Beatriz Milhazes. Sinfonia Nordestina, 2008; acrylic on canvas; 96 7/8 X 144 7/8 inches

I’ve been accepted to an MFA program that begins this September. As the month approaches, I find myself getting increasingly nervous and anxious (as I always do on the first day of school). It’s been a few years since I’ve participated in group critiques, and while I’m excited about this program, I also feel very vulnerable right now. Can you offer any advice to new MFA students? I wonder what former students “wish they’d known” before going into a program.

There are so many things I wish I’d known before I started my graduate program that I could answer your question with a book. Work hard, show up for everything, and say thank you are timeless tips, of course, but you’re looking for other suggestions calibrated to the specifics of the MFA. First, make friends with the Graduate Program Manager (or whatever they call the initial line of defense in your grad office). This individual will be your conduit to advisor selection, the assignment of teaching assistantships, and much more; woe betide the student who cops an attitude and treats the manager rudely. Second (and this is related to the above), the most bureaucratic rules only apply to students who don’t apply themselves. I’m not suggesting that you engage in risky behavior, but all fences have gates. If you are kind and polite and work diligently, someone may show you where they are. Also, if you are moving to attend school, consider staying in that city for a few years after graduation. You will make a lot of friends and contacts in two years, but if you move away immediately, you will lose them. (This last piece of advice was given to me by a colleague who still regrets that he moved away a week after receiving his degree.) Finally, stay away from drama queens, bastards, and bullies, even the ones who are powerful and who seem to hold the potential for your future professional advancement. If I were dying right now and had to give counsel with my last breath, it would be this: Assholes only ever help themselves.

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I’ve been accepted to an MFA program that begins this September. As the month approaches, I find myself getting increasingly nervous and anxious (as I always do on the first day of school). It’s been a few years since I’ve participated in group critiques, and while I’m excited about this program, I also feel very vulnerable right now. Can you offer any advice to new MFA students? I wonder what former students “wish they’d known” before going into a program.

Beatriz Milhazes. Sinfonia Nordestina, 2008; acrylic on canvas; 96 7/8 x 144 7/8 in.

There are so many things I wish I’d known before I started my graduate program that I could answer your question with a book. Work hard, show up for everything, and say thank you are timeless tips, of course, but you’re looking for other suggestions calibrated to the specifics of the MFA. First, make friends with the Graduate Program Manager (or whatever they call the initial line of defense in your grad office). This individual will be your conduit to advisor selection, the assignment of teaching assistantships, and much more; woe betide the student who cops an attitude and treats the manager rudely. Second (and this is related to the above), the most bureaucratic rules only apply to students who don’t apply themselves. I’m not suggesting that you engage in risky behavior, but all fences have gates. If you are kind and polite and work diligently, someone may show you where they are. Also, if you are moving to attend school, consider staying in that city for a few years after graduation. You will make a lot of friends and contacts in two years, but if you move away immediately, you will lose them. (This last piece of advice was given to me by a colleague who still regrets that he moved away a week after receiving his degree.) Finally, stay away from drama queens, bastards, and bullies, even the ones who are powerful and who seem to hold the potential for your future professional advancement. If I were dying right now and had to give counsel with my last breath, it would be this: Assholes only ever help themselves.

Now that we’ve gotten the more cheerful part of this Q&A wrapped up, let’s move on to studio critiques in specific. I reached out to artist and instructor Whitney Lynn, and she said, “My advice to new MFA students is always to recognize that your time in the program is incredibly short. Blink and it’s over. So make lots of new work, meet as many people as you can, and take advantage of everything the program offers.”

Lynn continued: “In terms of being nervous about critiques, you should recognize that most people (myself included) feel anxiety when thrown into new situations where there is pressure to perform. The graduate critique seminar is a place where a whole room is going to focus on, analyze, and debate your work’s intentions and execution. It’s also a place where you will sharpen your ability to talk about—and sometimes defend—your work. This is a precious opportunity and it will never happen again, so don’t waste it. Come to critiques prepared, not only with new work, but also questions about your work and points of conversation you want to raise. Take control of your critiques and you’ll feel less nervous.”

