How do I intend to improve myself academically and, by extension, improve the world? Why, with a BA in fine art, specialising in painting?
It’s been a tense few months. Globally, yes, but also personally. In April, I applied to university to complete my degree. I have one more year left, and then I will officially be a know-it-all, with a scroll to prove it. I applied and then I waited. And waited.
Getting to this point has taken seven years of evening classes and after-hours study, at first just for enrichment and then seriously, with a secret hope that maybe I did have what it takes, despite the inner arguments with the 19-year-old pregnant Wits dropout I’d been over 30 years ago.
If accepted, this final year would necessarily be five days a week and – your cue, Dolly Parton – nine to five. I’d already put Himself on notice that he wouldn’t be able to go off travelling, whatever the demands of his job, because the dogs would need him home, and so would I. Bless the man, he agreed. And we waited.
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The academic year in Europe starts in September, but come August, I’d heard nothing, while shooting off occasional spirited e-mails so they wouldn’t forget me. And then, finally, on the last Wednesday of the month, as the bell tolled 11, they called. I was in!
At 53, I’m going back to university. So, how do I intend to improve myself academically and, by extension, improve the world? Why, with a BA in fine art, specialising in painting? Fabulous! Also: terrifying. The imposter syndrome is huge.
Also, what the world really needs is another sad, middle-aged, empty-nest lady painter, right? Hah! And that’s only part of the narrative I hear in my head as the voices from my childhood grow louder: airy-fairy, arty-farty, lazy, you can’t do art until your maths marks improve…
Creativity has always been a reward for being good, like pudding at the end of a broccoli-and-liver dinner – and I haven’t been good, not ever.
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A beloved honorary aunt sums up my fears for me when I tell her I’m going back to college. “What?” she says. “At your age?” Yes, I think I am a fool.
But then I look across the room where her 60-something daughter sits with her 70-something husband. They smile with real warmth, nodding. They know. “Well done,” they say. “Very well done.”
I start today.
