Finding One’s Place in the World

Hello everyone, my name is Ruan Yunting.

I’m a cartoonist, and also a teacher at the China Academy of Art.

I’ve been teaching there for twenty-three years.

At the beginning, I tried hard every day to act like an adult—because I thought teachers had to know everything, while I actually knew nothing.

Each class I worried something unexpected would happen.

One day, my worst fear came true.

After finishing the lesson, I said, “If you have questions, raise your hand; if not, start your assignments.”

A boy slowly raised his hand and asked:

“Teacher, if I don’t want to become someone like you, do I still need to learn this?”

I froze.

Students at art academies are scary, I thought—though I myself had graduated from one.

I gave him a vague answer, and class went on.

But for years afterward I kept thinking: What kind of person did he mean—‘someone like me’?

Ten years later I drew a story about a young female lecturer—twenty-nine, a graduate of a prestigious university, staying on to teach, doing a job many envied.

She’d spent her life trying to be good, yet never had the courage to live for herself.

Maybe that was the kind of person he meant.

That story took me thirteen years to finish.

It was finally published under the title Spring Radiance (春晖)—the name of that young teacher.

The book asks several questions:

What is the meaning of being a teacher?

What is true love?

What is the purpose of education?

How do we become the adults we are today?

How I Became a Teacher

Once, after class, I asked a senior student, “Have you found a job yet? What will you do after graduation?”

She said, “I want to be a teacher.” Then she asked, “Teacher, why did you become one?”

Looking into her pure, hopeful eyes, I could only answer honestly:

“Because my mother wanted me to.”

Inside, I thought, I’m sorry—I must have disappointed you.

Before graduation I had never imagined teaching.

I’d been drawing comics since childhood, publishing my first at 17.

When I was about 20, one of my works was shown at the National Art Museum of China as a representative piece of Chinese comics.

For a long time, I thought I’d simply be a cartoonist.

But when I graduated, there were hardly any professional cartoonists in China.

At that moment the Academy founded an Animation Department and invited me to stay on as faculty.

My mother was thrilled: teaching was stable, with long holidays—perfect for a girl, she said.

Friends envied me.

So it seemed I had no other choice.

Even now, when I call my mother and tell her, “I don’t want this job anymore—I’m really unhappy,”

she says, “It’s the same everywhere. Just endure it—you’ll get used to it.”

Between Art and Teaching

For many years I’ve been torn between being a teacher and being an artist.

I often joke that my career goal is to resign.

When I began serializing Spring Radiance, readers often asked about the ending.

I said, “Of course the teacher quits—that’s my dream too.”

Many people probably feel the same:

disliking their jobs, believing change means quitting and running far away.

Yet, neither I nor the character have resigned.

From the outside, nothing’s changed: twenty-three years in the same position.

But inwardly, teaching has transformed me.

My relationship with this job has completely shifted.

I want to talk about another kind of change.

Where Change Begins

On the big stone at our school gate are the words “China Academy of Art.”

I often feel responsible for them.

As a student I demanded perfection of myself—comics were my life; I drew as if there were no tomorrow.

As a teacher, I thought good teaching meant producing students as excellent as myself.

They had to work just as hard.

I filled every minute of their day, squeezing out all their energy—like pressing a lemon.

This was my lesson plan: morning, afternoon, evening—all occupied.

At night they had to watch a film and submit reflections the next day.

In class I told them, “Draw as if there were no tomorrow.”

They all gasped, “Ah — !”

So I tried every method.

The gentle method—kind persuasion—failed.

The inspirational method—painting a bright vision—failed.

The threat method: “If masters are mountains, you’re plains; look at that gap!”—made them more depressed.

Competition—rewarding top students—worked worst of all, and I soon gave it up.

I was working so “hard.”

The next day, one student came and said, “Teacher, everyone else asked for leave.”

I thought, Well, you’ve found a new strategy.

Trying to be a “good” teacher left me frustrated.

What Does Success Mean?

I once had a star student whose graduation project won an international award.

I told him, “You’ll go far.”

Years later, in a hardware market, a man carrying glass panes walked toward me—

it was him.

He said, “I’m not doing art anymore. I sell glass.”

I walked home heavy-hearted.

Then what is the meaning of my work?

I had believed being an artist was everything.

But I realized: not all students want to be artists.

If my teaching helps someone become a mother, a homemaker—any role—

is that any less valuable?

Teaching, I learned, is unlike drawing.

In art, effort brings results.

In teaching, you deal with people—who aren’t machines obeying instructions.

