I wanna be an artist when I grow up

As the scars of pedagogical endeavor render my former self unrecognizable, two questions appear ever more unanswerable:

1. Why do students who don’t like making art sign up for art classes?
2. How do so many students who have never seen an actual art work first-hand end up deciding to major in art?

Things that happened before my eyes today:

1. Of 17 students in a class
13 showed up on time
9 who were on time “completed” the assignment due
5 of those 9 completed the assignment within the (bullet-listed) requirements
2. A student who’s plasticine sculpture was an sphere-ish disc really truly and actually bit off part of his oil clay underachievement and placed it far enough from the newly scarred orb to meet the minimum size requirement.
3. He explained that the larger globule was an M&M and that his act represented his childhood.
4. He was demonstrably upset when I told him I was uninterested in his crap.
5. At that time a student who smiles a lot said I the aforementioned student looks like me.  (No, I didn’t dignify that with a response.)
6. I broke my personal taboo and lectured a group of people who are legally considered adults as if they were 8th graders.  I quietly suspect many of them actually are.
7. When, later, I warned of a quiz next week – the sixth week – several students asked me where to buy the book.
8. One student asked if the bookstore had the book.
9. My northern-born self spent two hours stuck in traffic behind Virginians because everyone crashed everywhere near the beltway the minute the temperature dropped below freezing. (My commute is usually 20 minutes.)
10. After total incomprehension about why people can’t drive in this weather, I slipped on ice and fell down the stairs.  I’m fine but I’ll be damned if I learn any lesson from it.

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