Princess of Power, 1988, lithograph, 36x25 in
Grace Hartigan


A few months ago, I received a letter from mica, a Maryland art school, inviting me to come for an interview for application to the MFA program. I had contacted them regarding summer classes so I suppose they dug my name and address out of their computer and decided to invite me in. At first I was hesitant but then thought, why not go see what it is about. I scheduled my interview and was told that I would meet with the director of the program, Grace Hartigan. I made duplicates of my slides, I updated my resume (which I was told to bring) and I set out last Friday for the interview. When it was time, I was brought into the office of G. Hartigan who already had begun looking over my slides. She told me I couldn't draw hands and feet. She told me that I knew everything I needed to from cubism and to stop breaking up my planes. She told me that my copies from the masters were better than my original work and at the end told me that I couldn't draw. She recommended a post-bac program. The odd little man who had brought me in to meet with her coordinated a visit with the director of the post-bac program later in the day. I went and had an enjoyable lunch, stopped at a local thrift store and returned to the school. Upon entering the building, I walked past a group of cookie-cutter students all listening intently to their guide. I got on the elevator and made my way upstairs. I met with the director of the post-bac program who talked about the program. I asked what the classes were like. He told me that they were mainly undergraduate classes with a few graduate topics also included. Wait right there. I have an undergraduate degree. I don't need to return to undergraduate school. He then went on to tell me that it was a mix of people in the program, particularly biologists who hung out around the art department a lot in school. Oh and there were some people who just decided to be a better artist. And some were even doing installation. I was disgusted and insulted. I left, pretty upset, telling myself that art school is for followers. And so as my rage continues but is beginning to subside, I give you a piece by G. Hartigan, the woman who told me that I could not draw. Enjoy.