LETTERS TO A YOUNG ARTIST
In August 2008 I reached out
to the members of the
Association of Teaching
Artists’ listserv asking
experienced Teaching Artists
to write a letter to a young
artist.
Members of the ATA Listserv,
This afternoon a young
artist from New York City
called me about how to get
started as a Teaching
Artist. I receive quite a
few e-mails and calls every
month from artists from a
wide geographical range
asking this same question. I
always refer the New York
State artists to the
listserv, to other resources
on
www.teachingartists.com,
to regional Arts In
Education networks, to
professional development
offerings that come through
the listserv. Today I knew
the artist was asking for
more, along the lines of
"Can you support yourself
working as a
Teaching Artist," "What is
essential to know," and
"What is necessary to
succeed."
Since I greatly admire
Rainier Maria Rilke's
"Letters To A Young Poet"
and have read Jonathan
Kozol's "Letters To A Young
Teacher," I thought "Letters
To A Young Artist" might be
exactly the resource for
artists who are both
considering and starting out
on a career path as a
Teaching Artist.
I am asking you to
contribute a letter to
"Letters To A Young Artist."
I think it would make a
great publication, and I
certainly know it is needed!
Too often we, as Teaching
Artists, don't take the time
to pass on what we know and
what we have learned from
our work. Please include
personal anecdotes. We have
a wealth of experience that
so often gets overlooked in
the hurly burly of getting
jobs, our own work,
attending conferences,
standards, keeping up with
funding, etc.
Letters came in, not enough
for a book as I originally
envisioned, but a
collection.
Here is the collection.
Dale Davis
From MARK DEGARMO
Dear Prospective Teaching
Artist,
I understand that you want
to pursue teaching artistry.
I have worked in this field
since, at least, 1986 and
still find myself feeling
like a pioneer or a Johnny
Apple-Seed for dance and the
arts. I believe that this
work is critical for U.S.
society at this time. I have
some questions for you to
help me understand how to
assist you on a practical
level. I might offer some
advice as a mentor, if these
thoughts are helpful and if
you want this kind of
exchange.
I am interested to know how
you are currently thinking
about what you do and what
you propose doing.
I want to know: how do you
understand the origins of
your interest? Is this, for
you, a gig, a job, a
vocation, a career, a
calling, or a profession? Is
there some other way that
you frame your interest and
its wellspring?
Why do you want to do this
work? Have you ever taught?
If so, what did you teach?
What were the contexts for
your teaching? What led to
your sense of satisfaction,
dissatisfaction, or some
combination thereof with
your work?
Have you thought, and what
do you know and understand,
about your learning style?
How do you approach a
challenge, or something that
is new to you that you want,
or have, to learn? How do
you describe the way that
you go about solving
different kinds of problems
in different areas of
learning and fields or
domains of knowledge that
you have encountered?
What is your relationship
with education and learning?
What degrees have you
earned? What alternative
sources of learning beyond
educational institutions
have you accessed and used?
Are you comfortable in
schools? Are you comfortable
learning outside of schools,
colleges, and universities?
Are you an artist? What
inspires you in your
creative process? How do you
describe imagination? What
is creativity? How, when,
and why did you discover
yourself as an artist?
How do you describe your art
form? What are the critical
questions, trends, and
themes in your field? Who
are the major artists, the
less well known, and
unknown, but important
artists in your estimation?
How and where do people
practice this art? Why do
people practice this art
whether as amateurs or
professionals? What do you
know about the intercultural
and international practices,
domains, and fields through
and in which this art
appears? How do you answer
the previous questions in
this paragraph using
intercultural and
international lenses?
How do you characterize your
artistic practice? When,
how, and where do you share
your practice publicly? Do
you have a current or
upcoming exhibition or
performance?
Can you send me today a
videotape or DVD of your
performance work, a catalog
of an exhibition, or a
portfolio and current CV?
Can you clearly and simply
communicate verbally and in
writing your background,
previous experience,
education, and other
indicators of your serious
and sustained pursuit of
your art form?
How do you situate your work
within artistic domain(s) or
field(s)? Who are the
artistic and other
communities in which you
create and demonstrate your
artistry? Do you participate
in community service as an
artist? If so, how do you
define community service?
Why do you participate in
it?
