Graduation: Or, How I Learned to Accept Chaos in a Slightly Oversized Suit and a Fancy Gown

So, last Thursday, I graduated from Leeds Art University. Graduated. Which, if you’re thinking, “Oh, congratulations,” you’ve already missed the point. Because “graduation” isn’t actually an achievement. It’s a ritual. A staged performance designed to make a room full of slightly confused people feel like something meaningful has happened. And me? I walked across a stage. Wearing a suit that was too big for me, hidden by a fancy robe. A robe that made me look like a wizard who’d been demoted for being too enthusiastic about colour theory whilst balancing a plate on my head. And they handed me a piece of paper. A diploma. Which says I am now officially a Master of Art. Master. Of. Art. Master. Of Art. And if you repeat it enough times, quickly, it begins to sound like the type of humour I enjoyed as a child....and again as a fifty year old man,

And the ceremony. Oh, the ceremony. Families clapping politely, like they’re applauding a magic trick that hasn’t worked yet. Professors nodding with a gravity that suggests, “Yes, this is important,” even though everyone knows no one outside this room will remember it. And me, walking across the stage, thinking: “Yes, I am a master… of standing awkwardly in front of strangers, of looking slightly ridiculous in my oversized suit and flappy gown while holding paper, of participating in a ritual whose meaning evaporates the second the hall doors close.”

But, here’s the thing. And this is crucial. Somewhere amid the applause, the slightly awkward handshakes, the hats that wobble when you breathe too hard, I felt it. Not joy. Not pride. But a quiet, absurd satisfaction. That, despite all the chaos, the late nights, the failed experiments, the existential dread, something coherent had emerged. Something I could call The Rubbish Artist. Something that might—if I play my cards right—convince a world that doesn’t yet know it needs me that chaos can be beautiful. Useful, even. Possibly funny. Definitely messy.

So here I am. Diploma in hand. Chaos officially sanctioned. Ready to step into a world that probably doesn’t care that I exist… but probably will. Or, if not, that’s fine. Because the robe is warm, the paper exists, and for one brief, ridiculous moment, everyone clapped as if it mattered. Which, ultimately, is exactly the point.

—Dan Messenger, The Rubbish Artist