At the end of her “Method Meets Art” book, Leavy raises an important question: who is the research for? Who benefits from it? Why do we do research? She argues that Arts-Based Research closes the gap between the “general public” and the privileged academically-trained audiences.

I cannot agree more! Teachers train on the job, by learning “tips and tricks” passed along from one teacher to another. They learn how to find a way to reach those “hard-to-reach” kids heuristically. They try what works and what does not. I doubt most have the time to search, read, and decode scholarly texts written in the traditional stiff voice of a white male professor.

My cultural pedigree condescends pedestrian art-making.
Least the greatness of Tolstoy and Tchaikovsky, and of the other great Russians fades into banality.
This must not happen. It would be tragic.

The plebeian poetry written to grace greeting cards, and to vent frustrations with the authorities in humorous rhyme is a genre of its own.
Here too, the poet must be good and clever or else, keep quiet.

I have searched my entire life for the line that marks the end of mediocracy and the beginning of greatness.
As a child, I wished to approach and to cross it, but it always eluded me.
Determined to find it, I taught myself to be analytical, conscientious, and studious. I learned to be critical.

I beat myself up to become small and inconspicuous.
The plan was to sneak up to the border of greatness unnoticed and to get discovered once I am through. By then, it will be too late for them to kick me out.
But no one discovered me yet. Sometimes, I feel like I keep lurking in the vicinity of the border. Sometimes by myself. More often, in crowds.
But of course! Greatness sees me coming and moves out of my sight. Maybe I should make myself even smaller. Or maybe I should explore alternative routes.

Learning English mapped new highways for me. The American culture planted new road signs. After 21 years of living in the U.S., I finally became comfortable with this new terrain, and I recall that my search for greatness all but faded at some point.

Until I went back to school six years ago, that is. Once again, I found myself wandering the familiar woods with a flashlight and a sleeping bag. This time, however, qualitative research forced me out of my camping spot.

In the past year, I hiked some difficult, but beautiful paths. I met huge people and those who walk on stilts because they want to look taller. I also met people who hide in the shadows. I feasted on exquisite ideas and forgot that I worked so hard to keep myself tiny. As the result, I grew.  I suspect people have no idea I tinker with my height, and I never told anyone that I have been looking for greatness because to this day I am mortified to end up as a joke, to be deported back to mediocracy with no chance to appeal.

My latest excursion to ABR brought me to some uncomfortable places. I found the old footprints I made as an artist years ago thinking they will finally lead me to greatness. The memories of that trip caused me pain.

Maybe this is why in the summer I disassembled my Qual II projects, tore off my sketches and threw away the blackboards. I still love to sketch just for me, when I have time. I think I might even get better with practice. But in Qual II, I dared to produce sketches purposefully, I attached them to significance and I caught myself in the trap.

Sketching does not and will never lead me to greatness; I learned that long ago. See, my footprints on that path are barely visible and overtaken by weeds. This path has been abandoned. No trespassing! Yet, I trespassed and dragged Janet into it last spring. I do not think she knows I am a fake artist. Yet. Or maybe she does but is being gentle, or worse yet (anathema!) she cannot tell the difference. Either way, I am deeply embarrassed.

The lesson on the poetic inquiry made me wonder. Reading one of Janet’s articles containing poems last month primed me well.

This week, I dutifully found a study designed as a poetic inquiry and once again, instinctively, got out the measuring stick of Pushkin and Lermontov. Let’s see if this counts as poetry, I thought.

The researcher took the words of her interview transcripts and put them together into poems, one poem per person. However, I realized that I did not see poems, I heard voices of people diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder telling their stories. At some point, we thought Becky met the criteria for this disorder, and I remember feeling terrified, hopeless, angry, and exhausted. I read that people BPD make the most unpleasant, uncooperative, and infuriating patients and family members. Their voices are ugly. I agree. I discovered that earplugs are therapeutic.

… what if I have been misinformed? Maybe greatness has no border. Maybe greatness is like the city of El Dorado, a beautiful, seductive myth.