Are you as passionate about
the possibilities of this
opening into teaching
artistry as you are about
your art itself? What are
the qualifications for the
opportunities and work that
you seek? Which skill sets
do you currently possess and
can you demonstrate? Which
skill sets do you want to
achieve? What do you propose
as education and training
for yourself as
educator-artist/teaching
artist in order to gain
entry to this
interdisciplinary domain and
emerging field?
What are your goals and
objectives? What is the
previous learning on which
you will build your core
competencies as a teaching
artist? Who inspired you to
teach? Who are your mentors
both in your art form and in
teaching?
What is education? How do
you envision yourself making
a difference in the fields
and domains of public and
private education?
What is skills-based arts
education? What is
arts-integrated teaching and
learning? What is aesthetic
education?
Who are the critical
philosophers and writers in
the field of arts education?
Is there a difference
between arts education and
arts-in-education? If so,
how do you describe these
differences and how they
impact or might impact your
imagined work as a teaching
artist?
I have posed a lot of
questions because my
learning style is grounded
in questioning. An integral
part of my artistic practice
as a choreographer is to
question myself. It follows
that I use questions as a
Socratic approach to
teaching and learning.
I practice “‘arts education’
and ‘arts-in-education’” as
an interdisciplinary field.
My research in arts learning
is within what I have
conceptualized as a broader
field of experiential
education and the arts that
encompasses arts
education/arts-in-education.
I am thinking of
experiential education as
grounded in and inspired by
the work of Dewey, extending
back to the guild system of
the middle ages to the way
that earlier and ancient
societies regulated practice
of artisans, and a basic way
that humans know and
understand based in doing.
I am defining
interdisciplinarity as
bringing together into
dynamic interaction, at
least two fields or
knowledge domains. The
rationale for
interdisciplinary theory and
practice is to a) amplify
understanding of critical
issues and challenges from
multiple perspectives, b)
discover new relationships
beyond the constructs of
individual fields and
knowledge domains, and c)
construct knowledge. Three
fields comprise the
interdisciplinary field of
arts-in-education you seek
to enter, that is, a) the
arts; b) the particular arts
field you know, understand,
and do; and c) education.
Depending on the
practitioner, other fields
and domains might also
contribute to the
interdisciplinary dynamic of
arts
education/arts-in-education,
including intercultural
communication, cognitive
science, and psychology. The
other content areas of the
PreK-18 curriculum are also
potentially present in the
teaching artist’s
understanding and practice
and include: English
language arts; social
studies; math, science, and
technology; health and
physical education; and
language study other than
English. All art forms are
potentially involved, such
as dance, theater, music,
and visual arts, as well as
art forms that do not appear
explicitly as part of the
Learning Standards for the
PreK-18 public school
curriculum, such as,
creative writing; video,
film and animation;
performance art; circus
arts; and dance-theater.
I hope that this line of
introductory inquiry has
helped you understand my
perspective as a
practitioner of teaching
artistry and as an arts
educator/teaching artist.
This reflection on
interdisciplinarity is
fundamental to how I am
thinking about some of the
theoretical and practical
issues that we in the U.S.
currently face in the fields
of the arts, education, and
arts
education/arts-in-education.
This letter might seem more
like an interview or a
lecture than a letter. I had
hoped to find an approach to
creating a conversation with
you. I also wanted to share
with you what I believe are
critical issues for you to
consider as a novice
teaching artist. Maybe when
we next meet I will have
received your reply. When we
meet I also want to hear
what you have to say in
person about your reasons
for entering this field and
how I might help you.
I want you to know that I
cannot necessarily offer you
a job. I cannot answer your
questions for you. I am
really interested to hear
how we in this field are
approaching formulating and
answering the questions that
we are passionate to
interact with and untangle.
I am curious to know how we
might collectively raise the
level of discourse about
learning and teaching within
the scope of our work. I am
also interested in how we
can extend the scope of what
we are expected to do in the
context of public schools.
How do we work well in and
out of the box?
My own teachers have
included many and varied
individuals working in
dance, the arts, and
education for many years. I
build my own practice on
their shoulders. I am
grateful for their belief in
my potential for learning
and change. I hope that you
and I can inspire learners
to become themselves as
fully and fearlessly as
possible. I hope that our
learners can find ways to
act well in the world.
I look forward to your
response.
With best wishes for your
every success,
^ Top
From NICK JAFFE
I've found that having some
instruments and amps around
is pretty key, even with
kids who are primarily
interested in sampler-based
production. The
availability of live
instrumentation adds all
sorts of musical and
technical dimensions, and
the kids really gravitate to
the performance
possibilities too, even kids
with no prior training.
