I was always shouted at by my teacher because I would draw

Christian Louboutin, master of the red-soled shoe and dreamer of lines that turned into legends, once confessed: “I was always shouted at by my teacher because I would draw straight on the table in the school.” At first, these words appear as the playful memory of a child misbehaving in class. But beneath them lies the story of creativity’s struggle against conformity, of imagination bursting beyond the borders imposed by authority. For in the young boy’s refusal to limit his drawing to paper, we see the early spark of an artist who would later transform the world of fashion.

To draw on the table is to see possibility where others see only boundaries. The teacher, guardian of rules and order, could not understand that the boy was not defacing a desk but expanding his canvas. This tension between discipline and imagination is ancient. The child longs to create without restraint, while society demands structure. Yet it is often those who endure the scolding, those who refuse to shrink their visions to the “acceptable,” who later give the world new forms of beauty. Louboutin’s words reveal this eternal truth: that genius is often misunderstood when it first appears.

The ancients themselves saw this pattern. Recall the story of the young Michelangelo, who as an apprentice was chastised for carving too much detail into a block of marble that was meant only for practice. His masters scolded him for wasting time, but in his defiance lay the birth of a genius who would one day carve the Pietà and the David. Like Louboutin, he was a boy whose canvas could not be confined to what his teachers thought proper. Greatness often begins in disobedience—when the spirit refuses to bow to limits that would strangle it.

And yet, let us not despise the teacher in this story, for they represent the necessary resistance against which the young artist’s will is sharpened. Without obstacles, creativity remains untested. Without scolding, rebellion has no fire. The clash between the boy and the school was itself a forge, tempering the resolve of one who would one day draw not on desks, but on the world. The very tables he was punished for marking became symbols of the boundaries he would later erase in his art.

There is also here a heroic reminder of the cost of originality. To be different is to invite disapproval. To see a blank space where others see only a surface of utility is to risk misunderstanding. Louboutin’s memory is not only about drawing; it is about daring to see beyond the rules, to accept the loneliness of being scolded, and to persist until that vision is vindicated. In every age, innovators face this trial: Galileo rebuked for turning his telescope to the heavens, Van Gogh dismissed for painting in colors no one understood, and a boy in Paris shouted at for drawing on his desk.

The lesson is clear: do not fear the voice that scolds you when you follow your imagination. If your nature compels you to create, then create—even if your canvas is unconventional, even if the world frowns. The rules of the classroom are temporary; the call of genius is eternal. What matters is not where you begin, but whether you are faithful to the fire within you.

Practical action follows. Protect your creativity, even when others dismiss it as foolishness. If you are told “this is not the place,” remember that the world itself is your canvas. If you are told “this is not the way,” remember that new ways must often be carved against resistance. And if you are punished for coloring outside the lines, take courage: the lines exist to be redrawn.

Thus Louboutin’s boyhood memory is more than a tale of mischief—it is a parable of art, rebellion, and destiny. “I was always shouted at by my teacher because I would draw straight on the table in the school.” Let it be heard as wisdom: that what begins as scorned defiance may become the mark of genius. The artist’s task is not to obey the desk, but to see beyond it—to inscribe upon the world the visions that others cannot yet imagine.