This post is framed as an imagined dialogue between two friends: Joel is a mentor to the narrator, Sarah. In what follows, Sarah narrates a conversation between the the two of them about an ongoing tension between authentically helping students with vocational discernment and aiming at the ideal and pre-imagined results of programmatic “purity.”
My friend Joel sat at a coffeehouse table in the sun with a small stack of art books and his notebook. When I arrived, he welcomed me, no matter that I was a little late for our appointment yet again. He and I have been meeting frequently since right after I arrived on campus in my new role as lead vocational counselor.
The last time we met, Joel had made a cautionary remark about purity that I wanted to follow up on. When I sat down, he smiled broadly and began chatting about spring flowers, as the two of us share a keen interest in plants and gardening. On this day, he had been reading and writing about the American painter, Philip Guston; Joel’s writing about his reading seems to be an admirable life habit.
I removed my jacket and scarf, then reached into my bag, placed my phone face down on the table in front of me, and smiled back. He said nothing for a while. But then he leaned back in his chair and winked. He crossed his arms and cleared his throat. He had something on his mind.
“Sarah, in one of these books, the author notes how Philip Guston, a revered abstract expressionist, was having to explain his late-career change of mind about the purity of modernism.” He paused. “Is it okay if I reference art history?” I wasn’t sure I’d understand the reference, but I trusted Joel’s judgment.
I nodded. “Last time we talked,” I said, “you mentioned, rather ominously, I might add, something about purity in terms of vocation programming. I think you were trying to caution me?”
He smirked. “What? How long have you known me?” It had been four years since I had been hired by our Christian college as a career development director with an emphasis in vocational programming to support a cradle-to-grave approach to student growth. I was eager and came with a decent résumé of prior success. Joel and I soon connected through our shared interests, and I especially relied on him when my programming initiatives were met with stiffening resistance from faculty. Joel was a full professor, and he’s known on campus for being something of a crank or crab.
“Anyway,” Joel continued, “Guston came to lament the losses that resulted from modernism’s narrowing insistence upon abstraction, and he critiqued the so-called liberties of abstract painting as being a blind alley of purity. He said he was ‘sick of purity.’” Joel stopped and watched my reaction. Tapping his pile of books, he said, “I think the great modernist painter was struggling to break free from the limiting constraints of his own work. I think he didn’t like being expressively boxed in by the very parameters he had helped to construct.”
“Um, okay,” I said, without conviction. (Without real comprehension, really.) “What’s your art history lesson got to do with me and what I should be cautious about?”
“Ahhh!” Joel took a long sip from his cup. “See, I was thinking about you and your programs, and I was thinking about my niece, who was a sophomore at a state university. She’d thought about majoring in physical therapy since she tore her ACL in high school. So, she went to college because it was expected of her, but she struggled in the science coursework and was advised to consider completing a different major. She took a career exploration course and sniffed out that all the careers being explored were related to the university’s desire to have her stay there. Instead, she left, enrolled at a tech school, and is now happily finishing up her apprenticeship in a trade.” I knew what he was going to say next because Joel likes to say, “My point is . . .”
A high cloud cover outside had softened highlights and shadows. With amusement, Joel watched somebody walk by the window with three leashed dogs. “My point is,” he repeated, “there’s a danger in vocational discernment programming if the process and its outcomes are expected to take the form of a pre-imagined and ideal resolution, which might be a kind of purity.”
“I know,” I interjected. “I’ve been thinking about that, too. What if we make what’s really critical about vocational discernment into a performative or normative trick? What if the experience of discernment is merely about conformity or compliance with what we expect should be ‘important’? What if our efforts to help students—to a greater or lesser degree—merely express something recognizable in our context, rather than help them authentically navigate the messiness of their lives? What if all we’re doing is showing each of them how to fashion an acceptable mask?”
“The resolution you just mentioned can feel really good, too, to the student and their advisor,” I added. We were stopped by light raindrops being blown against the window. A springtime rain began to wash the glass, the sidewalk, and the street. I looked back at Joel. “Is that what you mean by purity?”
“It is, yes,” he said, nodding. “Once again, I have made the mistake of not giving you enough credit. I’m sorry, Sarah. You and I have rehearsed some of this before. Programming ought to respect every individual difference. We ought to slow ourselves down—especially our 18- and 19-year-old selves and our overworked 30-something selves—to measure gifts and limits, in slow and fast time. Our academic community ought to lean into the stuff that sticks. And we ought to …”
I held my hand up and stopped him. I winked and shrugged. The rain had paused, but the wind seemed to gain strength. I sighed, “It’s messy.” Then I added, “Thank you.” We started to gather our things and braced for the weather.
Paul Burmeister is professor of art at Wisconsin Lutheran College, where he is also assistant dean of advising. He is a NetVUE Faculty Fellow, having been a member of the 2019 cohort of NetVUE’s Teaching Vocational Exploration seminar. For other posts by Paul, click here.