Multipurpose is ideal--leads
to interesting work. I'm
sure you'll find what works
best for you in terms of
curriculum. For me, working
with kids from 4-18 years
old, I found that what
worked best in most cases
was combining a little
technical/theoretical
teaching with a little
musical/aesthetic training
and discussion and a lot of
entirely student-driven
production work, right from
day one.
Kids are very good at
absorbing pretty complex
technical and musical skills
on the fly, if they are
interested in the work and
need the skills to achieve
the artistic outcome they've
envisioned. So a
hypothetical 2-hour studio
session might look like
this:
10 minutes -- Kids, or
self-selected kid "studio
manager" might fire up the
gear. The rest of us might
sit around and bull.
15-20 minutes -- Straight up
lecture demonstration on a
technical or musical topic.
Kids encouraged to take
notes, but not required to.
Topic might be anything from
how to coil a cable to
binary math, or wave
mechanics, notation, simple
music theory issues,
(depends on age, interests,
teacher expertise, etc.).
Discussion, questions and
argument strongly
encouraged. The vibe is
very de-schooled---the point
isn't to learn this to meet
some state standard or
prepare for some test, but
to learn it because a) it's
cool and interesting and b)
it's useful.
10-15 minutes -- Some sort
of musical discussion. We
might listen to something
(familiar or unfamiliar
music, student work in
progress, whatever) and talk
about it from an engineering
standpoint, or a musical
standpoint. Strong opinions
and deep discussion
encouraged!
1 hour and 15 minutes --
Production work. Kids can
work individually or in
groups. My role is
primarily as tech support
and artistic provocateur. I
often hang out OUTSIDE the
studio during this time so
the kids are really forced
to run things by
themselves. Some kids might
be heavy into tracking or
sequencing, others might be
writing, others might be
sitting in the corner and
watching/critiquing/hating.
All of this is cool. The
only rules are: treat the
gear well; don't be an
asshole; don't get in the
way of the work. There is
zero tolerance for
censorship of any kind. I
might argue with kids about
the political implications
of some lyrics or something,
or even refuse to
participate in something I
find really objectionable
(it’s never come to that)
but I don't place limits on
expression.
The issue of the school's
rules, culture, and my job
security are dealt with
openly, but at the
distribution phase--some
work is for some audiences
and some is for others.
Kids totally get this. If
the school needs a certain
type of work to be produced
for particular purposes or
for show, we're honest about
that, and it becomes similar
to working in a jingle house
(for ads)--the kids are set
with the task of finding
ways to creatively address
the particular challenge.
But, the emphasis is on
original, innovative work
that the students want to
make. I often tell them
that if less than 50% of
their music is
incomprehensible to me they
are doing MY work not
theirs.
So, in practice there are a
million variations on this
type of sequence, and just
cause it works for me
doesn't mean it should for
anyone else. The bottom
line is that, if the kids
are working on music that
matters to them, and they
have someone around who
knows some things, as you
do, and is willing to find
out about things they don't
know, as I'm sure you are,
they will learn a great deal
and produce some really cool
stuff. They'll also have a
blast.
A few thoughts on the gear
and curriculum:
Sound sources are more
important than inputs:
if you have to choose
between a bunch of
instruments, some drum
machines and a few field
recorders, or a really fancy
multi-channel interface, go
for the former. Initially
most of the work the kids do
will be overdub based--one
track at a time.
If you can get something
like Acid, Reason, or
Fruityloops (the demo is
free and does everything but
save a session--you can mix
down to WAV though) on a
bunch of beater computers,
kids’ laptops etc., that is
really useful. Lots of kids
will generate ideas, and
even fully worked out
songs/pieces just working
with a sequencer and an
onboard laptop mic. Tracks
can later be dumped to
pro-tools for additional
work, mastering etc.
Spend more time teaching
craft and theory, less time
teaching the interface.
Kids KNOW how to figure out
software. Better to spend
time teaching them how a mic
works, and what EQ is all
about than how to work a PT
playlist. You can show them
that stuff on the fly or
they'll figure it out
themselves.
