There was this teacher of mine at the Nova Scotia College of Art and Design. He taught me Foundation Fine Art. I had inched my way in a semester early and was probably not well prepared for Art College.

Super flaky, 19 years-old, attuned to skating through high school, skipping out on responsibilites, smoking ciagarettes and getting wasted. Commuting in from the edge of Dartmouth into Halifax and my poor attitude was the start of my troubles. Lateness was met with opprobrium. Sketchy project work was openly derided. I thought “F*ck, I better get doing something other than flicking my poseur hair around. This teacher is getting really pissed at me. I don’t really have anywhere else to go if I don’t go here.” It was embarassing. I would be filled with dread on class days.

I knuckled down in the end, I guess. The teacher’s hard face never cracked, though. I thought, “At least I’m doing stuff I like and I’m trying.” I was resigned to the fact that this guy probably didn’t like me and never would. All through that whole painful semester. Nothing.

When I had my final critique and chat with this teacher, he warmly told me, “Adam, you can do whatever you want at this school, whatever you want in art.”

Thank you Mr. Ferguson.

Gerald Ferguson