I went to school at the San Francisco Art Institute, thinking I

In the words of Annie Leibovitz we hear: "I went to school at the San Francisco Art Institute, thinking I was going to become an art teacher. Within the first six months I was there, I was told that I couldn't be an art teacher unless I became an artist first." These words are more than a recollection; they are a summons, a reminder whispered across time. They tell us that one cannot pass the flame of knowledge without first kindling it in one’s own heart. To teach is not to hold a book in the hand, but to embody the fire of experience.

The ancients knew this well. In Athens, Socrates did not stand as a formal teacher with scrolls in hand; rather, he lived the pursuit of wisdom, and from that living, his disciples drew strength. To be told, as Annie was, that she must first be an artist before becoming an art teacher, is to be told: “Become what you would pass on.” How can the vessel pour if it has not been filled? How can one teach the art of creation if one has not wrestled with creation itself?

Her story echoes the trials of many who sought greatness. Consider the tale of Alexander of Macedon. His father gave him tutors, but it was only under Aristotle—himself a philosopher forged through long years of study and discovery—that Alexander’s mind took shape. Had Aristotle been merely a repeater of words and not a philosopher in his own right, Alexander would not have grown into the man who would carry Greek thought across the known world. This, too, is Annie’s lesson: only those who do can truly teach.

Yet there is an emotional wound hidden in the truth of her revelation. Imagine being young, walking into the halls of the San Francisco Art Institute, your heart set upon teaching, only to be told that you are not yet worthy. Such words could crush a fragile dream. But wisdom often comes through discomfort, through the tearing down of illusion. For it is better to be wounded by truth than comforted by falsehood. Annie was told, in essence: Do not build your house on untested foundations.

This is why the words stir with power. They remind us that life does not grant shortcuts. To create is the soil from which true instruction grows. The one who has never stood in front of the canvas, trembling before the void of the blank page, can never guide another through that trial. Just as a warrior who has never faced the clash of steel cannot instruct others in battle, so an art teacher must first taste the loneliness and triumph of being an artist.

What then shall the listener take from this? The lesson is this: become before you proclaim. Do not hunger for the title of master before enduring the path of the apprentice. Seek not to lead others down roads your own feet have never traveled. Instead, dive deeply into your craft, until your hands remember what your tongue need not explain. Then, when you speak, your words will bear the weight of truth.

To the seeker who hears this teaching: begin now. Whatever your chosen path—be it art, science, writing, music, or trade—immerse yourself in the work before dreaming of teaching it. Create first. Struggle first. Fail first. Rise first. Only then can you guide with the authority of the tested soul. And when you stand before others, you will not merely instruct—you will inspire.

Thus Annie’s words, simple yet thunderous, travel across the ages: to teach is not the beginning, but the culmination of becoming. First, let the fire burn within your own hands. Only then may you light the torches of others.