Direct teaching should be
clearly organized
(topically, sequentially,
whatever), but the way the
kids work will have very
little to do with this
initially. So you'll teach
EQ one day, but when they
start back working on their
projects the kids will
ignore EQ entirely because
they are fascinated with
learning to play the drums,
or they've discovered the
reverb plug-in etc. A
common mistake that teachers
make is to try and make
these two types of learning
line-up. There is no reason
to, and in fact the attempt
to line them up gets in the
way of the work and annoys
both kid and teacher. What
you teach and what the kids
discover will intersect
organically in the work
itself. Roll with it.
When a kid asks "What do you
want us to do?" the first
response should always be,
"How should I know what you
want to do?" If your goal
is fundamentally to get the
kids to frame the creative
and technical problems
themselves, and to help them
solve them on their own
terms, they will engage in
ways no classroom teacher
ever gets to see. The most
problematic kid in the
school will turn out to be a
genius in the studio. The
work will be incredible and
you'll have a blast. The
studio is not a classroom,
it's a studio. The rules
SHOULD be different.
Teachers and administrators
will need to get used to
this idea at first, but
if you explain that the kids
are learning different
skills (innovation,
collaboration,
self-organization) and they
see the engagement that
takes place, most will come
to understand. The parents
almost always seem to get it
right away because their
kids come home raving about
how much they love the
studio.
Don't be afraid if a project
the kids start crashes and
burns. Force yourself not
to worry about the outcome.
Don't worry if, after three
weeks of hard work, the kids
decide they want to drop a
project and start a
different one. If you do
these things, you'll find
that, as if by magic, the
kids will generate amazing,
carefully thought out, and
finished work. The less YOU
drive it, the more THEY will
make amazing music, and the
more they will learn.
The one area where it's ok
to be really rigid and
almost militaristic is with
certain types of craft
procedures: proper handling
of gear, proper marking of
track sheets and so on.
Kids get this. If kids want
to revise procedure once
they know it, great, as long
as they can explain the
reasoning behind the
revision. We had a kid who
didn't say or do anything
for the first three weeks of
an after-school studio
program. Then one day he
walked in with a beautifully
drawn floor plan and said,
"This studio is set up all
wrong--it's really hard for
12 of us to work in here."
He was completely right,
except for his monitor
placement, which he quickly
revised once we explained
the problem. He got the
other kids to help him move
all the gear and furniture
around to work better. He
became de facto Studio
Manager, which was fine.
Then he started getting off
a bit too much on a power
trip, which was fine too
because the kids asked if
they could fire him. I
said, "Why are you asking
me?" They "fired" him, and
then "rehired" him with a
changed attitude. It was
very cool, and because I
didn't take any of it too
seriously, they didn't
either. They learned a
little about organization,
but mostly they stayed
focused on the work.
The earlier you can involve
students in the studio the
better. If you know there
are a few students who are
already interested, invite
them to a real meeting where
you talk about the gear
options, curriculum etc. If
they are really involved,
they will be a magnet for
other kids. It's fine for
kids to recruit their
friends and all, but insist
that they also recruit kids
they don't like, even kids
no one likes. Explain to
them that such a mix is
necessary if you want to
produce really interesting
music. They won't entirely
get this, but they will
later when the kid no one
likes is the only one who
seems to be able to figure
out how to get the Mac to
recognize the interface, or
the only one who can
syncopate his foot on the
kick drum. Insist that the
group is close to at least
half girls/women. Tell them
this mix is also necessary
for them to make really good
music. The girls always end
up being the best
technicians in addition to
being great musicians.
They'll end up teaching the
boys.
Do not, under any
circumstances let the school
use participation in your
program as a reward for
anything, or deny
participation as a
punishment. This is a
recipe for pedagogical,
musical, and cultural
disaster, and it completely
undermines the positive
aspects of participation,
especially for students who
have a hard time in school.
If the school has to punish
kids they should leave the
studio out of it. I can't
tell you how many times I've
had to fight with
administrators because they
want to pull a kid out of
the studio program for
something that happened
elsewhere, even though that
kid has said time and again
that his work in the studio
is the ONLY reason he still
attends school.
Ok, I suspect this seems
more of a rant than a help!
Take it just as one person's
experience. If you have
specific questions about how
to think about curriculum,
let me know and I'll be
happy to share some ideas.
You can also hear a few
examples of the thousands of
recordings kids made in the
studios I worked in, here:
^ Top
From KAREN LEWIS
Dear Dale for the young Artist,
With words alone, you don’t make
the soup.
