MEMO 2014-2015: Confession by a former art-student

A short story from my own life, behind the scenes of an art education and life in a foreign and non welcoming place.

MEMO 2014-2015

Confession by a former art-student

by Lena Trydal

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I remember the day I got the mail. I was shocked and a little bit surprised, after all I had sent the application only a week earlier. «Congratulations» it said. But I did not even do the entrance exam? Could this be right? I was in total shock. Even though I was not done with Barcelona, my future suddenly had a new location and a new adventure. When the intense excitement had calmed down I considered the options, to maybe wait till next year, and stay in Barcelona working by myself which was my plan if I did not get a place in any school. The thought of not acceping a spot at The Royal Academy of Art was a bit crazy, so I decided to jump into the new adventure that I had just been invited to. Summer came, and I was sad for leaving Barcelona. Every day that summer, I thought about Barcelona: the events I missed and how boring my hometown Kristiansand was compared. I tried to turn my thoughts towards what was laying ahead of me. Dreaming was always my way of surviving and to keep my head over water. I had never been to the Netherlands, and I could not imagine what my new life would look like. So I decided to book a flight and go discover what layed ahead. I spent two days in Amsterdam, and then two days in my new hometown Den Haag. It was like nothing I had ever seen before. I was filled with hope and excitement. It was time to focus, and Barcelona was not the right place to do it. This was my new home, and I was going to grab this opportunity. During my days in Den Haag I visited four apartments, where I would find my future home in Edisonstraat 58. I travelled home to Kristiansand and packed my things in a lot of boxes. My room in my dads house was officially not my recidency anymore. We packed the car the night before we were going on a two-day route down to the Netherlands. I was grown up, moving into my own apartment, with my own furniture and establishing a life for the next four years somewhere new. I thought about all the people I was going to meet, or maybe somebody I would fall in love with. The moments of excitement and wonder had always been my reasons to live, and makes me a never-ending adventurer. I remember the feeling of keys in my hands, my own keys. Or unpacking and seeing the apartment becoming mine. It was quiet at night, and I had the window open, letting the last breeze of the summer softly touch my skin. I collected furniture as the days and weeks passed, so it eventually turned into a complete apartment. I had everything I needed. But already then I was worried. The things also trapped me. What if I just wanted to leave? I could not, because I had responsibility. It felt a bit overwhelming.

School started, and I felt confident. I knew what I was doing, who I wanted to be, why I was here. And I expected to meet people who managed to get through that same tiny hole of admission, and was here to challenge, explore and express. I had no idea that it could even be unlikely. We were gathered in a hall, and I could smell so much fear and insecurity it almost got me high. People were socializing by force, desperately showing they were not alone. They were very concerned with apperance, something I did not expect from artistic minds. In the break I sat in the corner, in my own company. I knew the socializing that happened now was forced, and that I would not even bother trying to find my place in the two-hundered people that desperately mingled around. I was very confident, but I also felt judgemental for having a bad first impression. I could not help but think they all looked so young and insecure, but I was very curious to see what made them get into this school; What they were hiding under the nervous fasade. I noticed how grey the colors were, of the buildings, the clothes people weared and the sky in general. But it was all me being judgemental.

We got divided into our classes, and I met my fellow students. They were young, but kind. Some of them were beginners in all disciplines, which surprised me. What did their portofolios contain? And what did they present during their entrance exams? I was confused, but I thought, again, I was too judgemental. We had an intense amount of classes, and I got bored. I wanted to talk about so many things, about genders, about consumerism and capitalism, but instead I was stuck with assignments like drawing perspective and shaddows, which I had done for five years already. The teacher complimented me, but I wanted challenge, not confirmation. I already knew I was good, that was why I was there. I was confused. My teacher in Barcelona had already suggested in april that I applied to be transferred to the second year, and I did before I started. It was not until this point that I realized the meaning of her suggestion. I went to the head of the fine arts department explaining my situation, and he told me he would look at it. In one of the classes the upcoming weeks the teacher had a conversation with me asking me if I thought I was better than my fellow students. The Dutch directness always surprised me. I think I explained myself in a respectful and good way, but I never understood the way of working. Some days later the director notified me that I was officially a second-yearer. It happened very fast, but I adapted as fast as I could. I was sure this was the right thing, as I was considering quitting the first year and do my own things. The second year gave me the chance to work on my things. However, it was not all that easy. To be moved one level up was not appreciated by everybody. I was ignored in the hallway by some of my old class mates, and not at all included by my new ones. But I would not let it drag me down.

