AC/DC "Jailbreak"

Here's how it went:  I would slip silently through the halls, doing my best to remain invisible.  I'd appear in her doorway, looking for sanctuary.  She would grab a loose piece of paper, from somewhere within her reach.  It might be from a roll.  It might be newsprint.  It might be a corner ripped off some instructions.  In pencil, she'd quickly scrawl an unintelligible line and say, "Come right back."

I'd present the piece of paper.  Which again, could be a tiny corner, or a sheet the size of a full newspaper.  Either way, her signature was only took up two inches of real estate.

"What is this?" the Study Hall teacher would ask.

"Mrs. Laganas says I can come to the Art Room for Study Hall."

"Can't she use a permission slip like everyone else?" the Study Hall teacher would ask, rhetorically.

This piece of paper didn't just grant me access to the Art Room.  Equally importantly, it granted me freedom from Study Hall.

Depending on who the Study Hall teacher was, Study Hall at my school was either a detention-like 45 minutes held in complete silence, or, perhaps worse, it was a kind of unrestricted social time, where the goal was to just basically keep the kids corralled for the period.  The latter was actually harder for me, as a teen, because I was horribly uncomfortable in all but the most familiar social situations.  I was fine among my few best friends.  But having to make conversation with anyone beyond that was an excruciating experience during my teenage years (which, if you've only known me as an adult who's profession is public speaking, you must find hilariously ironic).

So any opportunity to avoid social scrutiny, was welcome.

And Mrs. Laganas was welcoming.

If you had a free period, and she liked you well enough (ie. she knew that you weren't going to show that permission slip to your Study Hall teacher, then go to McDonalds), she'd let you come hang out in the Art Room.

So I went there at every free opportunity, found a corner to work in, and put my head into a drawing.  If Mrs. Laganas had a big class in session, she'd let me hide in the supply closet and do my work.

Sometimes, she'd have projects/assignments for me.  Perspective.  Figure drawing.  Oil painting.

But most of the time, I was on my own, drawing.

"You have an eye," she used to say.

I could draw.  Actually, I could illustrate.  I had this natural ability to look at a photograph or picture, and draw it exactly.

I wasn't all that imaginative.  I didn't paint from my mind.  I didn't even really draw from real life.

I drew album covers.  And Rolling Stone magazine pictures.  And Sports Illustrated photos.  Athletes and Rock Stars and Models and such.

For 45 minutes my head would be down near the table, my eyes darting back and forth between the photo and the white piece of paper.  And when the period ended, I'd pop my work back in the magazine, and head off to the next class.

At home that night, I'd be back in the Art Room---this time, my bedroom---head back in the picture, AC/DC on the boombox (which was, ridiculously, set at the absolute lowest setting possible so as not to alert anyone that I was still awake at this late hour, drawing when I should be in bed).

I'd be in a world where I drew the lines and I didn't have to say a word to anyone.

It was a sanctuary and a coping mechanism that got me though the long awkward stretch of youth.


Postscript:  How cool is it that I married an Art Teacher?  And that my house is about to become an Art Room?  My friend Mike Palmer (with minimal help from me) spent last weekend renovating our garage, to make a studio space, and my wife is offering day camps for kids and evening classes for adults, right out of The Art Shed (the site is live, but not finished . . .).


Hear the song on Youtube.