Rumanian proverb
Teaching Artists, first and
foremost, teach artistry. We’ve
come a long way from the days
when the word connoted trickery,
or cunning deception. Today we
are skilled professionals that
cultivate, with clarity, the
artistic process through a
variety of methods. We develop
meaningful classroom
environments where students
learn, communicate, manifest,
compose, question, originate,
produce, imagine, perform,
arrange, execute and create a
work of art. In a skilled
Teaching Artist’s classroom this
work feels like a joyous and
serious journey of discovery.
As practitioners and educators
we know how to bring art into
being through our students’
head, heart and hands. We often
do this in the face of difficult
obstacles, and we accomplish our
goals with dedication and a
well-developed sense of humor.
It isn’t enough to love our art
form; we must know it with
sufficient power, intelligence
and competency to convey
artistic process in manageable
and understandable lessons. It
is important to learn how to
break down the process without
disrupting flow, and to keep our
students’ attention through
inevitable frustration and
reluctance, to use their
self-doubt, fear and curiosity
to propel them into a deeper
relationship with their work.
We must challenge them at all
times to attempt their best
work.
My students affirm that my
writing residencies make them
feel and think differently. They
discover a new sense of freedom.
They say that through art making
they learn to focus, that it
opens their eyes to a new way of
being in the world, and they
develop a stronger belief in
themselves and their art.
It is a particular blessing to
have an opportunity to teach
students in subsequent years.
Ashley Andrews was in first
grade at when she wrote the
following poem in response to a
lesson introducing poetic
metacognition.
We Create Each Other
I create
poems,
poems
create me
My poem
likes
alliteration
I give it
My poem
likes
to be
alive
that is what
I
give it
My poem
likes rojo
and onarenhado
I give
it
My poem
likes
words
I give it
what it needs
to be a poem.
Ashley’s writing continues to
demonstrate her personal
observations, experience, and
strong voice. As a third grader,
she tackled a definition poem
with delightful results.
Dust: (noun). 1. Makes you go
achew!
2. As gray as the clouds on a
rainy day. Drip.
Drip. Drip. 3. As soft as a
lamb, roaming and
grazing through fresh fields of
grass.
4. As tricky as a fly, coming
back
every time you get rid of it.
5. Good at playing hide and
seek. 6. As dirty as a pig after
his early morning mud bath. 7.
Can
give many people allergies.
They do it so people think
Attack of the deadly dust! 8.
A good poem topic for me.
A note of caution: this work
tends to possess us (we
certainly don’t possess it). It
has a life of its own. We need,
and want, to make room for it in
our lives. Remember to leave, or
build, enough time into your
schedule to refresh yourself, to
recreate yourself. Also, if you
are the type of person that
needs the latest car, the newest
gadget, the biggest bank
account— then this work is not
for you. We are modest wage
earners; you may need to
supplement your income,
especially in the early years
while you are developing
relationships with various
non-profits, schools and
institutions.
This work is energizing, it
moves us, it astounds us, and it
is an important contribution.
Through us—our students, and our
communities, come to know better
who they are. I don’t mean to be
trite to say it is an honor and
a privilege, but it most
certainly is. It actually makes
us better artists, and that is a
phenomenal reward.
^ Top
From RICHARD LEWIS
Take a minute, and look into
the eyes of the children you are
talking with. Look for that
intensity of attention, that
aliveness that goes beyond our
usual boundaries of learning.
Make sure you aware of their
desire to share with you the
great adventure that is their
childhood – the impulse to play,
to imagine, to explore and
discover the richness of their
newly found understandings.
Become a part of their angle of
vision, watch with them the flow
of their dreaming, the constant
delights of their reaching into
the unknown, the spaces and
solitudes that make up their
wonder and astonishments. Let
yourself travel with their
ideas, become the adventure of
their inner worlds, the
movements and gestures of their
questions and answers. Enter
their listenings, the sheer
abundance of poetries
surrounding them. And with quiet
patience watch their eyes follow
you – as you bring them to the
marvel and mystery that are
their dances, their words, their
music, their drawn and painted
images. Then sit back and enjoy
their singular excitement and
joy, indeed their gratitude, as
they begin to see, to experience
that artistry and expression of
their thoughts, perhaps as it is
for you, at the source of
themselves – and the life of
others.
^ Top
From CECILIA PINTO
You will not have a place to put
your coat or bags and so will
carry them from room to room.
Every time you enter the
building you will feel a nervous
excitement, it gets better, but
still, every time.
