The Ambush of Orthodoxies

Some of the Problems with Teaching Art

I’ve always had a soft spot for films, a hobby that stuck around with me longer than with my childhood friends, for whom it was no more significant than collecting odd socks. When I got my first iPad, I’d spend the weekends with my friends and cousins, making spoofs of “Alfred Hitchcock Presents”.  Although they weren’t meant to be spoofs, that was indeed how they turned out.  So, naturally, I thought, why not take this hobby up a notch? That’s how I ended up spending a year in a film school in Bangalore, the kind of place where creativity is supposed to meet its feet. With a pinch of skepticism and a pocketful of dreams, I walked in, ready to soak in the craft of filmmaking. Little did I know, art schools have a strange way of teaching you lessons you never signed up for.  

Stepping into the art school was like wandering into a parallel universe where the language of normalcy was lost in translation. Here, the currency was uniqueness, and it seemed like everyone was a millionaire. The students, a disorderly clump of personalities, each appeared to nurse a burning need to be special, to stand out, not so much in their art—which often took a backseat—but in their self-fashioning. They draped themselves in layers of eccentric clothing, as if in a silent competition for who could defy convention the most blatantly. Their conversations were often a word salad of obscure references and self-congratulatory rhetoric. It was as though the volume of their uniqueness had to match their attire: loud, bold, and unabashed. In this world of aesthetic one-upmanship, the shock wasn't just in the unorthodox—it was in the relentless pursuit of being extraordinary, often feeling more performative than genuine, more a clamor for attention than an attempt at personal expression.

The halls of art schools often echo with a peculiar brand of cynicism, the byproduct of a dichotomy that simmers beneath the surface. These institutions, built on the pillars of creative freedom and expression, are inescapably tethered to the cold, hard machinery of funding. In film schools, especially, the need for cutting-edge equipment and technology is as undeniable as it is expensive—a fact starkly at odds with the reality of many privately managed institutions in India, where the equipment rooms are empty and the admin offices stink of corruption and incompetence.

Yet, amidst these pragmatic concerns, there emerges a curious disdain for technology within the fine arts sphere. It's as though the story wishes to distance itself from the camera, and the camera from the computer. This ideological rift—whether it's an honest position or a makeshift shield against circumstances—is palpable. Students find themselves navigating through their educational journey with outdated tools, learning more about improvisation than innovation. The contradiction is clear and stifling: schools dedicated to the future of art, bound by the present realities of inadequacy, where the spirit of creation is expected to thrive in an environment that struggles to provide.

In the drought of resources that plagues many an art school, one might hope that the faculty could be the oasis, the life-giving force capable of turning a barren educational landscape into a fertile breeding ground for creativity. In theory, teachers hold the transformative power to elevate a place of learning, regardless of its shortcomings, to the heights of an elite academy. They could, with their wisdom and insight, inspire a renaissance of thought and artistry. However, this is where reality intrudes with its disheartening script.

The world of art doesn’t bow to the conventional arcs of a career; there are no gold watches, no fond farewells over sheet cakes in break rooms. Those who make it in the arts seldom leave the stage, their canvas, or the limelight, for a podium in a classroom. And the few who possess both the mastery of their craft and the fervor to teach are snapped up by the crème de la crème of educational institutions. What, then, trickles down to the less illustrious schools is a faculty often composed of artists who didn’t quite make it—not out there, in the vast, unforgiving world.

This brews a distasteful atmosphere: the failed artist turned teacher, who, rather than imparting inspiration, might foster an environment clouded with their own disillusions and resentments. They sometimes become the unwitting architects of a culture that shuns the very innovation and pioneering spirit that art thrives on, nurturing instead a cult of mediocrity where novelty is regarded with suspicion, and the traditional is clung to like a life raft in choppy waters. The irony is thick—a place meant to celebrate creation can sometimes become a sanctuary for the creatively stifled, and the cycle of cynicism perpetuates itself, generation after generation.

In the absurd drama of my art school experience, where outdated tools met disenchanted educators, several moments stood out, each underscoring the chasm between expectation and reality. One such instance unfolded under the guise of exploring photography’s essence. The course promised a deep dive into the camera’s heart, but somehow morphed into a physics lecture, courtesy of a teacher keen on repurposing his science degree in a film classroom. We found ourselves embarking on a peculiar and pointless assignment: capturing the sun with nothing but our cell phone cameras, at various hours, across a week - that could have been put to perfectly good use. Instead, it turned into a session of scientific critique, far removed from the artistry we were there to master. This detour into the physical underpinnings of light and lenses felt like a misallocation of our time and money, a painful reminder of the disconnect between our reasons for being there and the curriculum's direction.