“And if there’s a jerk in the seminar? Think of it as training for the rest of your career as an artist. There’s always going to be jerks, or just people who don’t like and/or understand your work. The task of the person leading the seminar is to keep things relatively objective, and your job is to take everyone’s comments—negative or positive—with a grain of salt. Begin the process of defining your own measures of success, your audience, and the appropriate context for your work. Everything is not for everyone—and that’s okay. With that said, it’s equally important to understand the difference between defending your work, when necessary, and being defensive. You’re in school because you wanted to challenge yourself and your work; if you already have it all figured out, don’t waste your time and money. You’re going to have to learn how to balance being open to criticism and not being overly persuaded/affected by others’ opinions.”

Lynn concluded her advice with, “It’s also important to keep in mind that once you go through [the MFA], you don’t need it anymore. It’s expected that you might enter feeling nervous, vulnerable, and unsure about the direction of your work. It’s also expected that by the time you graduate you feel more confident, secure, and ready to make that next step into your career as an artist. Last but not least, I highly recommend watching Howard Fried’s Burghers of Fort Worth before your first critique.”

I also asked artist Rhonda Holberton to weigh in, and she said, “Be generous in critique. Listen to your peers and take notes, even if you don’t agree with the opinions offered at the time. Recognize that whatever the contribution, it is a generous thing for someone to expend energy really looking and thinking and speaking about your work. Learn how to answer questions about the work without defensiveness and how to say ‘I don’t know’ with confidence. You are expected to experiment, to be unsure. Allow yourself that. As much as you can, detach your ego from the work and learn how to ask questions that give you the answers you need. I took part in more than one critique where insights were buried by ego and defensiveness, and conversations were derailed by minutiae. There will always be politics and gossip, but ultimately the whole thing is for you and your work. Don’t lose sight of that.”

Let’s wrap up with some fast-and-dirty tips:

— You must record your critiques, because in the moment of the meeting, you will be full of adrenaline and trying to track four different comment threads at once. Playing back a critique a day or two later when you are calmer will help you really hear what was said.

— Don’t be afraid to ask commenters to explain or rephrase; not everyone is a great communicator. I once had a peer tell me flatly, “This work is boring”—and yet once I asked her to flesh her comment out a bit, her criticism turned out to be very constructive.

— On crit days, make sure you have a bar/jogging/karaoke buddy lined up for after. Whether it’s a great session or a terrible one, you’ll need to blow off steam with a pal.

— Whether you are first in the day’s lineup or last, serve snacks, because no one in the history of art school ever got a useful critique from a group with low blood sugar. Good luck!

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I’ve been accepted to an MFA program that begins this September. As the month approaches, I find myself getting increasingly nervous and anxious (as I always do on the first day of school). It’s been a few years since I’ve participated in group critiques, and while I’m excited about this program, I also feel very vulnerable right now. Can you offer any advice to new MFA students? I wonder what former students “wish they’d known” before going into a program.

Beatriz Milhazes. Sinfonia Nordestina, 2008; acrylic on canvas; 96 7/8 x 144 7/8 in.

There are so many things I wish I’d known before I started my graduate program that I could answer your question with a book. Work hard, show up for everything, and say thank you are timeless tips, of course, but you’re looking for other suggestions calibrated to the specifics of the MFA. First, make friends with the Graduate Program Manager (or whatever they call the initial line of defense in your grad office). This individual will be your conduit to advisor selection, the assignment of teaching assistantships, and much more; woe betide the student who cops an attitude and treats the manager rudely. Second (and this is related to the above), the most bureaucratic rules only apply to students who don’t apply themselves. I’m not suggesting that you engage in risky behavior, but all fences have gates. If you are kind and polite and work diligently, someone may show you where they are. Also, if you are moving to attend school, consider staying in that city for a few years after graduation. You will make a lot of friends and contacts in two years, but if you move away immediately, you will lose them. (This last piece of advice was given to me by a colleague who still regrets that he moved away a week after receiving his degree.) Finally, stay away from drama queens, bastards, and bullies, even the ones who are powerful and who seem to hold the potential for your future professional advancement. If I were dying right now and had to give counsel with my last breath, it would be this: Assholes only ever help themselves.

Beatriz Milhazes. Sal (Salt), 2009; diptych: woodblock and screenprint; 31.5 x 31.5 in. and 31.5 x 39.5 in. respectively; edition of 40.

Now that we’ve gotten the more cheerful part of this Q&A wrapped up, let’s move on to studio critiques in specific. I reached out to artist and instructor Whitney Lynn, and she said, “My advice to new MFA students is always to recognize that your time in the program is incredibly short. Blink and it’s over. So make lots of new work, meet as many people as you can, and take advantage of everything the program offers.”

