“Please do your parents a favor and quit this. You’ll save your parents’ money and your time.”
The professor sounded vexed at the student and the rest of the class at the professor. Everybody hated him. He was one of those people who have always been an unambitious underachiever in life who thought that he was the best thing that’s ever going to happen to the department.
De facto, the department in itself was a strange place. The air through that corridor was arid and when you walk through it, it felt like a set from an ironic situation with the only source of daylight being the window at the end of it. Flanked by design studios (fancy for classrooms with drafting tables) with glass doors, it looked anything but the department of Architecture. I never hated it per se, but it wasn’t that inspiring either. It was dull nonetheless the walls were painted white.
The classrooms, however, had a brighter ambiance. But the environment went inert when that prof entered. I have to admit that he wasn’t the only one who made us feel unwanted. A lot of them would.
Isn’t it always that way, you’re the most hated batch; they are hopeless about you, thinking you are clueless about your future.
I saw his face fade away and his head bowing in surrender. He needed more time to realize the concept. He needed more time to understand the brief. He needed more time for research. He wouldn’t put it on paper because he wasn’t like the rest of the kids in the class who would just get the dimensions, make the flowchart and throw the rooms respectively. He wanted to create space, with a concept that justified the form and the function.
“You have to be thick-skinned…..” Somebody (I actually mean anonymous) once told me. “…….They are going to sit in front of you, will talk to you like a slave. They will f*** you with their words and the one time they would say ‘this is good’, don’t smile in fact don’t show any expression. It’s a trap.They have a fancy word for it, CRITICAL APPRAISAL. And the entire phenomenon (catastrophe) is called a jury.” I recalled.
And I was so perplexed by my own gestural resignation as till that point it wasn’t in my repertoire. I felt vacuum and the hatred like light.
‘What are you doing here?’ I questioned, though I somehow knew it was rhetorical. That’s the exact point when the bloody nostalgia kicks in like a drug.
You may tell me this is a bad design. I remember a very dear professor of mine telling me once, “Design is never wrong because some thought has always gone into it. The design can be either functional or nonfunctional, but wrong, never.”
I wish we always evolved amongst such invigorating souls. They knew how to appreciate, so we gave them the right to criticize as well. I wish we had teachers who encouraged us to do what we like. I wish they never told us ‘that’s impossible’ (though I do agree when they use “structurally”).
That particular juncture when a part of hope dies inside because of all that constant negativity, the quit worm takes its position in the bunkers of our heart and brains and fear of failure due to incompetency and self-doubt makes it difficult for you to breathe, that is the exact moment when a fountainhead dies.
A fountainhead never dies a natural death. If you think about it THAT’S A MURDER.
They killed that guy and yes he did quit architecture. He may have flourished if only he was nurtured properly.
Somehow we did and though we all still hate that professor yet here we all stand with our heads held high.