The school’s surprise attacks didn't end there. Our schedule included what were dubbed "mandatory electives," an unmissable oxymoron. These courses, ostensibly tied to themes of social justice, lacked substance and direction. One such class had us sifting through social media for weeks on end, looking at content that was more provocative than educational. TikToks and YouTube advertisements became our study materials, a modern-day odyssey through the digital age's excesses. The supposed connection to broader societal issues was thin at best, leaving us bored and triggered at the same time, which seems impossible. The promise of a nuanced exploration of social justice within the arts was lost in translation, replaced by a disjointed and shallow engagement with the world beyond our studio walls.

The culmination of our year, an "industrial visit" to one of India's cinema-centric locales, held the promise of bridging the gap between our academic pursuits and the industry's vibrant reality. Anticipation was high for what was billed as a weeklong immersion into the professional world, an opportunity to glean insights from those who had navigated the path we aspired to tread. Yet, Murphy’s Law prevailed. Our days were spent meandering through tourist attractions, while evenings unfolded in the glow of lackluster film screenings in one of the hotel rooms. The richness of cinema and its creators remained just beyond our reach, obscured not by a lack of desire on our part, but by the institution's exaggerated claims of industry connections. This excursion, rather than serving as a bridge, became a mirror reflecting the great divide between our world and the professional realms we hoped to enter.

Once I got out of this bizarro college, I spent quite some time thinking about it.  Some of this retrospection has led me to believe that there are broadly three ways through which an art school undermines learning.  Here goes: 

The teachers deal their first blow by essentially diluting an art-form - in this case, filmmaking - into a mere vocation.  This is done by introducing and championing a particular set of techniques and approaches deemed superior for reasons shrouded in mystery. This so-called superiority is often based on criteria that are simply vague and arbitrary, leading to a curriculum that not only drains the euphoria out of learning art but also positions boredom as a prerequisite for creative achievement.  This approach gives birth to a sad genre of films—works that, despite their technical precision, are so devoid of life and creativity that they repel even the most dedicated film enthusiasts. These films, praised in some academic circles for their adherence to "superior" techniques, often feature the most predictable camera angles and shun the use of dialogue or music, even when such elements could enhance the narrative. The insistence on such methods reveals a profound misunderstanding of art's purpose: to evoke emotion, provoke thought, and, above all, to connect with the audience on a visceral level. Instead, what emerges is a sterile exercise in form over function, where the rules of composition are adhered to not because they serve the story, but simply because they exist. This traditionalism not only undermines creative potential but also contributes to a landscape of cinematic works that are emotionally barren and ultimately forgettable.

The arbitrarily derived orthodoxy within art schools, then, becomes a crucible for dismissing originality as "amateur". This mindset breeds an insular circle of artistic elitism, one precariously perched on the shaky ground of tradition rather than the solid foundation of merit. Bright, daringly experimental works are mocked, scoffed at and derided as "crass". Such a climate not only curbs the emergence of new voices but also entrenches a distorted valuation of art where new outlooks are viewed with fear and disdain rather than with curiosity. In this echo chamber of conformity, the vitality that should define artistic exploration is often quelled, leaving a place where the truly new is marginalized in favor of the comfortably familiar.

Atop this edifice of artistic conservatism and disdain for novelty, the final embellishment comes in the form of political orthodoxy. Politics, far from being a nuanced backdrop to storytelling, becomes the overpowering narrative force, seeping into every crevice of a film's creation—from the overarching story down to the individual frame. This isn't about sparking a discourse or encouraging students to explore the complexity of societal issues through cinema. Instead, it morphs into an activist rally where films on race, gender, and in the Indian context, caste, are presented as vehicles for ideological affirmation. The films curated for study in these schools often lack any real engagement with the topics they purport to address. Rather than offering honest evaluations or critical discussions, they serve as affirmations of a preordained set of beliefs. Watching and studying these films feels less like an academic exercise in critical thinking and more akin to a ritualistic chanting of mantras. This approach not only narrows the scope of what is considered "acceptable" art but also precludes any possibility of authenticity and a transformative dialogue.

Although these institutions set out with a mission to dismantle gatekeeping and challenge orthodoxy, ironically, they often morph into the very entities they profess to oppose. This journey reveals a deeper, more unsettling truth: the perpetual battle against conservatism and traditional paradigms is not won through mere opposition. Without a commitment to constant skepticism, hard-headedness, and vigilance, we find ourselves constantly ambushed by new orthodoxies. These emergent doctrines, masquerading as liberators from past constraints, insidiously replicate the structures they replace, perpetuating a cycle of intellectual and creative confinement. 

After spending a year in one of these places, I feel like most art schools are just expensive and glorified daycare centers. Here, the promise of anything resembling an education is often overshadowed by a curriculum mired in dogma and a culture resistant to true innovation. In the end, what goes on within these walls becomes a cautionary tale of how easily the new can become ensnared in the trappings of the old, unless we guard fiercely against the seductive lure of unexamined beliefs and the comfort of conformity.

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