Lynn continued: “In terms of being nervous about critiques, you should recognize that most people (myself included) feel anxiety when thrown into new situations where there is pressure to perform. The graduate critique seminar is a place where a whole room is going to focus on, analyze, and debate your work’s intentions and execution. It’s also a place where you will sharpen your ability to talk about—and sometimes defend—your work. This is a precious opportunity and it will never happen again, so don’t waste it. Come to critiques prepared, not only with new work, but also questions about your work and points of conversation you want to raise. Take control of your critiques and you’ll feel less nervous.”

“And if there’s a jerk in the seminar? Think of it as training for the rest of your career as an artist. There’s always going to be jerks, or just people who don’t like and/or understand your work. The task of the person leading the seminar is to keep things relatively objective, and your job is to take everyone’s comments—negative or positive—with a grain of salt. Begin the process of defining your own measures of success, your audience, and the appropriate context for your work. Everything is not for everyone—and that’s okay. With that said, it’s equally important to understand the difference between defending your work, when necessary, and being defensive. You’re in school because you wanted to challenge yourself and your work; if you already have it all figured out, don’t waste your time and money. You’re going to have to learn how to balance being open to criticism and not being overly persuaded/affected by others’ opinions.”

Lynn concluded her advice with, “It’s also important to keep in mind that once you go through [the MFA], you don’t need it anymore. It’s expected that you might enter feeling nervous, vulnerable, and unsure about the direction of your work. It’s also expected that by the time you graduate you feel more confident, secure, and ready to make that next step into your career as an artist. Last but not least, I highly recommend watching Howard Fried’s Burghers of Fort Worth before your first critique.”

Beatriz Milhazes. Mariposa, 2004; acrylic on canvas; 98 x 98 in.

I also asked artist Rhonda Holberton to weigh in, and she said, “Be generous in critique. Listen to your peers and take notes, even if you don’t agree with the opinions offered at the time. Recognize that whatever the contribution, it is a generous thing for someone to expend energy really looking and thinking and speaking about your work. Learn how to answer questions about the work without defensiveness and how to say ‘I don’t know’ with confidence. You are expected to experiment, to be unsure. Allow yourself that. As much as you can, detach your ego from the work and learn how to ask questions that give you the answers you need. I took part in more than one critique where insights were buried by ego and defensiveness, and conversations were derailed by minutiae. There will always be politics and gossip, but ultimately the whole thing is for you and your work. Don’t lose sight of that.”

Let’s wrap up with some fast-and-dirty tips:

— You must record your critiques, because in the moment of the meeting, you will be full of adrenaline and trying to track four different comment threads at once. Playing back a critique a day or two later when you are calmer will help you really hear what was said.
 
— Don’t be afraid to ask commenters to explain or rephrase; not everyone is a great communicator. I once had a peer tell me simply, “This work is boring”—and yet once I asked her to flesh it out a bit, her criticism was very constructive.
 
— On crit days, make sure you have a bar/jogging/karaoke buddy lined up for after. Whether it’s a great session or a terrible one, you’ll need to blow off steam with a pal.
 
— Whether you are first in the day’s lineup or last, serve snacks, because no one in the history of art school ever got a useful critique from a group with low blood sugar. Good luck!

Whitney Lynn, Death Parties (2011) Plastic, glass, alcohol, chrome-laminated birch shelf, 21 x 36 x 6 in.

Bean Gilsdorf: How did this new body of work begin?

Whitney Lynn: It started with Southern Exposure in 2009, they had a show called “Bellwether” and they were asking artists to predict or envision the future. I was looking at the way in which do-it-yourself and sustainability movements overlap with survivalism. I started picking up these images about how to trap your own food, skin your own squirrels, eat your own rats, and those sorts of things. Then when I was doing a later project I was also thinking about containment, and I started thinking about trapping systems. I was not quite sure what I was going to do with all of it, and then there was the realization, oh, there’s a project here.

BG: Do you think of your work as post-apocalyptic? Has anyone ever framed your work that way?

WL: Maybe a little, with the survivalist stuff. I think there’s something kind of sinister about a lot of the pieces, but I think they’re funny.

BG: What are the general trends of your interests?

