SCHLIEFKEVISION IN KANSAS:

The school hasn't changed too much physically, although it feels like a different beast than the carefree days of 1993-1997.  The lawn sparkles with care, landscaping pops up in unfamiliar places, and a slew of art student projects lay scattered throughout, leaving a kind of handmade outsider art feel to some of the handrails, walls, and alcoves created by the odd shaped buildings dotted across the campus. 

I'm glad I quietly toured the campus during the summer, as being around young looking 18 year olds in place of my memories would have a been a bit much to handle, and only make me feel old.  

But thinking back to the insanity of those four years (and really, insanity doesn't begin to describe what it was like at all) can't help but make me laugh, and feel disappointed I didn't document things there better.  I took some pretty nice pictures of folks here and there, but I didn't go far enough - photographing every person, reveling in art-school-ness by documenting the absolute worst of the the art produced there. 

Despite its many shortfalls, the school really was priceless in so many ways.  Foundations was the single greatest year ever, under the tutelage of Richard Mattsson, I learned more in one year than really was imaginable.  Thrown into a pressure cooker, you did the only thing you could do - work.  Of course, you needed a drink every now and then (I once dedicated the entire month of October to drinking every night) and just kept finding yourself in different places than you'd expect. 

So I left foundations with an intense work ethic that has never left, and after a couple years of adjustment and floundering in my newly chosen Painting major, I finally hit my stride again when all of the stars aligned and I was able to study under Michael Walling.  Surrounded by a great class of fellow seniors who banded together under the moniker 'Stremph'. 

It was a great year, the climax of four years in this odd little haven of ego, elitism and exhibitionism rolled up into one feverish final year that produced some the best work from everyone involved.  It took a while to ssort through some of the crap and general attitudes that were taught there, but a day doesn't go by that I don't think fondly of this crazy haven and its affect on my life.

 My friend still refers to then-professor Harvey Hix as the 'smartest man ever' and I really can't refute that at all.  Down to earth, unpretentious, and a genius to boost, his humble demeanor and genuine interest in the students amazed us all, even in our embryonic stage of life.  His demeanor was matched by a good portion of the liberal arts department, which was a secret driving force in which all the departments were brought together and made people think and develop outside the messes in their respective studios. 

I've already waxed way too poetically about this whole thing.  Times were loud, crass, and the school ran rampant with clicks and egos.  The more upsetting and retarded the art, the more attention and higher the grade.  The school was lined with heavy alcoholism and lots of available drugs for anyone looking. 

Sadly, by the time my class grew up to fill the senior boots in 1997, there was a sea change occurring - changeover of staff in most departments, the administration unfurled yet another plan to keep the school accredited and out of bankruptcy.  Part of that plan was a strict money grab by raising the already too high tuition and letting in lesser creative and talented suburbanites from such talented cities as Plano, Texas.  It seemed the underclassmen were nowhere near as dirty, wild, or ready to throw down at a moment's notice. 

Beaux Arts, revitalized during my years there, no longer featured 30 foot flames a-blazing but volleyball matches instead once the police couldn't be kept away from the annual event.  But so it goes.  Times change, schools change, but the time I spent there never will, and neither will the people I was lucky enough to meet and study with.