Interaction brings resistance; life rarely goes smoothly.

One of my comics shows the everyday frustrations teachers face,

whether they teach preschoolers or college students.

A student once asked, “Teacher, what should I do?”

Using all my wisdom, I laid out a perfect plan.

I even admired myself: A broad road ahead!

But she said, “No. I’ll keep doing it my way.”

I said, “That’s a dead end—can’t you see?”

She still insisted.

That made me reflect:

What do we adults mean by “right”?

We can foresee the pit ahead because we’ve fallen in before.

But adulthood makes us forget that,

and we don’t allow the young to fall as we did.

Yet sometimes, what looks like a detour to us

is the shortest route for them.

What Is Love?

Conflicts and pain often force us to ask:

Do we love the other, or only ourselves?

We say we love, yet both sides feel hurt. Why?

In one scene of Spring Radiance, little Chunhui says,

“I don’t want to play piano; I don’t like it.”

An adult asks, “Do you know your mother loves hearing you play?”

“Yes.”

“Then do you love your mother?”

The question silences her.

So often our thoughts are blocked by that line:

If you love me, you’ll do this.

A student once told me,

“If I get a bad grade, my father hits himself.”

She cried.

Love had become a form of control.

And control, in the name of love, is easy.

What we really want is simple:

For someone to patiently ask and listen—

“Why don’t you want to play?”

“Because if I play badly, Mom gets angry, fights with Dad, and I’m scared.”

That’s all.

Years ago I read a line:

“When you truly desire something,

the best way to receive it is to give it to others.”

I closed the book and asked myself,

What do I most desire?

To be loved, seen, heard, praised, and accepted.

So if I can give students anything, it’s what I never had.

A friend who read Spring Radiance said,

“I never met a teacher like this. If I had, I’d be a different person.”

I said, “Neither did I. That’s why I want to become one.”

I’ve learned that helping students grow

doesn’t come from pointing out flaws

but from accepting them and seeing their strengths.

That recognition gives people the power to develop.

I keep practicing that lesson every year.

If I weren’t teaching, I’d just be an artist.

Artists—including the past me—tend to be self-focused:

confident judgments, absolute standards of right and wrong,

high and low, elegant and vulgar.

Teaching shatters those absolutes.

Students constantly challenge them,

forcing me to ask again:

Do I love myself, or do I love others?

From a self-centered artist

I became a teacher able to see others.

This job changed me.

What Are We Afraid Of?

When I studied in the U.S., I noticed something interesting.

Classes there sat in a circle—teachers and students discussing equally.

In China, the teacher stands on a platform; students sit in rows.

In art class I often ask, “What are your feelings?

How do you see this? What do you think?”

The moment I ask, eyes start wandering—up, down, left, right—anywhere but me.

Like a typhoon sweeping through a sunflower field,

blowing every flower sideways.

My solution?

I use a Medusa stare.

If one student meets my eyes—beep—turned to stone:

“Good. You, please answer.”

The others instantly perk up again.

For years I’ve wondered: why can’t they look me in the eye?

What are they afraid of?

There’s a story in Spring Radiance about an entrance exam.

Every year thousands apply to our Academy.

In one exam a girl raised her hand:

“Teacher, I accidentally tore a corner of my barcode sticker.”

I said, “It’s fine, just tape it.”

“Really?” she asked, terrified.

Her look felt so familiar.

I’ve felt that fear myself—

filling in answer sheets terrified my pencil wasn’t real 2B,

that the scanner couldn’t read it,

that one mistake could ruin everything.

My mother always said, “Don’t make stupid mistakes.”

I thought, What’s a stupid mistake? It sounds terrifying.

The worst fear was:

If I fall behind, where will I go?

It felt like disappearing—

as if a black hole watched us all the time,

and we dared not look back.

That year the admission ratio was 40 to 1—

only one student per classroom would be accepted.

Looking at that girl, I knew instantly she wouldn’t make it.

After the exam, I watched her carry her bucket,

walking slowly, heavy with thoughts.

I felt a deep ache—

but as proctor, I couldn’t say a word.

So in Spring Radiance I wrote:

“Wherever you are—those who fall behind, those left out—

I hope you are well.”

Those Left Behind

Our education system is built on constant selection.

In the story, the principal says,

“Last year our flowers reached 8.3 cm in diameter.

This year they must reach 8.5—or even 8.8!

It’s our school’s honor.”

But some flowers can’t grow that large.

Some plants aren’t flowers at all.

A cactus, for instance—

Chunhui says to it, “It’s too damp here, not right for you.”