WL: The earlier works that were dealing with military were very autobiographical, and I was navigating my own personal history. Then things shifted, and I was thinking about how these intersections of politics or military are really interconnected into all kinds of aspects of life. That changed my focus, to see where those messy intersections or boundaries existed. For this particular show I was thinking about metaphors of traps and their relationship to sculpture.

Whitney Lynn, Prepared Position with Disturbance Ventilation and Luminous Signal (2010) Mixed media (furniture, cement, tv, fan) 7 x 8 x 4 feet

BG: Do you feel like that’s freeing, to get away from making autobiographical work?

WL: Well, it’s always connected. For me, it’s impossible to get away from some sort of personal thread. It’s extending from a different kind of autobiography. These traps are placed in a setting where there’s the possibility of a different kind of question: what’s the prey and what’s the bait, the lure? Part of the work is about futility—nothing’s ever going to be trapped with these. And that’s where I see some of the humor, too. It relates back to some of my earlier work…I made a bug-out location that would never actually survive anything. It was made for one person and had food supplies, but they were capers, so it was this empty gesture of preparation. And there were all these weapons that would never actually hurt you. It was all pretty pathetic. It was part of the question, “How can you prepare for the ultimate disaster when you don’t know what that is?”

Whitney Lynn, BOL (Bug-Out-Location) (2009) Mixed media installation with performance elements

BG: What’s next for you?

WL: One project that I’ve been doing on the side and that will probably come to the fore is street performance. I think that’s really a place of intersections and boundaries. My interest is in that area where street performance is performance art. I’ve been really obsessed with the Bush Man in Fisherman’s Wharf for along time, so I shot a video with him recently. I’m sure there will be a development that leads me back to the traps project.

BG: I can see the borders and boundaries that you’re flirting with in your work…some are more literal and explicit, like with the sculptures, and some are more subtle, just the feeling is there, but on the whole it creates a thread through the work.

WL: There’s something exciting about allowing that thread through the work, but to let it play itself out naturally. There can be these connections, but they don’t have to be calculated. For years I was like, “I make work that’s about intersections with military and political cultures,” and it was almost like I had written an artist statement and I didn’t want to write it again, and I’d better make things that fit into that. There was pressure to define myself, to say okay so I this is what I do, but I got tired of making fifteen different kinds of bunkers, that’s not all I think about. I was eliminating possibilities because I was stuck in the idea that my work needed to be concise.

Whitney Lynn, Trap no. 001 (2011) Acrylic, polished tree branch, 21 x 17 x 16 in.

BG: When you’re making the work, you’re so close to it. What feels like an enormous left-hand turn to you is, in reality, a slight detour to others. But you wonder how you’ll explain your decisions to the world.

WL: Right, yeah, and I think there’s something important about separating the making from the talking about it. I feel sometimes I have to justify what I’m doing before I even finish making and that can be disruptive. I try not to worry in advance how to articulate the work…it’s a matter of knowing that there’s a difference between the process and its final articulation.

BG: Sometimes you can frame the work loosely by saying that, for example, it’s about control: attempting to control the situation of a disaster, or the actions of another person or animal, or even the definition of an action on the street, where you decide if it’s performance art or not. And then in each new iteration of your work, you decide how it fits in—or not—to that broad category.

WL: I think a lot of the work is this attempt at control that is usurped, the rug gets pulled, in the face of all these systems, these attempts to corral, contain, or understand something. Where I find it interesting is where that’s not possible.

Whitney Lynn, Silver Equivalent (2011) Clay bricks, silver-plated steel nail, 7 x 14.5 x 23 in.

BG: Why did you title the show Sculptures Involontaires?

WL: The legend goes that Brassaï was hanging out with Dali at a café, and Dali pulled a rolled-up ticket stub out of his pocket. A conversation ensued about how you could photograph anything and it becomes sculpture: ticket stubs, and chewing gum, and debris…photographed, they look like landscapes or unknown objects. Through the photograph anything can become unfamiliar and strange. I love that idea. I was looking at traps and seeing how traps are sculptures just by themselves. I started buying traps—someone tracking my Amazon purchases would be really scared of me!—I was getting them and seeing how they function, admiring the beautiful ingenuity of them, all this creative thought that is put into something so sinister. So there’s this involuntary way in which they are already sculptures. My work here functions as traps and as sculptures. I’m loosely pulling from that idea of context, that by changing the context you can re-look at the form.