When I started at the Studio School I had been painting on my own for a year. My work was stifled by repetition at a level of involvement where—isolated from other artists— I was unable to really see what I was creating.
By the end of my first semester, my painting moved forward at a pace I could not have predicted—both formally and in its content. An artist is his or her own worst enemy. In countless fruitful conversations under Graham’s searching eye, I discovered I didn’t have to deal with myself by myself. What I had found was something invaluable to any artist: I had found a community. Surrounded by so many artists strategizing their way out of similar issues, I learned quickly how to do it myself. In my last semester, I carry this with me wherever I go, in conversations with peers, over stress induced Lazy Hustlers at Evas or at the Met when conversation calls for historical or spiritual precedent.
Growing up as an art student and a New Yorker, I walked past the New York Studio School countless times. Occasionally, I ventured in. There is a tangible weight to the quality of the building. It settled like stand oil. It creaks and breathes in all the right places, and has a genuine urgency. It drew me in and with all its nostalgia and spit me out prepared for a life full of painting. When my time as a student ends, I know I will miss it enormously, but I know I wont be missing it alone.