The cactus looks near death.

Colleagues often tell me,

“Focus on your most promising students;

the rest won’t shine no matter how hard you try.”

I reply, “That makes sense.”

Yet when I look at the small ones,

I think: precisely because they’re small, they need more love.

Even if people are seeds, we aren’t all of one species.

Is it fair to ask an osmanthus,

‘Why can’t you bloom like a rose?’

I want to tell every student:

You don’t need to prove anything.

Your existence is enough.

One chapter, “The Beach,” compares my work to collecting shells—

calling others to see: “Look how beautiful they are!”

But more important than showing others

is letting the beach know it owns so many treasures:

“Look at this color—better than anything I could paint.”

As teachers we must give grades,

yet I often hesitate,

because art—and people—can’t be compared.

Beach, oh beach, know this:

you need not compete.

Cherish your own jewels.

Teaching, I believe, means using love as a mirror,

so students can see themselves—their own light.

Our system, though, sweeps away those who don’t meet standards—

into bins, into recycling, into the ground.

But burying them doesn’t make trouble vanish.

Where do they go?

I am not I; I am you.

When we discard such students,

we also discard the crying child within ourselves—

our compassion, our love,

our passion for the world.

Losing that love,

we lose connection to what we care about,

and forget what we truly want.

“What Do You Want to Paint?”

In art school this question is constant.

I tell graduates: start with what you love most.

“What are you most interested in?”

Often they reply,

“I don’t know—what do you think I should paint?”

Truth is, I don’t know what I want either.

We often tell students: “Art must rebel.”

Yet art education forbids mistakes.

Most students have spent their lives following rules,

being good children.

Suddenly we demand rebellion—it’s too hard.

Even I can’t do it.

To cure this “illness,” I once assigned homework:

“Do one bad thing.”

For example, tie two people’s shoelaces together;

or tell a chubby girl, “Stop hiding your legs—your legs really are thick.”

The perfect art-school students were paralyzed.

Several nervously confessed,

“Teacher, I… didn’t do anything.”

I told them seriously:

“Doing nothing already completes the assignment.

Have you ever told a teacher, ‘I didn’t do anything’?

That alone is a new experience.

And see—you didn’t die.”

That is art.

Art isn’t about whether a work is beautiful or perfect,

but about what you feel and experience along the way.

If humans are free,

that freedom includes the right to be wrong.

When we say, “You are free; we support you,”

students silently test us:

Do you really mean it?

So we must ask ourselves:

Do we allow both ourselves and them

the freedom to err and to risk?

Only with that freedom can life grow new possibilities.

“I Hope You Live for Yourself”

Most of my students disappear after graduation.

I understand—maybe they think they must achieve something before visiting.

One student I loved dearly always strove to meet every expectation.

Before graduation she said,

“Teacher, I’ll work twice as hard—I won’t disappoint you.”

I replied,

“You can’t disappoint me,

because I have no expectations—only love.

From now on, I hope you live for yourself.”

Only by letting go of others’ eyes and expectations

can one find a place in the world.

I see the world as a grand symphony orchestra.

Each person has a seat.

When we stand in that spot, we can play our full part,

feel joy,

and together make the music harmonious.

Why We Can’t Find Our Place

Partly because of that black hole watching us—

we’re too afraid to move.

Partly because our rightful place

may not match our imagination or society’s ideals.

The writer Sanmao once said that in primary school

she wrote an essay about her dream—to be a ragpicker.

Her teacher made her rewrite it.

If that were your true position, would it be accepted?

Perhaps not.

But every kind of work holds its own meaning.

Here’s a small exercise to help find your place:

Write down ten things you love doing—

things you’d do even without money or purpose,

from walking at sunset to chatting with people.

Then look for the qualities within them—

patience, appreciation, emotional flow, compassion…

For me, I’ve loved talking to people since childhood.

Why? Because conversation means emotion, connection, empathy, observation.

Clarifying those traits helped me find my place.

My interest in people guides my teaching—

observing, understanding students’ feelings.

My artistic strength helps me express those reflections through art.

Teaching nourishes my creation; creation enriches my teaching.

I found a way to unite the two.

Spring Radiance is the result.

I often think: only I could have created this story.

One day, opening a drawer,

I saw all my old certificates and awards.

I remembered how much effort I’d spent earning them,

piling them up to prove I was “good enough.”

Now I understand:

a person is not the sum of those papers.

If I could meet that student again,

I’d tell him:

“You don’t need to become someone like me.

Just be yourself.”

And I, too, will be myself.

Thank you.