You must learn the name of the
security guards even though four
or five years in to your
residency they may still ask to
see identification. You will
rarely see the principal but
when you do, the principal will
know exactly who you are, and
what you are doing.
You must learn the name of the
school engineer because he
controls your ability to use
tape or tacks on the wall. He
will determine if your poetry
display is a fire hazard, and is
the only one who can supply you
with a ladder. And yes, when
teaching poetry, sometimes you
need a ladder. If you are lucky
enough to have someone who makes
photocopies for you at the
school, treat them like a god.
You may have to learn the names
of 100 third graders. You will
not have a key to the teacher’s
bathroom and this, among other
things, will lead you to feel a
certain allegiance with the
children.
You will occasionally forget or
mispronounce the children’s
names, or you will call them by
the wrong name. You come to
understand why one classroom
teacher you encounter calls
everyone, dear. You will
lie in bed at night trying to
put names to faces. You will
remember them by their poems.
If you eat lunch in the
cafeteria with the fifth graders
they will accept but not
understand your presence. What
grown up would want to eat with
them they seem to be thinking?
But then someone will offer to
share his or her chips with you.
You will be walking across the
playground when you are hit by a
red ball. Three or four boys
will stare at you looking
nervous and guilty while someone
shouts, “Hey, you hit the
teacher!” While regaining your
balance you will think, oh,
they mean me.
You will be accosted by children
who run up to you to ask, are
you coming today? And while
in another instance you might
reply sarcastically, what
does it look like? to these
children you say, Yes, yes I
am.
When you enter the classroom a
ripple of words will go through
the room, it will sound like
this; She‘s here, it‘s time
for poetry, yea!
She’s here, poetry,
poetry. You will start the
class saying, I have an
amazing poem to show you, or
you will start the class saying,
I am so excited about this
poem, or, you will start the
class saying, Would everybody
please, please be quiet?
You will feel bad when the
teacher yells at them for
wasting your time, when you
know that even on a bad day this
is exactly where you want to be.
You will also feel bad when the
teacher pays no attention to
your lesson.
You will be able to offer a
teacher a fresh perspective on
their students.
Teachers, who at the beginning
of the year eye you skeptically,
will end the year by shyly
reading poems they’ve written
during your class. You will
develop deep, meaningful
friendships with some teachers.
Others, you will never
understand.
Each teacher is alone in their
classroom and responsible for
the educational, emotional and
physical well being of a large
number of children whom the
world expects them to care for,
nurture and improve. If they
look tired or seem preoccupied,
it’s because they are.
You will be a part of countless
fire drills.
It is part of your job to fit in
to whatever classroom you are
in. Some will be loud and
lively, some will feel fearful
and restrained, some pleasantly
calm. It is your job to do your
job irregardless of the presence
of a security guard, or the
Secret Santa exchange, the
impending report cards or the
substitute teacher.
You will show up in your usual
rumpled black, or neatly pressed
slacks and blouse, the Hawaiian
shirt you think makes you look
fun, whatever it is you end up
wearing time after time, only to
learn that it’s spirit day, or
dress up day, or pajama day, or
some other event for which you
are inappropriately dressed and
you will feel like an outsider.
Honestly, no matter how kind and
generous your school is, or how
long you’re there, you will
always feel a little like an
outsider. This is ok. You are an
outsider, you are bringing
something in from the outside
that otherwise wouldn’t be
there. You are a messenger.
Some days, what seemed like a
great idea is a dud. Some days,
something you had little faith
in, produces amazing work.
You will give away all your pens
and pencils again, and again.
Someone will attempt to measure
your rear end with a ruler. They
will ask if you had a bad night,
if you are pregnant or just fat,
if you didn’t have time to fix
your hair, if you write poetry
too?
You will worry about the kid
that always cries, the kid that
can’t sit still, the kid that
never, ever speaks, the kid that
smells like cigarette smoke, the
kid that falls asleep, the kid
that only ever has a bag of
chips for lunch, the kid that’s
always in the office.
Some days you may feel that no
amount of poetry is ever going
to help anyone.
You will hear secrets like; I
have a new brother, or a
kitten, or my tummy hurts,
or my grandma died, or
my boyfriend broke up with me
or I’m kicked out of the
house. You will be given
special poems, poems written
just for you or poems written
because you made it seem
important. You will also receive
drawings and other precious
objects made from construction
paper and glue sticks. You’ll
get hugged.
If you teach high school,
students will carelessly preface
reading their work by saying,
this isn’t any good, or I
just wrote this on the train.
