Some critique moments stay with you because they force a choice: defend instinct or improve process. This story is about learning to revise with intention while building the professional stamina scenic design demands.
To save money on checked luggage, I decided I would buy my foam core once I arrived. There was a Blick down the street from the hotel. Everything felt organized. At that point, I already had a fair amount of experience. I felt confident. My love for Chicago was certain. And I was planning on attending Northwestern.
The beginning of the day felt like a dream. There was praise. Conversations were easy. People were engaging with my work.
It felt like everything was lining up.
We were at URTAs. I was standing beside my boards, portfolio open, trying to keep up with the pace of the day. I remember one designer I deeply admired pausing in front of my setup. He glanced at my presentation boards and said:
Oh, they’re black. How original.
It was quick, dry, and dismissive. I wasn’t sure how to respond.
Then he flipped to a ground plan from a show I had designed five years earlier and asked:
How would you change this?
It was a living room scene. And I knew exactly what he meant. The layout was stiff. The staging felt flat. The environment read more like a set than a place someone might actually live.
But in that moment, I froze.
Not because I had never thought critically about the design — but because I had not yet developed the instinct to revise my own work aloud, under pressure.
Before I could find the words, he cut in:
You’re wasting my time.
And then he walked away.
What That Moment Revealed
It was quiet after that. I stood there with my boards, stunned. In that instant, I knew I wasn’t going to be attending that program.
I wasn’t angry. I was embarrassed. Northwestern had been my top choice. He was someone I respected. And I had completely blanked.
The hardest part wasn’t the comment itself. It was realizing how unprepared I felt for the kind of conversation that moment required.
Looking back now, I understand that the interaction was not really about that one drawing. It was not even about finding the “correct” answer. It was about demonstrating the ability to think like a designer in real time — to respond, to question, to revise. And at that point in my development, I didn’t yet have that skill.
The Instinct to Re-Enter
That question — How would you change this? — was not a trap. It was an invitation to re-engage with my own work. I simply did not yet have the tools to do so.
Freezing did not mean I lacked potential. It meant I was still developing a fundamental part of design practice: the instinct to re-enter a design and see it as something living and flexible.
At the time, I believed my responsibility was to present a polished version of what I had already created. I had not yet realized that scenic design is never truly finished.
What matters most is not having the “right” answer. It is staying in the conversation. It is showing that you can keep thinking.
What I Carry Forward in Scenic Design
Since then, I have come to understand that the work of a designer is constantly evolving. Whether in rehearsal, in technical rehearsals, or in an interview, the ability to revisit your ideas — to challenge them, reshape them, and respond to feedback — is essential.
I think about that moment often. Not with resentment, but as a marker of growth. That silence, that freeze, and that quick walk away clarified what the profession actually demands.
There is a quote I return to again and again:
Art is never finished, only abandoned.
That set was never finished. Neither was I.
And that moment was not a waste of time.
It was the beginning of learning how to think like a designer.
