You Don’t Have What it Takes

"You Don't Have What it Takes" is a creative nonfiction piece that chronicles a challenging semester I faced at Texas A&M University. Through this experience, I learned a great deal about drawing techniques and artistic expression, but learned even more about myself.

Before anything else, I noticed the lights. They were bright and surgical, hanging from the roof of the room that seemed to extend forever. As I walked in and found a seat, I saw the grey, concrete floor. Chalk and charcoal and a million different colors of paint were scattered randomly like a Jackson Pollock painting. On the far side of the room, leftover projects were gathering dust and falling to pieces, but they still looked better than anything I could ever create.

I unpacked my bag and pulled out a pencil. My hands were shaking. Before walking in, I had been nervous, but now that I was here, I was terrified.

The bar stool squeaked beneath me as I shifted anxiously. It felt like the world was resting on my performance in this class. All I wanted was to be in that story-room one day, pitching my ideas for next big movie at Pixar, and seeing them come to life on the screen.

I wanted to be the one writing the stories, not drawing them, but I needed this experience. As much as I needed the “A”, I needed to understand the basics of drawing if I was going to be leading a team of artists.

I hadn’t taken an art class since elementary school, and I barely knew how to draw a stick figure. So, yeah. I needed this.

Before coming to class today, I had done a great deal of research. I’d already bought all the supplies that I needed (some $300 later) and read over the syllabus several times, but I couldn’t find any information on the professor himself. I just hoped that he was reasonable and didn’t expect too much from a novice.

An hour later, he strutted in, his dark brown, sporadic curls bouncing with his steps, and a leather briefcase hanging off his shoulder. His face was small and pale. His nose was round like a button, supporting thick, circular spectacles. I was relieved when I saw him. He looked harmless.

Frail.

Even, kind.

            The professor breathed us in as he set down his briefcase on the long table and smiled. He seemed to analyze each of us behind those spectacles, sizing up our talents on pure intuition.

            I smiled big and sat up straighter.

            “This is Principles of Design One.” He exhaled the words with such seriousness, like he was a judge reading off an indictment. “You will try to succeed, but most of you will fail.”

He walked around the room slowly, staring at us with squinted eyes.

“Most of you will want A’s, but few of you will earn them.”

My chest felt small. I held my breath.

“This is art. This is more than drawing. This is more than color and shape and texture and line. This is passion.”

Several students around the room nodded their heads in agreement. I sank further into myself.

“You should already have all of the necessary materials,” he searched the room with prying eyes, as if he would be able to tell from looking at us whether we had purchased them or not. When his eyes found me, they seemed to narrow disapprovingly.

“Your first assignment is due next class.”