Why Every High School Student Should Take AP Art History

There we stood, my dad and I staring at another naked hunk of Italian marble. Actually, we were looking at Michelangelo’s iconic David in the Galleria dell'Accademia in Florence, Italy. To me, it was no different from the numerous other sculptures we had seen. At least Donatello’s David was wearing boots and a hat. I was mortified that Michelangelo had apparently forgotten to clothe his David. What young girl would want to see stark naked dudes immortalized in stone? Michelangelo once said, “I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free,” but here was a statue already “set free” and I couldn’t see it. His statue might be soaring with the angels, but I was bored and uncomfortable, and I craved lemon gelato.

That was in seventh grade. Four years later, Dr. C, my scholarly AP Art History teacher imparted a fervor for the transformative power of art that sparked a period of personal growth and a new understanding of myself. Out of seemingly nowhere, art elicited passionate emotions that I rarely experienced in my twenty-first-century America: rage, horror, suffering, awe, triumph, and passion.

A literary nerd with a voracious appetite for ancient literature, I have to admit that taking AP Art History my junior year was an afterthought. I didn’t sign up for AP Art History until two weeks before school started. I only took it to be with my best friend, and it filled an open time slot. On the first day of class, my teacher greeted us with, “Good morning! I’m Dr. C, this is AP Art History, and I’m flying by the seat of my pants.” Already uncertain, I wondered what in the world I had gotten myself into. I panicked. Fearfully, I pressed on, hoping to at least skip the nude statues.

Over the next few months, Dr. C’s infectious enthusiasm for discovering the transformative power of art chipped away at my heart of stone. Yes, I loved Odysseus and Apollo – these names I knew from reading classical Greek literature. But now I could see them, not just in my imagination but sculpted in stone or depicted on a vase. Odysseus hovered over Polyphemus, poised to plunge a spike into the cyclops’ one eye. Apollo shot deadly arrows at the sons of prideful Niobe. These ancient characters that I loved came alive, and I saw their heroic actions unfold as if they were happening right in front of me. I felt the horror of Apollo’s piercing arrows and the trepidation of Odysseus’ risky escape.

Each era that I studied elicited a new set of emotions. I felt awe at the mastery of Renaissance artists, but I loathed the self-centric experiments of modern art. These strong emotions spilled into our class discussions. I passionately defended my views in debates with the class Pollock fan over how artists should represent humanity in art. Back and forth we argued, first me praising the painstaking technique of the masters, then she retorting with modern artists’ use of explosive emotions. Through our friendly banter, I not only refined my views concerning art but also became emotionally attached to them. I finally had a new lens with which to view art: passion had replaced boredom.

When we came to Michelangelo’s David, I finally realized how it embodied what it meant to be human and alive. David was a glimpse of the ideal man. The smooth, sculpted marble awakened feelings of awe and joy within me. I was amazed at Michelangelo’s ability to express, in a block of stone, beauty, insight, revelation, courage, and the height of being human. Like Michelangelo, Dr. C had finally set me free to see the beauty in art. I was forever changed.

If I ever return to Italy, I’ll skip the lemon gelato and head straight to the Galleria dell'Accademia to savor the magnificence of Michelangelo’s masterpiece.