Art School Confidential

November 2020

I started High School in the fall of 1986. I had been accepted into a Specialized Arts program at Danforth Tech in east-end Toronto.

I think it was Mr. Wilson who taught the Commercial Art component. What I definitely remember are the groovy outfits he wore; polyester slacks the colour of raspberry Kool-aid. Airbrushing was all the rage back then and a couple of students brought in their personal gear so they could experiment with projects.

The room was split into two work spaces: one side housed long communal desks, while the other was left an open area so we could set up our easels for figure drawing. I’m not sure this curriculum would be allowed today. In order for us to learn to draw the human form the models posed nude. Women and men. I recall the teacher’s introduction to each of those lessons - a reminder really - if you laughed you were out of there!

I fell in love with what we called the stovepipe technique, where I would quickly sketch a stick figure that laid down the initial pose of the model. Over top of those lines, I then held the pencil or charcoal in such a way where my index finger anchored the tip flat against the paper, and in a continuous circular spiral-like motion, I could then flesh out the body shape.

Again, this was a group of barely turned teens being tasked to keep their composure. We miraculously pulled it off, save the time we were graced by a pretty young female model with a butterfly tattoo. Her presence had elicited nervous energy in some students of a different kind that day.

Mr. Porco taught us Interpretive and Abstract Drawing. The classroom was huge, divided into three sections: the front area had large square communal tables for paper work/drawing. The middle section was a sculpting area where we could craft our plasticine, eventually transforming the pieces into clay ceramics, using the kiln in the back work area of the room.

I sculpted - with unintentionally hysterical results - an original portraiture bust. I named him Julien. He had curly hair reminiscent of a young Art Garfunkel and a moustache that can only be described as Rhett Butler meets Magnum P.I.

I really wish I had kept him.

Fine Art and Still Life Drawing was taught by Mr. Barnes. The smallest of the three classes, our desks surrounded an enormous table in the centre of the room, on top of which sat every kind of drawing prop and bric-a-brac imaginable. It was a mystery how long those artifacts had lived on that table. One student swore they saw a tiny mouse poke its head from between a pile of pussy willows during a lesson. If only the layers of dust coating those plastic fruits could talk.

Mr. Barnes was a strange man. Aloof, yet present. Distant, but kind. A certifiable eccentric. There were hushed rumours he would lock his classroom door during his lunch period and smoke grass.

That would explain the table.

Strange, as I get older (I’m probably the same age as he was then) I look back on the memory of Mr. Barnes wishing I had recognized his strangeness the way I have come to understand it now. Perhaps I feel this way because I see some of it in myself.