Page 29 of High Hopes

Right now, I need to focus. It’s Monday, and I’ve got shit to do.

By the timeI make it to Tanaka’s advanced hand-building class, the caffeine has only done half its job. My body’s here, but my mind? It’s still stuck in that hazy space between sleep and everything else demanding my attention.

It doesn’t help that hand building has never really been my thing. I’ve always been more at home with wheel throwing, carving, glazing—the techniques where the motions flow easily, where I can let my hands do the thinking.

Sculpting is a bit of a nightmare.

This class is a requirement for graduation, though, part of the practical application side. Some 3D4M majors seem to specialize in the wheel, along with sculpting, mold-making, and metalwork. It’s impressive, really—their ability to switch between fluidity and precision.

But hand building, for me, has always felt like the outlier, the one form that refuses to click. There’s something too deliberate about it, too meticulous. It’s like every single motion has to be carefully planned. And right now, planning isn’t exactly my strong suit.

Still, I sit down at my station, determined to will myself into some kind of productive mindset. In front of me sits a half-formed sculpture of a human hand, the fingers awkwardly splayed and misshapen.

It’s supposed to be part of a study on gesture and tension. Right now, it looks more like a deformed claw—or maybe a blob that can’t quite decide what it wants to be.

The frustration bubbles up again. I’ve been putting so much effort into mastering hand building—pushing myself to improve in this class, to step outside my comfort zone—but the progress has been agonizingly slow.

Professor Tanaka enters the room a few minutes later, moving with his usual air of quiet authority. He’s not the type to demand attention through volume or theatrics; instead, he commands the space with a calm, steady presence.

Unlike Professor Hall, my wheel-throwing instructor who thrives on critique and fast-paced energy, Tanaka is methodical and introspective. He has a way of observing your work that feels almost unnerving, as if he can see past the surface—every misstep, every flash of creativity, every bit of uncertainty that went into making it.

But he doesn’t criticize. He observes, reflects, and then offers something insightful, almost poetic.

As he moves through the room, I focus intently on my unsettling half-finished hand, trying not to fidget under the weight of the silence stretching between us. Finally, he stops at my table.

“Collins,” he says, his tone thoughtful. “I can see you’re pushing yourself here. There’s good progress.”

The praise makes me sit a little straighter, warmth flickering in my chest. It’s gratifying to have my effort noticed—to know that all the late nights and moments of doubt are amounting to something.

“Yeah, well . . . it’s been a slow crawl forward,” I admit, a wry smile tugging at my lips. “A painful shuffle, if you will.”

Tanaka frowns. “Progress is still progress. Don’t undermine it just because it’s not happening as fast as you’d like.”

He’s right—I’m always so quick to brush off my accomplishments, like they don’t count unless they happen perfectly and all at once. But the doubt still lingers, gnawing at the edges. “I don’t know ... It’s just—it looks a bit like a horror movie prop, doesn’t it?”

Tanaka gives a knowing smile. “The tension you’re trying to capture is there. Look at the lines, the way the fingers curve inward. You’re conveying something that’s unresolved, like there’s movement just beneath the surface.”

I blink at the sculpture, squinting to find what he’s talking about. All I’ve been seeing is a disaster, but his words make me pause. Maybe I was too close to it, too wrapped up in my frustrations to see the potential.

“I guess I was too busy focusing on what it wasn’t to see what it actually is,” I say quietly. “It’s hard not to fixate on what I can’t seem to get right.”

“That’s part of the process. But don’t lose sight of what’s working in your favor. You’ve got a strong foundation here, and if you keep at it, you’ll find the resolution you’re after.”

In other words, he wants me to know that I’m allowed to take my time. That I’m not failing just because I’m not there yet. What a novel concept.

“Okay, thank you.”

“So, how’s the fellowship coming along?” he asks.

“It’s ... a lot.” I swallow heavily. “But I’m getting there. I’m trying to balance everything: work, classes, and getting these pieces ready. Sometimes it feels like I’m drowning.”

“That’s expected. The pressure is part of the experience. But from what I’ve seen of your work, you’re more than capable. You’ve got the skill. Now it’s about showcasing it for the judges.”

“I hope so,” I murmur. “Thank you again for your letter of recommendation. That certainly takes some weight off.”

“Of course,” Tanaka says. “I meant what I wrote. And if you need anything else, don’t hesitate to ask. Just trust your instincts, Collins.”

As he moves on to the next student, I sit back in my chair, his words settling into the space left by my doubts. I’ve been so caught up in trying to make everything perfect—to prove something to myself, to everyone else—that I forgot to give myself room to breathe.

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