Written by Rachelle Hernandez. Graphic by Alice Stockli.
I look in the mirror and ask myself, “Am I an artist?”
Growing up, I don’t think I had any idea what an artist actually looked like. Off the top of my head, I maybe pictured someone covered in paint with graphite-stained hands, then I came to SCAD.
Walking around Arnold Hall for the first time felt like everyone was living on their own personal runway. I loved it. I was fascinated by it. And, if we’re being sufficiently honest and mature with ourselves, it also overwhelmed the hell out of me. Because dressing like an artist is HARD. I say that as someone who has always cared a ridiculous amount about clothes. My mother claims I’ve been having what she calls “Ray darkenings” since I was three: a slow progression of excitement, creativity, and eventual breakdown when I get an idea in my head ,and absolutely refuse to let it go.
As a kid in El Salvador, I treated trips to the supermarket like Paris Fashion Week. I tied old belts together to make silver and gold accessories for my dresses. I was 10 years old walking through Super Selectos in heels, an oversized hoodie in 100-degree weather, and a hand-embroidered skirt that nearly touched the floor, striking poses like Vogue had sent a photographer to aisle seven.
In fifth grade, I wore a thrifted Vera Wang wedding gown to Historical Figure Day because I had been assigned Queen Elizabeth I. We were given prewritten scripts to recite for the parents walking around. Apparently, I decided Queen Elizabeth and I were above that. I rewrote mine and presented her history through poetic storytelling. I got an F, but I was also probably the most confident fifth grader alive. I was completely proud of myself and completely aware that I did not belong there, all at once.
I remember visiting SCAD when my brother was a student, and when my turn came, I knew it was finally my moment. For once, doing too much didn’t necessarily mean I was too much. I shoved practically my entire wardrobe into three bags and a backpack. I was going to take advantage of every class, every event, every day, and obviously, every opportunity to put together an outfit.
If I’m not dressed to impress, I’m dressed to be remembered. That sounds shallow, and maybe it is, but my appearance matters to me, and I’m honest enough to admit it. When I’m dressed up and wearing something I love, I don’t necessarily want someone to tell me I look good. I want to feel like I can walk into a room, take on the world, and leave some evidence that I was there.
However, after so long of doing too much, I got here and wondered if I was doing enough. There is no dress code telling us how an artist should look. Still, spend enough time walking through Arnold, and it’s hard not to notice that creativity extends far beyond whatever is happening inside the classrooms. It’s in the hair, the shoes, the piercings, the makeup, the thrifted pieces, the handmade accessories, and even the people who somehow make not trying at all look extremely intentional.
Whether we admit it or not, we notice people’s outfits. I’ve looked at someone and tried to guess their major before they ever told me. I’ve associated someone’s appearance with how creative I assumed their writing would be. And I’ve looked at other students, then looked down at myself and suddenly became much more aware of what I decided to put on that morning. That’s where self-expression gets complicated.
We love saying that we dress for ourselves. I know I do, but I also just admitted that I dress to be remembered. Those two things don’t fit together as neatly as I’d like them to. Maybe something can be completely authentic to us and still be shaped by the people looking at us. At an art school built around individuality, there is a strange pressure in being individual enough. Nobody has to tell you to look creative. Sometimes all it takes is looking around.
And the funniest part of all of this is that I never considered myself an artist. I’m just a writer. I can spend an embarrassing amount of time deciding what I’m going to wear to class, walk through a school full of artists wondering whether I look like one, then sit down and create something with nothing but words, and somehow decide that doesn’t count.
So, I look in the mirror and ask myself again, “Am I an artist?” I still don’t know, but I do wonder whose reflection I’m looking for.
