Most (if not all) art students of Brigham Young University -Idaho, and former Ricks College, have a story about Leon Parson. All of the stories revolve around two plot devices: "Parson is an incredible artist, and we can only hope to be minutely as good as he is now." or "Parson? Yeah, that guy made my room mate cry."
A memorable reputation, indeed.
My Parson story is more of the latter, sans eye lube. Parson's style is near-hyper realism -precise brush strokes and extreme rendering. No matter how much I worked on a project, the craftsmanship of my rendering lacked. In colorful words, my rendering looked like chicken scratches, while everyone else have more crisp lines. Summarizing the drama lama: I felt like a clueless hack of an artist. One frustrated class time, I talked to Parson on the side -explained to him my dissatisfaction with the homework assignments. He took one look at my work at hand, then said to me. "There's really nothing wrong with your work. You just have different intelligence -that's all really." Holy... crap! What an epiphany. I know, deep down in my guts, I was good at art, or at least have the potential to be great. It was simply understanding how my brain worked. My brain and muscles don't get the happy chemicals from clean lines, but when I see the wispy lines of Yoshitaka Amano, my very soul surrenders to grace. By understanding how I see and think, my art skills improved. I'm sure I'm not the first artists to come upon this revelation, and I hope I'm not the last. And more so, I hope, someday, I can be minutely as good as Parson now.
Just with more chicken scratches.