Usually this means that the poem
will leave you breathless.
You will constantly be reminded
of the depth of emotion felt by
every human being.
Alone, you will read poetry and
think, this poem would be
perfect for Roberto, or
this is just the right poem for
Tamara. You will give them
these poems, they will receive
them seriously, shyly, or with
surprise. For me? they
will ask. Yes, you say,
this poem is for you.
You will be there when the light
goes on.
You will love the ones with the
messy hair, the glasses, the
round bellies, the ashy elbows,
the runny nose, the beautiful
smile, the acne, the stain on
their shirt, the chip on their
shoulder, the laughing, good
natured ones, the dutiful,
hardworking kids, the tough ones
that try not to smile when you
praise them, the ones that will
win prizes, the ones that try,
the ones that don’t, the ones
that always hug you, the ones
that are really never going to
love poetry the way you do.
You will most likely spend
unpaid hours working on lessons
because after a while it becomes
more important to get the work
right than to think about fair
wages. However you will often
thing about fair wages.
Your own work may seem to
flounder. You’ll worry that
you’re giving it all away; your
energy and good ideas. You
aren’t. You may think that your
art is suffering. It isn’t. You
are only gaining, learning and
growing more creative. Your own
work will only get better. This
work will feed your work. This
work is the work.
Expect to be engaged,
challenged, frustrated,
inspired. Expect to learn,
expect to grow, expect to be
humbled, expect to give and
receive, expect everything.
^ Top
From BRENNY RABINE
Dear Young Theatre Artist,
Katie, a cherubic young actor in
my class, wore her long blonde
hair in straight braids down her
chest. In a game of “Dolphin
Training,” her classmates and I
decided to train her to hold her
braids up and “fly” around the
room. [This is an improv
training game I learned from
BATS in San Francisco.]
Each time Katie touched her
braids, the company called out,
“Ding!” She’d let her braids
go, look around at what offers
she was making, and say,
“What??” Then, she wandered
about, making offers, trying to
figure out what she was supposed
to do. Sooner or later, Katie
would touch or pull at her
braids, and again, the company
would call out her reward:
“Ding!”
Katie started to get really
frustrated. She wasn’t “doing
anything,” she complained. The
more frustrated she became, the
more her braid-stroking habit
increased. “Ding! Ding!” we
called out. Her habit was so
deeply unconscious that when she
finally (finally!) put two and
two together—that she was
touching her braids and getting
“dinged” for it--, getting her
to hold her braids out and run
around was easy. The look of
relief on her face was matched
only by the utter recognition of
her habit.
I thought of Katie and the
Dolphin Game recently, as I read
this lesson from F. M.
Alexander: “You can’t learn what
you don’t know, if you keep
doing what you do know.” Katie
was unable to be “trained” in
the game, because she failed to
even recognize what she “knew
how to do.” Habit, the great
deadener, eh?
Before I can teach actors
anything, I find my first task
is to become a kind of mirror
for them. I show them what
they’re doing. I allow them to
recognize their habitual
impulses. I must do this as
gently as possible, stripping my
tone or my expression of any
judgment, so they don’t feel
“bad” for having practiced their
habits. I help them to slow
down and go easy, so the
habitual impulse cannot find
expression. In this way, other
impulses may arise, and they can
track those.
When I first fell in love with
Dolphin Training, I admired it
for the way it exercises an
improviser’s spontaneity and
listening skills. Improvisers
have to keep making offers.
Improvisers have to listen,
both to the feedback of the
audience and to their own
awareness. Improvisers learn to
fail good-naturedly by making
offers that don’t work. For many
reasons, I loved the game.
Using the frame of Alexander’s
lesson, I saw the game in a new
light and admired it all the
more.
Being a teaching artist requires
us to look at our own habits
(and habits of mind) just as
much as we make our actors aware
of theirs. It’s constant
practice. It’s always new.
In peace,
^ Top
From BERTHA ROGERS
So you want to be an artist who
actually makes a living! The
perfect occupation for you,
although you certainly won’t get
rich at it, is being a teaching
artist. I have been at this
work, off and on, for almost 40
years. This occupation, sporadic
and intermittent as it can be,
has been one of the great joys
in my life.
The longevity gene isn’t one you
require for this job; those who
work best in shorter, more
intensive spurts are ideally
suited to be teaching artists.
