Finishing 10 classes in last week of undergraduate art school days (impossible now, I'd reckon!). And answering, "What I want to accomplish' as a graduate student--become a 'Living Legend,' of course!

Stories excerpted from my memoir, TWELVE DEAD FROGS AND OTHER STORIES, available in US, Asia, Europe: <https://www.kulturkaufhaus.de/en/search-results>)

Probably the most insane part about those art school days was that I was making up my own rules in life and they were working! I had needed a free studio and had found it, almost 400 square feet in which to do my artworks. And my 1939 Dodge had been dropped right in my lap for $35 (I finally spent a total of $141, including lunches, for a mechanic friend who helped to get it running). I had also applied my search for free (or affordable) housing to neighborhoods close to CCAC, finally locating a single room with a bath down the hall for $25 per month two blocks from school. I found this great rental after almost three weeks of continual knocking on doors, asking neighborhood residents if they knew of any cheap housing available. And with two “TA” (Teacher’s Assistant) shifts at the foundry, bringing me an income of around $80 per week, the ratio of that earned income to my rent was almost 13:1. Applying that ratio to current single-room rents I would have to earn around $7500 per month now, to get that same wonderful rent-to-income relationship. Perhaps the most amazing miracle of all during this time was how I ever graduated from CCAC, finishing nine classes in less than a month.

GRADUATION DANCE (1970)

As December 1970, approached I was faced with four incomplete grades which I had accrued, along with the five classes in which I was currently enrolled. (I had just stopped going to all classes except for “foundry,” to produce my sculptures within the short time I felt I had), . I had to somehow leap the final hurdle of completing all those classes to graduate. And it was crucial, because I had already applied to graduate school.

I began by going up to the dean of lower division studies and asking him if he could possibly wave my Ceramics class. I explained that I used clay all the time for my original forms in sculpture in the foundry, making plaster molds off of them for my waxes, etc., etc., and amazingly he said, “Sure Rick, no problem.” He reached into his pocket, removed a fountain pen, uncapped it, and signed the class card that I had brought along. One class gone and nine to go!

I then pushed it with the dean (desperate student I was!) and also inquired if he could wave my Anatomy class––it took hundreds of precious hours out of one’s life, as you rendered bones and memorized their names. (Certainly a worthy class, but I had no time for it). Again, he said, “Sure,” agreeing to cancel that one out as well. (Two down!). So, with the swipe of his pen he had erased classes that would have been impossible for me to complete in the designated time before graduation.

Next, I had to approach some academic teachers, who I feared wouldn’t be so lenient. The Psychology professor didn’t quite understand why I should be allowed to just skate through his course without doing any of the prescribed work. Finally, he asked me to meet him at his apartment and said we would get the thing settled. It never occurred to me that there was anything sinister about his request, and there wasn’t. He stood leaning against the small fireplace’s mantel in his tiny living quarters off College Avenue in Oakland, and after hearing me speak for a while, about my life and artworks, he asked me if I thought a “B” would be an appropriate grade under the circumstances. I said “Of course!” So that class (number three!) was also magically erased.

But the Pre-Columbian Art History teacher was a much tougher sell – and unapproachable. She was the kind of personality you avoided. Her tough stance, severely adult-looking, always wearing a man’s tailored suit to class, no smiles, made it so that I didn’t dare request an unearned/passing grade. Before the final test, I hastily read the textbook in the library for about two hours (didn’t have my own copy) and took the test. Somehow, I got a “D-” and barely passed. But that wasn’t good enough for her. She said because I was one of three marginal grades she further required an oral test in the coming week. And, she said I owed her a completed project. So, there was some major strain and time involved.

On a foundrytable I quickly duplicated the form of a frog artifact, modeling it straight to wax. I had never tried that casting method before. It was called “shell casting,” and was the actual method used by South American natives hundreds of years earlier. I surrounded the wax with painted-on plaster coats, then held the dried, pod-shaped mold over the blast furnace until all the wax dribbled out. I then poured the molten red brass (which I hoped would look something like the gold of the original) into the cavity. let cool and voila!

I handed her the entire mold first, then separated the two halves––I’d already cracked it open––to reveal the historical replica of a pre-Columbian golden frog, and she was delighted. When she asked if she could keep it for future classes I immediately said, “Yes.”

Next came the orals. I studied for at least eight hours, trying to cram a semester’s worth of knowledge into one afternoon. And it worked, barely! She let me know that I had only passed because the curve had been so low. The other students had actually been less prepared than I was. That completed class, fourth on my list, put me in the final stretch.

Since the rest were studio classes (advanced sculpture, and my furniture design class), I was able to sail through and get my BFA and continue on with graduate school at CCA(C). Of course, in today’s art schools I would never get away with all the late classes—things are much more structured than in those ‘HIPPIE’ days.

LIVING LEGEND (1970)
Between the pressures I felt from having recently split from my wife, and the whirlwind insanity of completing my undergraduate curriculum, I was impatient with the added requirement of writing up my ’Project Description,’ then required for all graduate students at CCAC. Hadn’t I wasted enough time? When would I get back to doing some artwork? I had been accepted in the MFA sculpture program, with a full scholarship, and fortunately still had my TA jobs in the foundry, so I was in very good shape economically, for surviving the 1-2 years of additional study. But I was extremely disinclined to accommodate any more school rules and regulations.

The college had requested that each student state their conceptual goals, and personal oeuvre, etc. Since I didn’t approach my artworks from that kind of verbal position, I felt ill at ease, dumbfounded for anything intelligent to say. Of course, in today’s more conservative art colleges climate I would have been hard-pressed to survive such academic requirements (I knew some talented artists back then – late’ ’60s – who simply quit instead). All I knew was, I wanted to continue creating some good sculptures, so I would have enough pieces at graduation to have a gallery show (and perhaps even survive making a living!).

After a few days of worrying, using up valuable time on this administrative problem, I went to the school library, sat down in front of an available typewriter, and typed out the following paragraph in less than ten minutes:

PROJECT DESCRIPTION

Ideally the graduate project should offer the serious artist an opportunity to work, unhindered by teaching responsibility or other job commitments, in a sustained effort continuing over at least a year’s involvement.

For my project I plan to produce enough elegant works of art to become a living legend before I graduate.

Richard R. Schmidt December 11, 1970

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Charlie Simonds, by then my studio-mate as well as advisor (he and I shared a studio in East Oakland), OK’d my Project Description, adding his bold signature to the bottom of the document. The logic of my statement was there for the school administrators to see, if they looked carefully enough. I wasn’t really saying that I thought I could become a living legend! I was just trying to set a goal for myself, to drive myself hard to do a lot of really good work. But the description I wrote hit the graduate administrators (even some classmates) at several unexpected levels. It either gave them pause for thought, or annoyed them regrading my perceived flippancy/huge Ego. The fact is, I think almost everyone who saw the statement would have secretly said the same thing, if they had given their true career ambitions a nod.

On January 12, 1971, I received a letter in the mail from Dr. Paul Schmidt, head of the Graduate Division (who I always called “Dad” because of our identical last names), which said that the Graduate Council had read the description of my proposed project, and accepted it. At the bottom of the letter he had included the written comments of the other council members. One teacher said, “If this is acceptable as a project description, then I wonder why we require it at all." Another said, “Fine.” Another, “Good luck.” The final word was, “Best wishes for working it out.

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