Academia Nuts

My painting teacher used to always refer to her business casual clothes as her "Academic Drag." She'd roll her eyes and say, in her New York-washed Midwestern drawl, "I knuhhh-ow, guys. I'm in my academic drag today; I had to go to a meeting. I had to look re-SPECK-table, or something."

The drag is a mutant cross between her former Ab-Ex ingenue painter self and a wizened 90's feminist who mutters unintelligibly as she walks her German shepherd in the park: something black with something velour, shoulder pads and long lapels, lipsticked crevice of a mouth and a dash of chunky, colorful jewelry. Occasionally, she adds a beret, or a handkerchief, or a trace of a disinterested sneer.

On Monday, I watched my friend Nikki perform in her "Academic Drag"--a tailored, calf-length tweed skirt matched with a ribbed black sweater. A demure white collar unfolded from the neck, and her hair was whipped into a truly art-historic half-up do. The finishing touch: doe-brown eyes and sculpted eyebrows furrowed in earnest thought.

Nikki's older sister sometimes teases her by joking, "You'd rather be patted on the head by Professor K. than have sex!" Nikki sheepishly laughs because it's pretty much true. Our suave general adviser for senior thesis writers in the History of Art & Architecture department is always exceedingly critical and impeccably suited, and Nikki wants nothing more from him than an impressed nod and recognition of her own intellectual vigor.

Her presentation was articulate, insightful, and well-rehearsed, but the crowd of professors and grad students was antsy from a days' worth of teaching students who don't give a damn about art history. They were ready to--as Professor K. had warned us they might-- "play academic hardball." Generally, this means skewering the discussant in all the exposed places: some of the professors have a more nuanced manner about it, others go for the hard blow to the head or the sharp jab to the backside. Professor K. told us not to worry too much, but just to remember, that, well, "my colleagues didn't get to where they are because of their bedside manners."

It didn't help that the topic--Egyptian iconography in depictions of the American frontier--gave everyone, from the photography professor to the Mesopotamian scholar to the tough-as-nails pre-Colombian professor, something to chew on--and chew up.

"You refer to it as a 'dialogic relationship' but your argument is one-dimensional without the perspective that you merely gloss over: that of the Snake Indians..."
"You really should be sure to separate your analyses of the 18th and 19th century depictions of the pyramid, they draw from entirely different traditions..."
"You're jumping immediately into that interpretation without contextualization, Nikki, just be careful that you don't jump too far..."

And on and on. At one point, Professor Pre-Colombian and Professor R. (Islamic Art, known for his warbling Scottish accent, clear blue eyes, and disregard for students' purported "feelings") seemed to be tag-teaming, engaging each other in a debate about just how lacking Nikki's argument was. Nikki's adviser, a younger blonde woman with less theoretically loaded diction but a smart haircut, made constructive comments while acknowledging the criticism of her two male colleagues, but never turning to face them, and the Mesopotamian professor, a round, gentle, greyed woman wrapped in a printed scarf, sat apart and made helpful suggestions from the outskirts of the audience. My own adviser, a kindly Chinese scholar whose spoken English is a bit slower and more stream-of-consciousness than some professors are used to tolerating, made an observation to which Professor R. responded with a scoff, prompting a snippet of semantic sparring that would be uninteresting to reproduce but left all of us a bit speechless.

I realized, as I sat there wringing my hands with my growing anxiety, that the room was a near-all-star cast of the department, and the interactions were electric, the tensions tangible. The art history department here at Harvard is full of ostentatious personalities and egos--and wardrobes--to match. For a group of academics whose life is dedicated to every aspect of the visual--seen and spoken and spun-- appearances and reputations are noted and used. Professor K. had been right to warn us. I looked down at my own ribbed sweater and pleated skirt, and realized that I didn't even have to be think about my presentation to feel inadequate.

Poor Nikki, truly one of the most prepared, hardworking, and academically sensitive of us all, was just barely holding all her tweed and cotton together. She sat down, visibly shaken.

As for me, still three presentations down in the queue, I was ready to get up in front of the projector, throw up my hands and tell them not to shoot, promise that I'd give up this art history racket and go back to California to play piano for pennies at a community theatre, or drive trucks.

I didn't, of course--I performed, as I always seem to, despite myself--and later, my professor even said to me, "You did me pride...proud! You did me proud!" But I hustled to get back to my room that evening before practice. I threw the skirt and sweater, stale with the perspiration of the previous 30 hours of anxiety, into the laundry hamper. I pulled up my hair and pulled on my sweats and paint-spattered workout shirt on in relief.