiority, and you notice that other students don't hear the professor's criticism as often as you do. Soon you're doubting your most basic of instincts, struggling to choose the medium that suits your vision, and trying to find the most inconspicous work space in the classroom. Other students occasionally invite you to join their group for a drink after class, but you stay to work on your "exciting new idea". You almost don't notice them catch each others' eyes and smirk as they walk away.

The first semester ends and you are called into the advisement office, where two of your instructors explain that maybe you aren't quite suited to a life of art. You blink back the tears as they try to soften the impact of their words. You realize, for the first time in your life, that at that moment you could take the life of another human being--two, in fact--in a fit of rage. But you push the feeling back inside long enough to actually shake their hands and stagger out into the unfriendly world.

You take a job at the coffee shop across the road from the art college. It seems crazy to the other students--so close to your shame--yet in the back of your mind, you realize the damage a rifle pointed out the coffee shop's supply room window could do to the pretentious crowd of successful students whose art the teachers didn't hate.

While you plan your blood-soaked revenge, you take a college extension writing course, and are almost shocked to discover that your teacher sees 'great potential' in your writing. For extra credit, you agree to help out with the college newspaper, and in a fortuitous turn of events, you end up taking over the column of the paper's arts critic when she graduates. You struggle but manage to write meaningful commentary on local movie festivals, plays, or indie rock acts, but your words flow effortlessly when you get the chance to attend the regular art shows staged to display the talents of your former rivals back at the art school. At first, you try to be cautious in your criticism--poke tiny holes in the egos of your enemies so you won't seem so transparent in your hatred--but you soon realize that success lies in the occasional annihilation of some young hopeful. You give the occasional positive review--but save them for the quiet ones who didn't snicker at your "Self-Portrait in Cheese".

Your column gets noticed. It's flattering when the local newspaper picks it up for their weekend arts section, and not long after come offers, attractive ones, to go to a bigger paper in a bigger city. You turn it down. You need to be where you can do the most damage. You bide your time, and then it comes. Your first art college instructor, a middle-aged painter whose nervous breakdown ten years earlier put his own art career on hiatus, has ventured back into his first love--oil painting. A local gallery is the the site of your revenge. You actually park your car across from his house and wait until you see him go to the gallery so he can witness your visit to his collection. You pause at different works, sigh, cluck and make scribbled notes to yourself. You see him looking worried out of the corner of your eye--twice he moves to approach you, but stops.

The review is your most talked about ever--not just because you cut him to pieces with the very words he used to describe your work--"shallow", "derivative", "cheesy"--but because of his overdose the day after the paper hit the newstands.

Two weeks later you are working for a national paper and driving your first Lexus.


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