For most students a trip to Amsterdam to see the sights and hear the sounds is one not to be sniffed at. These students were art students, to them this wasn’t just a trip to Amsterdam, whether they realised it or not, this was an ego trip of discovery, to find out who they really were, as artists. It was a competition, all week, who could take the best photo, sketch the best building, who could get the furthest up the head of arts arsehole. Most importantly, who could drink the most, but on the letters it was about art.
The thing is right, art is art. Whether you look at art in Amsterdam, or you step in dog shit and nail your sandal to your face, art is art. Some forms of art are more excepted, the Mona Lisa for example, staring seductively at a naked Da Vinci, that’s art; it’s excepted world wide to be the most valuable piece of art ever made. It’s art, it’s a painting of a person, but then again making a black and white film about a narcissistic boxer who loses everything, that was hated when first released and now is seen as a classic, in my eyes is art. This film doesn’t come under modern art though, it comes under film. The point is art comes in different forms, it doesn’t necessarily have to be in a gallery to be art, art doesn’t even need to leave the makers bedroom, regardless of it’s placement it’s still art, you just have to see it. The problem with art students is, they can’t see it. They’re self obsessed; they want to be in the biggest galleries. They want the money, the glory, it’s good work if you can get it, but the fact is if you’re not very good at art and are struggling at A-Level standard, you’ve probably not got a chance. Unless you’ve got the ability to turn your hand at a different form of art of course, like film, big screen film, not a film about what people are thinking on a train, that’s still accepted as art as a form. Something like acting, that’s an art, that doesn’t involve being good at art itself, acting is a good one, or architecture, or writing.
In all honesty these students, with the exception of the ones with no friends, weren’t very good at art. Fair enough they were passing units, they were getting the top grades some of them, but it was academic work, it wasn’t as creative as the course was making itself out to be. The course was a liar, and at it’s helm was one of its minions. The head of art, the one who told you to be creative, to follow your own mind, your own ideas, then shot them don’t in flames if in his opinion, they weren’t art. He was the leader of the pack so to speak, he was an artist himself, he’d been in one or two galleries, tried to make it big; then he turned to teaching. It doesn’t make sense to do that, in context anyway, you can teach someone the history of art, or about art in general, for example brush strokes, and photoshop, but you can’t teach someone art. Because at the end of the day it’s your personal feeling, if you don’t like it as a teacher, you’ll fail it, regardless of whether the student in question has followed the codes and conventions. Besides trusting an art teacher to guide you? Let’s just say you wouldn’t drop your kids off with the leader of the gang.
For every one involved the week started at about 6 A.M, a meet outside of the school, 8 teachers, 5 pupils to a teacher. It’s easy maths, straight forward, there’s an answer in maths. Two thirds of the students were trying to make a statement, a large hat, one of them table cloth scarves, maybe even colour in their hair. Something that would make the rest of the students curtsey to them, but the thing was everyone did it, and like the teachers would always do when the students were unaware or absent, they ripped the shit out of them.

“Fucking hell, did you see that leopard print hat?” was the first call from Damien, a small Northern man that specialised in graphics and the finer art of sculpture.

“What a knob, what an absolute knob” replied Harry, the head of the course, a strong Southern man that had bought a house in a run down area years before it was habitable and had sold for a tidy profit. Ever since he had a smugness, one of better being over the rest the staff, his staff as he referred to them to his wife. Not that he ever told them that.

“I know, does he think his pulling in that? Mate I’ve never seen something so stupid, even we didn’t do that back in college, maybe a brightly coloured t-shirt and a bag of pills was statement enough; even if it didn’t make a statement it got us fucked, none of this straight-edge, clean cut shit these kids are tryna’ pull like, how do they expect to create art with a fresh mind?”

“Yeah you got a point, I’m still building up my bank balance being here though, and we get a free trip out of it, so fuck ‘em, let’s stab the donkey in the arse and get moving”
There was a look of bemusement; his staff just put it down to him still being half-cut from the night before.

“Round ‘em up then Harry” came a voice from the back of the staff, it was Lee, the multi-lingual, middle-class twat that would be known as the tour guide for the next four days.

“We’ve got a lot into fit in four days, don’t want to be wasting time here do we. Harry, why does your pupil have a leopard skin top hat?”

