Big

I got my degree from Virginia Commonwealth University’s Sculpture and Extended Media program during its peak era, when the entire arts college was stacked like the 1992 United States men's Olympic basketball team, except for like, conceptual thinking. During this time, one of my professors was an artist named Michael Jones McKean. Michael will probably turn out to be the closest I ever get to interacting with a genius in my lifetime, which is also to say, respectfully and reverently, kind of a weirdo.

The class I took with Michael was titled BIG, in all caps. Yes, the semester-long course is just named BIG, B-I-G. You have to remember, in art school this would not have seemed strange as in years prior I had taken required prerequisite classes such as Space and Time. That is not a joke. Michael was somewhat of a legend in the department for being incredibly insightful, fully unpredictable and somewhat bizarre. Everyone has their own piece of the McKean legend to share. As an example, I have heard told that he once listened to The Lady in Red on repeat for hours and hours and could be observed by passersby thoughtfully gazing into space saying to himself “lady in red… lady… in red” as though he was mulling over the idea like a rough stone being smoothed in his brain.

One day, we come into the studio for class and are told to go ahead and put our things down, we are going outside. The concept of field trips kind of tragically falls away in your teens, but the crackling electric energy of we are leaving where we normally are to go somewhere else?! still gives me a buzz to this day. So the fifteen or so of us set out on foot, our destination still somewhat shrouded in mystery. About 10 blocks later we arrive at the nearby grocery store, a Kroger. Michael turns to us, “alright, everyone pick out a piece of fruit, and meet me at the checkout in 10 or so minutes”. In your head you might be reading that as a command, but Michael actually has this really unique speaking tone and cadence, especially when giving instructions. He doesn’t really tell you to do something, he sort of in a velvety soft manner invites you to consider his suggestion, which in its own way is even more persuasive.

I was already filled with the anxiety of what I sensed was our next project. Oh yes, Michael would buy us a piece of fruit. But that piece of fruit, lovingly selected by your own hand, would then become your greatest rival, your albatross, your curse. Though I was not sure what kind of creative spin he would put on it, I knew in my heart we will be required to replicate this fruit in some abstracted manner. Maybe the assignment will be to replicate the fruit at fifty times its normal size. Maybe it will be to render the fruit to ½ its normal size. Maybe it will be to take the shape of this piece of fruit, but skin it with the surface of someone else’s fruit, like an apple shape with an orange skin. In paranoid times like these, art school could feel like a reality TV competition which you pay tens of thousands of dollars to participate in and yet start to suspect almost no one ever really wins.

I weigh the different scenarios and take the gamble that he will have chosen to play with scale, what with the class being BIG B-I-G and all. Therefore, I approach a box of kiwis and take one in hand, considering it. A kiwi is vague enough in shape that even my very poor hand skills should be adequate. We had also just had a demonstration of a surface technique called flocking which was simple and cheap enough to get close to the texture of the kiwi. Plus, it was very flat, matte brown underneath, so it would be hard for me to bungle the color too badly. Yes, a kiwi it was to be — had to be. I pick the most under ripe kiwi I can find in hopes it won’t go bad sitting in my studio for what could be weeks. Then, I get in line with my classmates as we all place our fruit on the conveyor belt. I see one of my classmates has chosen a cantaloupe. Poor bastard. Another has chosen a shiny red apple. I try not to roll my eyes at the glossy finish as I think to myself ok we get it, you can sand. Michael pays the fruit tab in full, and we walk the ten blocks back to the studio, and settle in, fruit in hand.

With a happy sigh Michael gestures upwards, a conductor awakening his anxious orchestra, “okay, now everyone all at once, let’s take a bite”. 

My heart sinks. We are going to have to sculpt it with a bite taken out of it? How could I have not thought of this. Oh god, all those tiny tiny seeds. Maybe I could ask for clarification to wiggle my way out of this trap. Does it need to be a full bite? Does it matter where we bite? Maybe I could try and take a small, shallow nibble. For a few suspended seconds, we are all looking around at each other until someone finally says something to the effect of “Um, what is happening right now?” In his oddly ethereal voice Michael responds, “oh, I just thought it would be nice to buy you all a piece of fruit to enjoy together”. I stare at the rough skinned, unripe kiwi in my lap and finally, for the first time today, actually see it as fruit. Don’t ever let people say you don’t learn anything in art school.

So here is the hard truth I realized in that moment and many moments since — sometimes the anxiety of the work eliminates the joy of the work. I heard that Michael Jones McKean still performs this strange fruit ritual. Good. May we all learn to truly enjoy the fruit of our labor whenever possible.