Kim Holmes (kholmes1@us.ibm.com)
Graphic Designer, IBM
April 2003 It's good to go to class, right? And it's good to practice what you learn in class. Unless, of course, you just can't get whatever it is you're supposed to do working. And unless, of course, people are watching you flail miserably at your keyboard. Kim Holmes explores the darker side of picking up design skills. Pride
In the fall of '93, during my second junior year of design school, I sat, like most evenings, drenched in the florescent lights of our sterile computer lab. The seniors, all four of them, held court with their bulky headphones leaking muffled grunge music into their heads. The boys had skateboards at their feet and the girls sat wearing smocks that resembled burlap sacks, their hair looking as though it had gone unwashed for days.
Once again, the late-night argument ensued over who got to use the color printer. The infamous color printer, aptly named "Beavis," was about the size of a vending machine. It took up a large part of the room and we could only use it with permission at certain times of the day. It took about 15 minutes to print one 8 1/2 x 11 sheet, and as design students, we all went to great lengths to get permission for its use, the only alternative being that we spend 10 dollars and 21 cents on a printout from Kinko's. I, only a junior, immediately surrendered any hope of being able to use the printer. I just sat in the back of the room with my Mac II and watched the girls with greasy hair go at it with the skaters who, for some reason, chose to never pull up their pants. Then something strange happened. A freshman walked in. This was odd for two reasons. One, the curriculum of a freshman consisted only of marker roughs, paste-ups, and pen and ink. The computer wasn't introduced until your second freshman year or first year junior at the latest. And two, freshmen just didn't stroll into the computer lab. Socially, the lab was off-limits. As freshmen you were taught to FEAR the lab and the people who work in it. This kid was different, however. Choosing to ignore the social standards that had been passed down through generations at the East Carolina School of Art, he boldly harassed the seniors and professors for advice. It was obvious he wanted to fit in with the skaters, sporting some sad Chuck Taylors and khaki cargo pants that sat neatly cinched on his hips with a leather belt. He had not yet gotten the memo that pants were to be worn below the pubic bone with oversized boxers hanging out for the world to see. After setting his bag down next to the only available computer, he began to scan the machine as if it were some kind of alien he had only five seconds to figure out. His eyes bounced from the monitor to the keyboard to the CPU. This went on for what seemed like an eternity. The other students looked up from their screens, trying their best to be discreet. The argument over Beavis began to subside, with all of us in the heart-wrenching realization that he didn't know how to turn it on. Asking, of course, would be the social equivalent of suicide. With each passing second of this humiliating display, I started to rise and work my way to his rescue ... but it didn't happen. I couldn't move. I just sat there, in agony, watching the freshman fumble. The fall
Winter of '97 found me in midtown Manhattan. Perched in a high-rise and sequestered to an eight-by-eight-foot room that brewed at about 92 degrees Fahrenheit. Red-faced and eager, I listened closely to our instructor, a small man who reeked of cologne. In my mind, I had taken to calling him "Tattoo." The few times I had bumped into him in the elevator, he winked and nodded at me arrogantly. It made no difference to him that I was his student, much less that I was more than a foot and a half taller than he. The publishing company I was working for had sent me for training in Macromedia Director Software. The size and temperature of the room didn't bother me. Neither did the instructor. Anyone and everyone who knew how to design multimedia CDs was cool and I was ready to join them. After a basic tour of the software and a couple of simple exercises, we were given our first assignment. An actual animation! I was giddy with the excitement of learning something new, something cool. It sounded simple really, a red ball. The ball was already on the page. Our job was to make it bounce. I remember solid concentration. Beads of sweat began to form on my upper lip. Just as I went to glance at my watch the instructor interrupted, "Miss Cyberwitz, how is your ball bouncing?" The girl played her animation and just like magic, her ball bounced up and down in a perfect vertical dance. As the instructor made his way around the room, the bouncing balls got fancier. A round boy in a sweater vest, thick glasses, and a well-manicured goatee clicked his mouse button and launched the Saturday Night Fever of bouncing balls! The ball had a "boing" sound effect when it hit the ground. It flew through the air at varying speeds and velocities. One girl's ball bounced in a grassy field. Another's bounced in a puddle of water that created a splash every time it hit the ground. I could feel my pulse in my temples as my turn came. Someone had turned the heat up to 103 degrees. I clicked the play button. My ball did not bounce. It wiggled rather, in somewhat of an epileptic fit. Side-to-side so fast it almost turned into a blur. The room fell silent and all I could do was pray for the ball to stop. The instructor, who usually showered me with attention, just stood at a distance. Sweater-vest boy smirked. A drop of sweat rolled down the back of my neck. My eyes jerked quickly from the keyboard to the monitor, to the CPU. Like it was the computer's fault that my assignment was a failure. I felt like -- well -- a freshman. Needless to say, no-one came to my rescue. They all sat there. In agony. Watching.
About the author
 Kim Holmes is a graphic artist at developerWorks. When not reminiscing about her college days, she likes to roam the halls of dW cavorting with young developers and trendy interns. |
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