“His making a statement”

The students were rounded up like sheep, into their 8 groups, and told to report back to their group leader every hour, after they arrived of course. If they bothered the teachers on the coach, Mickey’s creator would’ve broken loose and bottled all the females as the weaker, more feminine males hid behind their colouring books and crayons, or whatever statement they’d chosen. After a small talk outlining what the day was going to entail the coach set off up the bumpy street to make it’s way towards the motorway. The whole atmosphere quickly went from excitement and anticipation, to a down beat, solemn “oh shit we’ve got 8 hours of driving ahead of us”. Some people were chirpier still though, like Jon, the eldest member of staff. He taught 3D art, mainly clay work, but he dabbled in other stuff. Never would you find him wearing any other colour trousers than beige, no one knew why, he owned different shades of beige, but always beige. His shirts were all primary colours as well, no-one ever asked though. He was like the sweet old man to the kids, they loved him. Like all the other teachers though, they just pissed him off. He just didn’t understand why the smART generation thought that a paper cup and watered down pva glue created a masterpiece. He thought that maybe if they sat down and actually thought about what they were doing they might make something of themselves, instead of claiming because they like Bob Dylan and buy a new paintbrush every 2 weeks that they’re artists. Anyway Jon had a taste for the finer things.

“This should be a good week you know Harry, some nice restaurants about town, we’ll send Al off with the ‘artists’ and go for a nice meal”

“Yeah alright Jon, I’ll babysit this lot shall I?” Al remarked from some unknown depth in his lung making him sound like an old man, stretching his face around his skull and scrunching his eyes to make him look like a kind of alien when saying it. Something about lens based art had changed that man, he was just strange.

“Yeah, you can teach them the robot!”
The journey went on, around the coach students at first discussed art, but this conversation soon drew to a swift close when the realisation set in one by one in their heads that they didn’t know their Buchanan from their dusty guitar stands, and carrying on conversations about said subject for another 7 hours was out of the question. The focus of discussion through out the journey from a South East London suburb to Dover changed drastically over the course of the journey. This kept the teachers amused, students talking about sex was the best one, from Harry’s point of view anyway.

“Sue, I bet you love a bit of young blood right?” He said laughing to himself, there were a few chuckles from around the area they were seated but no one said anything. Sue was always the target of Harry’s jokes, the fact that she didn’t stop talking about her rugby playing son, spoiling him non-stop like a prize Chihuahua really pissed him off, and the fact she was better off than him financially. Her aged face just stared back at him, blankly, she was fairly prudish and upper-class, making jokes of this nature never went down well; but he always did it. For some reason Harry could get away with it, until now anyway.

“Well you know Harry, you weren’t cutting it so I had to go for the younger model, and you say young blood in me? Hardly hit the walls.” What a bombshell, no one saw it coming, that from Sue’s mouth? Everyone was shocked, they didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“It may come as a surprise to you Harry, that just because I don’t run around the school like an escaped gorilla, I am capable of fun. And what probably won’t come as a surprise to you Harry, I’m more intelligent than you, so next time you want to make a joke, I suggest you plan a few moves ahead, OK?”
A cheer from the teachers, Harry had been put in his place, the look on his face was priceless. His ego was dented, he could be beaten, a sign of weakness from the leader, isn’t that when a team starts to crumble? Damien patted him on the back,
“Can’t win ‘em all ay’, never mind” he chuckled to himself, going back to his paper to read about how another celebrity had just had a surgery that didn’t quite go how she’d expected it. The conversation of the students then turned to the teachers, they talked about how Jason, the manically depressed photography teacher’s, sister was married to drummer of an up and coming band, and how he never stopped going on about it. They talked about the two student teacher’s on the trip, Kevin, who according to the female students was ‘buff, with amazing eyes, soft hands, and great sense of humour’ to the boys he just looked like a short, slightly over weight guy trying to be funny all the time. I think it was jealousy, he could draw and most of them couldn’t. The other student teacher, Rebecca, from a male point of view was ‘pretty, not really attractive, but fit for a teacher’ what ever that meant, I think them being student teachers gave out this air that they were the same as the 6th formers. Rebecca couldn’t have been more opposite, she was professional, well spoken, well mannered, and she got on with her work. There was a rumour that the two teachers were getting it on, because they were about the same age. Lets not get carried away though; I wouldn’t want people to think this school wasn’t very professional. This idol conversation, between idol individuals carried on for the remainder of the drive to Dover. Once at Dover the students were let loose on duty free, no alcohol mind, one of them bought aftershave he didn’t want for £47, it smelt good though, he assured every one of that. Other pupils went to get food, the rest just sat around waiting for the coach to board the train.

“I’m knackered already, think I’ll try and sleep the drive across Europe” Al remarked, as he looked out the window yawning, staring aimlessly at a family on their way to Disneyland.

“Sounds like a plan” Harry replied, holding his aching head, trying to relieve the pain from his ever increasing hangover.

After 20 minutes or so the coach left the car park and boarded the train. The crossing itself was fairly quick, all the usual jokes about if you look closely you can see dolphins swim along side the train, and to shut the windows in case water gets in. After arriving in France about 45 minutes later, the journey to Amsterdam begun, which I won’t bore you with the details of, it just involved much of the same conversation as the drive to Dover, except on this leg of the journey, each student was given a carton of red wine warm orange juice.