Lessons from Mediocrity

I don’t keep a lot of artwork from my childhood but I’ve held on to this.

It doesn’t look like much because, to state the obvious, it isn’t much.

When I was ten I was identified as an artistically gifted child and entered into a bunch of free art classes. They put me in an “advanced sculpture” class at the Arlington Career Center because artistic kids are good at sculpture. Obviously. I car pooled with my friend Matt. I brought quarters so I could buy a root beer during the break in the middle.

Five minutes into the first class it was obvious to everybody I didn’t belong. The other students brought gear, instruments for carving and gently caressing blocks of stone until they inspired an emotional reaction. I had fifty cents. For a root beer.

The other students grabbed giant pieces of stone and filled dishes with plaster and got to work. They were confident. They had purpose. I grabbed the biggest stone I could find and immediately broke it in half, spreading a cloud of white dust across the room. Everyone stopped and looked at me for 33 hours straight. I got a smaller piece of stone.

Matt began carving a bird. A big beautiful bird with talons and eyes and feathers angled in such a way as to suggest a headwind from the southwest. Occasionally he’d screw up in ways I could not discern and then “fix” his mistake in ways I could not discern. A photorealistic bird continued taking shape. Another kid did a bust of Archbishop Desmond Tutu. It really looked like Desmond Tutu. He didn’t need a photo.

I carved a hole into my stone, not sure where I was going with it. I carved another hole. And a third. Three holes! The instructor came by and gave me the overenthusiastic praise reserved for the underperformer — the effusive, kind, and completely unspecific pep talk one delivers to keep the recipient from crying. I smirked and said thank you. We all knew what was up.

I drank my root beer. I went home and cried probably. I didn’t want to go back. But I had to go back. Someone paid for this class! I went back.

The second week was tough. Other kids looked at me more. Some whispered to one another and laughed under their breath. The Desmond Tutu guy finished his bust and started up on a Stephen Biko. I didn’t know what to do so I carved an inverted hand into my stone. Maybe I was an abstract sculptor after all? No. The answer was no. The teacher came back and smiled and encouraged me and delivered a root beer right to me. The other kids weren’t allowed to drink root beer in the studio. Nobody said anything.

Week three it sunk in. This wasn’t for me. It never would be for me. I approached some other kids during root beer time and started talking about video games. This caught them off guard. Why would I want to talk to anybody? Shouldn’t I be hiding my head in shame? It confused them. But we talked and laughed and exchanged tips for beating Zelda.

Week five we had our showcase. The Tutu kid showed us Tutu, Biko, and Mandela. They were amazing. My friend Matt finished his bird and used the extra time to paint and glaze it. I took the stage with a smile. I showed them my pathetic piece of stone. Then I thanked them for letting me carve with them and learn from our working together. They smiled at me but the smiles were different. They were genuine. If anybody should have been uncomfortable it should have been me, and I chose not to be uncomfortable. This let them off the hook. They smiled and applauded and the two Zelda kids gave me a high five. Later we toasted with root beers.

I’m not good at everything. I never will be. Even the things I’m good at, there are people close to me who are better at those things, and always will be. I cannot change this. If I choose to be uncomfortable I choose a life of inferiority and insecurity. If I avoid these situations, these sculpture classes, I miss out on the photorealistic birds and lessons on the heroes of Apartheid-era South Africa. I don’t get to meet and know amazing people and count them as my friends.

My mediocrity in the art of sculpture is a gift. It taught me more than any ribbon or prize or award ever could. So whenever I’m down on myself for something, or feel like I don’t deserve to enjoy something because of how well I do it or how much better others can, I reflect on this little pathetic stone sculpture and I feel better. Then I crack another root beer.