There is something drop dead sexy about “Dr.” preceding one’s name. It sounds important, authoritative, refined. Dr. Igbo has a speaking engagement at Ivy Hall. Dr. Igbo summers in Montreal. Dr. Igbo insists on arugula or spinach in her salad, never iceberg. Dr. Igbo loves Doritos on her peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. It doesn’t matter whether Dr. signifies a Ph.D. in leisure or an M.D. specializing in gastroenterology. The title affords its owner a certain degree of respect and potentially better parking at the airport.
More importantly, the title speaks to a commitment to the study and mastery of a subject. Doctors of plant pathology don’t just get tattoos of the molecular structure of oak trees on the small of their back because it’s cute. They eat, sleep, breathe and believe in plant pathology. When hiring managers see those telltale letters of prowess on a resume, they know what’s up. They know they’re courting a real player who made an investment of time, money and a steady diet of Top Ramen to learn.
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But then there’s art.Art is so subjective. Whether it’s words on paper, acrylic on canvas or chain stitching on slouchy, cool-girl shorts, art’s beauty is still left up to the beholder. Is there a science to it? Is there any real way to teach it or learn it? Can “bad” art be redefined as “good” by a doctorate degree? Is “good” art less relevant without a doctorate degree? Will advanced studies mean more money? Better benefits? More sales? A nice condo in Venice Beach, Calif. overlooking the skater park? The answer lies with the artist.
Some artists are born with talent gushing from every orifice. They set one foot outside of their house one day and fly off into super stardom the next. Then there are the rest of us. At some point, a creative seed was planted within us and was nurtured by life, insane parents and a nasty spill off of the merry-go-round at Paramount’s Great America. The first bud sprouted when we got a nod from our high school art club adviser or a crush who couldn’t bear to throw away the love poems we passed in Algebra II.
We enrolled in art school with instructors who are doctors because we didn’t quite know our paths but we wanted the artistic world given to us anyway. We needed the expertise. We needed the structure, practice and peer critiques. We needed the agony and triumph of the quarter system. We needed the rigor and sometimes the handholding to grow strong. Some of us will stop at a B.F.A., some at M.F.A., some at Ph.D. Each of us will only be the artist we dare to be.
I like the sound of “Dr. Igbo” and the distinct feeling of achievement that comes with going the distance in my craft. I don’t mind learning as much as I possibly can while doing what I love. I also enjoy the prospect of teaching at a school like SCAD – especially if our school decides to open a location in Venice Beach. Wink, wink.