Tuesday, January 18, 2022 First Registration

First of all, does that sculpture look like me? I hope the answer is no, but we’ll come back to that later.

Registration for classes at the University of Minnesota back in the day was a big hassle. You could get your classes all picked out, wait in a long line, and finally get up to the registrar only to find out that one (or more) of the classes you wanted was filled, necessitating a last-minute substitution. Certain classes were nearly impossible to get into unless you had first-day registration, which didn’t happen often.

So one spring when I discovered I had struck gold with that coveted registration position, I abandoned most of my regular classes and signed up for ballroom dance, drawing and sculpture. Having suffered through many winters of discontent, I was about to embark on the spring of artistic adventures.

I’ll tell the stories of my experiences in the dancing and drawing classes another time. The above photo is the story of my sculpture class. I believe it’s the only project I did for the entire trimester. We had to create a clay model, encase it in plaster and then meticulously dig the clay out, leaving a hollowed out plaster cast in which to pour concrete. Finally the big day came in which we would take the plaster off and reveal our finished sculpture pieces.

Most of the students did what you might call normal stuff. Mine was definitely in the realm of weird. We gathered around each other’s pieces (small class – maybe 6-8 people total) and gave feedback. When the group assembled to look at mine, there was a brief silence as I imagine they were grappling with how to put into words the sensation provoked by looking at it. One fellow finally said, “It looks like you.”

While I was still reeling from that observation, another person noted that both of the hands were right hands – did I intend that? I had not. In fact, that was the first time it had been brought to my attention. I believe there may have been some discussion about what I was trying to communicate with this piece, but the rather dull truth was that I just thought it looked neat. I probably could have spun some philosophical nonsense about the oppression of man which would have found an appreciative audience. “See how he is oppressed from above, being held down by a hand. And his speech is oppressed by the hand over his mouth.” But the moment passed and I had nothing.

The thing that I just couldn’t get past was the guy’s comment that it looked like me (and the class generally agreed with this observation). It felt like an insult at the time, particularly since I was very sensitive about the size and shape of my nose. But I don’t think he meant it unkindly. It’s an interesting observation, actually – was I unconsciously re-creating the most familiar face to me, the face I always saw in the mirror?

We’ve lugged this heavy and unattractive piece with us wherever we’ve moved, which betrays a certain conceit on my part. I don’t think my kids will be fighting over who gets to take it when I’m gone. Somewhere there’s a dumpster just waiting to receive it and as dust returns to dust, so shall concrete return to concrete.

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I’ll probably make a clay mold of this post in the morning and then throw it out before it becomes a monstrosity.