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W e d n e s d ay, Au g u s t 19, 2026
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Jan Risher
Finding joy in a low-stakes, creative self-portrait I have never learned to draw. Growing up, I thought being able to draw was something you could do or you couldn’t — and no matter how much I wanted to, I couldn’t. For decades, I equated drawing well with being an artist. I’ve learned that I was wrong about both. So many people I trust have told me that anyone can learn to draw. I believe them. I’ve never taken a drawing class. Circumstances have always seemed to get in the way. I’ve also gotten a better sense of the Venn diagram between drawing well and being an artist.
Readers remember the teachers who changed their worlds — in their own words GETTY IMAGES ILLUSTRATION
STAFF PHOTO BY BY JAN RISHER
Jan Risher’s unorthodox selfportrait
What I do know is that I like making things, even when I have no idea what I’m doing. Making something badly can be surprisingly satisfying. In my latest art-ish effort, the paper goes over my face first. Then I grab a pastel and use it to “draw” my face by feel — tracing the elements of my face through the paper. I’ve done three iterations of this self-portrait and have started with my glasses on each attempt. Then I work my way around my face: nose, eyebrows, mouth, jaw. Sometimes when I’m drawing from one side of my face to the other, I’m shocked at how far it is. I’ve become fascinated by what happens when I try to translate the three-dimensional shape of my face onto a flat piece of paper. I cannot see what I’m drawing as it’s happening — and that’s the whole point. The first self-portrait was ridiculous. The second was slightly better. I like the third one a lot — maybe because it’s in my favorite shade of green. I’ve shared videos of all three attempts with friends. More than one has asked the same question: Why are you doing this? My answer is equally simple: “For no reason beyond entertaining myself!” Frankly, it’s fun. The stakes are low. I never know what I’m going to get, and each attempt has taught me something. When I can’t see what I’m drawing, I can’t worry about whether I’m drawing it right. There is only the doing. I convinced my husband, who actually can draw, to try the first attempt with me. Having been with me when I bought the supplies, he wasn’t surprised. He didn’t hesitate. For the most part, he has stopped resisting when I present him with one of my ideas, supplies in hand. That said, he shocked me when he began wadding the paper up — more than once. He
ä See SELF-PORTRAIT, page 2G
Louisiana
INSPIRED
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How one t eacher in Mor g an Ci t y change d t he t r aje c t or y of a li f e 7D
COMPILED BY JOY HOLDEN and JAN RISHER | Staff writers
s. Frizzle in “The Magic School Bus.” Robin Williams in “Dead Poets Society.” Quinta Brunson in “Abbott Elementary.” Mr. Holland in “Mr. Holland’s Opus.” Morgan Freeman in “Lean on Me.” Fictional teachers earn their place in memory. So do the real ones. A line from a lecture. A note in the margin of a test — something a teacher said on a Tuesday outlasts the classroom by decades. As school starts again, we asked readers to tell us about their most memorable teacher. The responses show that south Louisiana schools and teachers have been and are still creating better versions of the kids who walk through their halls.
Robbie McHardy Byron Slosar didn’t hesitate to celebrate a teacher who made a difference in his life. He knew it was finally his chance to thank his first grade teacher, Robbie McHardy. Slosar wrote that he “dropped everything at work on a Monday morning” because he had been “trying to find a way for years to express his gratitude.” McHardy taught Slosar in first grade at the University Laboratory School in Baton Rouge from 1985 to 1986. He wrote that she taught him that making someone feel seen isn’t just a singular act of kindness, but it’s an investment that keeps paying forward. Today, Slosar is the founder and chief executive officer of hellohive, a diversity recruitment and résumé technology company. “The work we’ve done at hellohive is, in many ways, an attempt to give thousands of students what she gave one six-year-old,” Slosar wrote. “By caring for me, she ended up caring for people she’ll never meet.” In his letter to McHardy, Slosar wrote that she is the reason he knows what it feels like to be seen. He re-
PROVIDED PHOTO
Robbie McHardy, left, stands with Byron Slosar, her first grade student from the University Laboratory School in 1985. Slosar credits McHardy with making the greatest impact on his life.
lie and the Stuffed Dog. Slosar wrote that he moved to Shreveport in third grade, and school was never the same. He measured every classroom against McHardy’s. He wrote that the best part of high school graduation was having McHardy in the audience. A few months ago, Slosar brought his son back to Baton Rouge and walked him into McHardy’s room. He took a picture of his son in the class. He wrote that he wants his son to know that he is loved more than anything in the world, and he credits McHardy for helping him feel that way at such a formative time in his life. “You did it with a garden, a book order, a book about a clown and a nickname. And it held for forty years,” Slosar wrote.
Ronald Nethercutt
Margaret Sharpe will never forget her teacher that wrote, “Reach for the stars,” in her fifth grade memory book. She wrote that even though it was 60 years ago, those four words called Scholastic book delivery days, from Ronald Nethercutt still resonate being named Top Banana in class, with her. planting a garden, tasting kohlrabi for ä See TEACHERS, page 2G the first time and writing about Char-