Unfortunately I realized how the artworld works. It is simply not space for everyone, and that success and jealousy is tightly connected. I finally got my own studio space, which I was used to have from my other schools, but that was not so easy either. I entered into a huge fight in my new class where there was a large agreement that a new student, that would make everyone move so that there would be some space for another desk was not wanted. I was a problem. When I found the source of the complain I immediately confronted her. She received it badly, but I still wanted her to be aware of the bad attitude she expressed and how it influenced the environment. My first days in the studio I was very aware of not stepping on anyones toes and accepting to be the new girl. That included not being invited to anything social, even if it was just going out in the break or eating lunch. I was not sure how it would be received if I tried to be included, or did an effort to hang out, but I did my best being friendly to anyone and just be myself. The days were all the same, I came to school, followed classes, tried to work, biked home to my quiet apartment, cooked, and slept. Was there anything wrong with that? Well, I had more or less no human interraction. But I thought I was just being too judgemental, after all I had only been there for two months.

My fellow students worked with materials, I worked with thoughts, public debates and feelings. My teachers encouraged me to stop thinking and start working, but I found it hard to switch of the mind which was actually my working space. The excluding social environment in the studio took away my joy of making there, and I spent the late hours in my house painting for hours, using as many thoughts and as much time as I wanted. At that time I started getting to know people in the painting department. It eased the pressure as they were more welcoming than my studio. After months I was eventually invited to some parties, but to my big surprise, they always contained drugs. It never made me less lonely. But I did make some friends, and it made my situation better. As christmas got closer I strongly connected with a fellow student, which later had feelings involved. It changed my situation. Nomather how difficult and competitive the environment was, there was at least someone to share it with, someone who knew just what I ment. This relationship became a brick in my fundamental survival in this place. After months of doubts and unsatisfaction, I thought for the first time that this was a place I could actually like. It did not last too long. As the feelings were not mutual, the end was destructive for me, as I was left with nothing good in a place I tried so hard to like. The first exam came up, and to my big surprise we were graded infront of everyone. I was more confused than ever. How could my process be graded and compared to my material-based fellow students? To be put in a place in between my students affected me very negatively. My idea of “good art” was rejected. I had no idea why someone got good grades and someone else got less good grades. I had no idea what I would have to do to improve. It was so hard to understand that I decided to ignore it. It did not even matter what they thought, I was just going to make whatever I wanted. Even if nobody appreciated me, I would appreciate myself. Around the same time I had some unfortunate conversations with my teachers. I was yelled at for a mistake I made, I had no support in my confusion and as my life curve was going drastically down, I had no understanding for it what so ever. The school was a place I did not want to be, did not support or did not fit into. The few close relations I had in school was ruined, and the cocaine parties was not in my interest. I was broken. All I wanted was to stay inside my house, so I did. I opened up to some of my teachers, and a couple fellow students, but to my big surprise I was met with criticism. To quit was never an option, even though the thought always tempted me. I could not, because it would leave me in a terrible economical crisis, and I had no idea where else I would go. This was my life. Another month passed, I went to school when it was mandatory only, and for the rest I hid in what used to be my lovely home, but now was my prison. Nobody ever asked where I was or what was going on. The worst part was that I knew nobody would care, and that it was confirmed. Some days I thought that if I died in here, nobody would find me. I really tried to take care of myself, but I was completely prostrate. Not because of a single event, but it was from months of being strong. There were no tears left. I was just empty. Every morning when I woke up, the weather was grey, the apartment was quiet, and I felt punished for getting another day. I did eveything to make me happy, I went to cafees, to the cinema, for walks on the beach, to museums and theaters, shopping, painting, reading, going on small trips, but nothing could fill the silence and emptiness. I did everything in my power to change the situation. Until I finally figured out that I could only give up. But I was not sure what giving up was, unless you are going to die. My feelings were so destructive I could not manage to carry them on my own. After days and hours on my couch, I decided that I had to put myself into hospital, because then people would understand, and care. My parents had to come right away and I would have a reason not to attend school. And maybe someone would ask me how I was. I was scared that the hospital did not want me, that they would tell me to leave, because I would not know where to go. I could not move, and fell asleep in exhaustion. Sleeping was the best, because I could escape, and feel something different that I did not control. But nothing I would dream would ever be worse than waking up in real life. It was a punishment. What did I ever do to deserve these feelings? I was not sure. Then one day I realized that if I did not get out of there I would die. I had to quit. I had tried my best for eight months, and always blamed myself for being judgemental or unpatient. I could not fool myself anymore, I had kept out for too long. Hell was not a place, but a state of mind, and I had lived it for so long. I met with the director. He gave me the papers that would end it, but was sligthly irritated because as everyone else he did not understand. I made sure that I cleaned out of my studio when there were no one else around, saturday morning. Their questions would have been too much to handle. I could not deal with them blaming or criticizing me. As I quit school I emailed my eight teachers the following:

“To my lovely teachers,

As some of you know I have been very unhappy in Holland, and it has now become a question of health. So therefore I have decided that it is time for me to leave. It has been a very painful choice to make, but I think for the moment it is whats best for me.

So I am leaving Holland during march and quitting the academy immediately. I will continue my education at a later point, but right now I need to focus on getting back on my legs.

I would like to thank you so much for everything and good luck further on. I learned a lot from you that I will bring with me further in my career.

Thank you.