(I deeply admire teachers who
are able to work day in, day
out, with the same students, but
that’s not my strength, and I
suspect it’s not the strength of
most of us in this field.)
As a teaching artist, you’ll
need to be really good at
applying for jobs because each
new residency is like a new job,
with all its frightening and
exhilarating aspects. You must
revel in intensive work with
different groups and enjoy the
challenge of meeting new
teachers and their students and
learning their quirks and
idiosyncrasies. This past year I
had two boys who always called
me, in their pre-teen voices,
“Ms. Bertha Rogers,” making me
laugh. One of these boys also
wrote the most amazing poem
about time, far beyond his
years, and I was so excited, I
had to read the poem over and
over.
You must be prepared to work
with students from K-12, from
21-106 (my oldest student, a
bright, articulate writer, was
in a nursing home; she couldn’t
hold the pencil, but she
dictated an amazing story). My
youngest students have been two
years old. Working in these age
ranges expands and advances your
own thinking process and opens
you to wonderful new realities.
You will also teach, if you’re
lucky enough to be in a big city
like New York, students of every
possible ethnic background,
which will only enrich you and
your thinking. If you’re working
in small towns you’ll understand
how students who attend school
in the same building from K-12
resolve differences and exult in
their sense of community.
Sometimes, you’ll be working
with gifted students; sometimes
(and often the very next day),
you’ll be helping special needs
children, or the incarcerated,
or retarded adults. You will
never be able to sleep through
your working days. Instead, you
will constantly be on the alert,
always learning, just like your
students. I was told by a very
famous poet that he always
assigned himself the same task
as those he gave to his
students, a very good device for
keeping fresh as a writer or
artist (of course, you won’t
have the opportunity to write or
draw in the classroom because
you’ll be so busy working with
the individual students; this
will be on your own time).
You won’t have paid sick days,
vacation, holidays, etc. You’ll
have to manage those on your own
time. Unless you belong to a
teaching artist organization
with a health plan, you probably
won’t have health insurance. You
certainly won’t have a 40lK.
You will have freedom; if you’re
good you will be able to pick
and choose your residencies;
and, if they like you, you’ll be
asked back. I’ve been at one
school for eight years now, and
I love walking in the door,
being greeted by teachers and
staff, seeing the children I
worked with when they were five
or six and are now in high
school.
Young artist, I wholeheartedly
recommend this work.
^ Top
From JUDITH TANNENBAUM
Dear Young Artist:
The evening is warm as I write
this letter to you, late August
in northern California. The
amaryllis, those pink bulbs we
called naked ladies when I lived
on the coast, have been out for
a few weeks, and school here
starts tomorrow. Late summer
light/red gold and low, I
wrote in a poem years after I’d
moved back to the city.
I’m 61, and my world as a young
artist was so different from
yours. For one thing, we could
live on very little money. Which
means many things, including the
primary fact that we could come
to our work – making art,
sharing art – slowly, moved by
the project at hand more than
the need to pay bills.
And I did come to the work
slowly. I began sharing poems
with children in my daughter’s
kindergarten class. I didn’t
think of myself as a community
artist – the descriptor I’d come
to use in a few years. I thought
of myself as a mother, a
volunteer, a lover of poems, and
as someone who had fun sharing
imagination with kids.
The times allowed one thing to
lead to another: volunteering to
being paid for a few classes, a
few classes to long-term
workshops, poems with country
kids to sharing in urban
classrooms, Bay Area public
schools to prison, once-a-week
prison classes to a grant as a
full-time teaching artist at San
Quentin, my own classroom
experience to writing manuals
for other artists working in
prison, manuals to becoming
training coordinator with
WritersCorps. I learned most
from observing myself and my
students, from the enthusiasm or
lack of it of those at the site,
and from the welcome or closed
door given by the wider
community around us. I’m
grateful for the pace at which I
was able to grow into the work
that’s become my life work.
I wish you a similar –
from-the-roots, organic – pace,
but I know that wish is
unrealistic. How can your pace
be from-the-roots when one
month’s rent on a room in San
Francisco would have paid six
months of bills when my daughter
was ten and I was thirty-three?
How can your pace be organic
when schools are so besieged
that the basic human need to
make art has to prove its worth
according to a dozen irrelevant
measures?
Still, despite rent and high
stakes testing, these are your
times and they have their own
blessings. Therefore my advice
is to embrace these blessings
with curiosity and love for your
art form, for those with whom
you share, and for the process
of making itself.
^ Top
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