With kind regards,

Lena Trydal»

Only one replied. Nobody in my class asked me where I was or what had happened. It was my ultimate confirmation that leaving was my right decision. My dad came to pick me up. I decided to stay on my couch until he would knock on my door. I would eventually have to deal with my initial question «What do I do with all my stuff if I have to leave?». It was time to get rid of all the ties that held me there. It was hard that nobody understood. I heard rumors that I was being criticized by my fellow students for not saying goodbye, but why would I when nobody even bothered to react when I was gone. Then my dad was there. I had opened the door long before he arrived, and when I saw him I knew it was finally over. I had no idea what I was going to or going to do. We packed my things, like eight months earlier, I cleaned out of the house, and locked the door. Even though I was madly in love with my flat and thought it would be my home for the next four years, I was not sad when I locked the door. I remember driving away from the city, seeing the tall buildings disappear behind me, feeling a rush of emotions. I remembered coming to the city, with hopes and dreams and expectations. With my positivity and courage. The city had stabbed me in the back, and never seeing it again would not be a problem. I was toren apart.

I came back to Kristiansand, back to where we started. We had classes that day. I thought about what my classmates were learning, and how far away they all where. Everything seemed so unreal. I could not believe what had happened. I was in shock. For a week I stayed in my bed at home, trying to understand. After that week I was on a plane to Barcelona, with no idea what I was doing. But I was finally moving back. Was it right to leave in the first place? Is happiness not a good indicator that you should not leave a place? I had a million reflections, but I was still in a very self destructive condition. My first week I stayed in a hostel, in my own room. I had no structure in my life, and I was not sure where I was going. Even though I was where I wanted to be all the time, I was without hope that anything would ever change. It only took me three days before I was caught up by my former art school president, who wanted to hear my story. It was the first time I explained it, and I found it hard to put it into words. But she understood, and she believed in me. I was still very confused, if I was just weaker than others or if reason was on my side. I never thought I would be someone who would say that I did not want to live, and it seems to me that just that phrase is the only one that can make people understand the severity of it. Unfortunately. I started my old art school again. It was hard. I was new again, and I felt like I had taken a step back. Like I had fallen down the ladder I had climbed and started from the bottom again. I spent a lot of time alone, but it was different. It made me wonder what we need to be happy, how much people matters and how much the place itself matters. I met people again from my previous year. People who supported me and were genuinely happy to see me. Again I was confused, who were right about me?

I always thought about the classes I missed, and I still received mails from one of my teachers (all the others had just deleted me) and I always felt upset about it. Some days I forgot why I quit, I just remembered the pride of carrying such a heavy name on the curriculum, and how I had lost my rights when I quit in the middle of the semester. I continued to blame myself. What did I do wrong? Are there any ways I could have gotten through it? Should I have completed? And once again, did I have reason on my side? As I moved out of the hostel and into a collective, the destructive feelings left me. But I was left with nervousness, anxiety and a million questions. It all attacked my immune system, leaving me sensitive to all kinds of viruses. As my mental health got better, my physical health got worse. I got Mononucleosis, and my level of iron reached 0. When I returned to Norway after 3 months I was so exhausted I could not get out of bed. After a visit to the doctor it all made sense to me. It did not help on the motivation though. I had no job, no money, no place at a school, no health and no clue where I was going. I figured out that this time I would go somewhere where I had people I loved, and it did not have to be the most exotic. The freedom of designing your own life can sometimes be overwhelming. The director of the fine arts department at the Royal Academy told me when I left that the door was still open after the summer. The offer came to my mind a hundered times, and every time I had to debate back and forth on the options. Maybe I just chose the wrong department, maybe it would all have gotten better if I had friends outside of school, maybe I should not have lived alone, maybe I should have done sports or some other activity. But then I remember that I actually really tried. I guess sometimes it just does not work out, and that we need to make adjustment till we are satisfied, and that just those scary adjustments are what is needed to create a good life.

Now I am sitting in a really nice couch. It is in my new apartment that I share with Emilie. She is really nice. I am in Oslo, and it is really nice. My friends are all within range, and my family too. I am still looking for a job, and sometimes it drives me mad knowing that I could have been in the best academy in the Netherlands, but instead I am jobless in my home country. I guess freedom comes with consequences, that once you are free to make choices, you are also responsible for them. It can also be good, leaving you uncommitted to unhappiness. I still feel the need to tell my story and sometimes I feel like I need someone to confirm that I did the right thing, because I am so split up between guilt and pride. It is still a bizarre part of my memory, that I still have not figured out if I regret happened or not. The only thing I know is that I will never allow myself to sink so deep again.

Reviews

[Robert Parlange]

Thank you for sharing your story Lena. In life we often make choices that forces us to reflect. It is like the poem by Frost, “The Road Not Taken.” We never really know if life would have been different with a different choice or action. We learn to live with our lives as we live them.

When we are infants, we make the tentative steps at walking. We fall on our butts, but we get up and try again. As we age we will still fall on our butts occasionally. But the trick is to get up and keep going.

I get the impression that you are a strong person and will be just fine with your life.