All of these kids that were in distress and so forth, I didn't see them as bad kids.

 

This is Ivan Cornea, a longtime high school art teacher with a passion for developing young people.

 

The year is 1955, the first year Ivan began teaching in a rural high school.

The air in his classroom is thick with the smell of paint and the dust from the hand-cranked pencil sharpener. Student drawings are pinned on the walls, and light comes in through single-paned windows that look out over the farm fields where many of these kids will go work in the evening.

 

The boys sport flat top crew cuts. The girls, the knee-length skirts and saddle shoes popular in the 1950s. And all of them carry that awkwardness of teenagers trying to find themselves.

 

I saw them as people in a different place. And if you took some of the barriers away, they'd move along. And boy, they did it. Some of the best students I ever had were kids that other teachers had rejected.

 

How does this happen? How do you invite greatness in people who don't see greatness in themselves? This ability is vital for any leader, teacher, coach, manager, or parent. But how to acquire this ability can feel elusive. If this is a skill you are looking to develop, Ivan's story holds so many answers.

 

Welcome to Leading Outward, the Arbinger Institute's podcast, where we explore the tools and ideas we've used for over 45 years to help people solve their toughest leadership and organizational challenges by leading with an outward mindset—seeing people as people. I'm Mitch Warner.

 

Mitch:

Ivan, who comes to mind first when you think about these students who had been rejected by other teachers?

 

Ivan:

I remember when I was teaching sixth period, I had a young man, IQ around 100. His dad was an electrical engineer and his parents would not accept that he was mentally deficient.

 

Well, he could function except if somebody didn't remind him to go to the restroom, he'd come to my class and wet his pants.

Some kids started calling my room "the crick."

 

So, I got several of the girls aside—ones I thought I could trust—and asked if they'd pick him up after fifth period and take him (not go in with him, but take him) to the restroom.

They did, and they became so attached to him. Seeing what happened to them, and to him, really affected me.

 

I’d had him for three years and never heard his voice or seen his eyes. He’d always just sit there. His grade average—all D’s. Nobody gave him an F because they didn’t want him back.

 

I always gave a little preachment with each new concept. And lo and behold, that kid had been listening.

At the beginning of his senior year, the door was open into the hall, the next class had started, and I heard this "pity pat, pity pat" coming down the hall. He came in that door and said, “Mr. Corn—Mr. Cornea—I was walking down the hall and looked somebody right in the eye.”

 

From that moment on… you can’t imagine what happened. When I gave him an A, you can’t imagine what happened to me in the faculty room. All those teachers clouded up, gave me grief: How could you give that kid an A?

I said, come and look at his work. “He doesn’t do any.”

Come and look at his work.

 

That day he came down the hall and looked somebody in the eye—boy, what a turning point.

 

He got his master's degree and became head of public relations for the state of Arizona through his art.

 

So, that's what drew me to kids that were in trouble and difficulty. In fact, I started shopping for them, getting them to take my classes. Some became extremely successful.

 

Given this first experience, when it comes to developing people—especially those who see themselves as broken—what did you learn?

 

Ivan:

First, they have to become whole. In that process, they need to identify what's happened to them, or they can't pass it on.

 

As they change, you call them aside and say, “Do you realize what's happening to you? You were here…" and explain to them what that was, and now you’re here.

 

I discovered early that if a student didn’t know where they were, if you asked, "If grades came out tomorrow, what would you get?"—and they didn’t know…

Typically, teachers take their work to a cloistered place, and students have no idea if they’re going to get an A or a B or what.

 

I realized I needed to devise ways for them to constantly check where they were. Then, once in place, you ask, “If grades came out tomorrow, what would you get?” They can say, "I'm right there." They have to know that constantly, or they—like anyone—can’t tell if they're progressing.

 

That's terrible in every arena. For employees in organizations, research shows that 74% rate feeling in the dark about their performance as their number one complaint, ahead of compensation and benefits.

 

People crave knowing their performance—and it needs to be precise. Even when they get feedback, it’s too vague to help them know where they stand.

 

At the time of this interview, Ivan was battling cancer, which ultimately ended his life just months later. It’s remarkable that this principle applies to developing budding artists, employees in organizations, and even maintaining hope in the face of a life-threatening disease.

 

Ivan:

What a reward to go to the doctor and have him say, "All your numbers are in place, you're right on the verge of me declaring you're in remission." That doesn’t mean cured, but that they’re catching the cancer as soon as it starts.

You can’t imagine what it does when someone shows you where you were and where you are.

 

Mitch:

So what you’re experiencing in fighting cancer is the same principle at play when helping a kid invest in their own development: they need to see progress, to know where they are.

 

Ivan:

Exactly. They usually can’t detect it themselves, but when you identify it for them, they see it happening.

Then, the urge comes to help others—but not until then.

 

It’s fascinating that Ivan’s ultimate goal is for students to help others, to become leaders themselves. But first they need to see their own progress to even imagine lifting others.

 

Mitch:

What about people who are resistant or don’t want to be developed?

 

Ivan:

Beginning of my tenth year, a boy rode his bicycle cross-country to New York City. He missed the first day of classes finishing his trip, so he appeared in my art class on day two. He didn’t want to take art—he was just sent there.

 

I walked past his desk toward the sink and he said something uncomplimentary. On the way back, he really unloaded on me.

 

I just paused and thought, what does this kid already have? Not, "what’s wrong" or "what’s he going through"—but "what assets does he have? What can I work with right now?"

 

Mitch:

And what did he have?

 

Ivan:

Guts. So I told him, "You don't want to be here, do you?" “I sure don't.” “Then get out. You don't have guts enough to do it anyway.”

 

From that moment, you couldn't have dragged him out of the room. What followed was remarkable—a stack of over fifty years’ worth of drawings that I still have. He wrestled, tried, struggled—for days, for weeks. First, he tried drawing a horse, got frustrated, scribbled violently over it. But each drawing showed incremental improvement. He taught himself, noticed what wasn’t working, asked questions, persisted.

 

Then, one day, I showed him how to draw a horse’s foot. He practiced around my model—drawing after drawing, each better than the last.

 

The leap in performance wasn’t from my example alone—it came because he wrestled. I let him wrestle. I required it.

It’s not acquaintance with the ideal that enables growth—it’s seeing the ideal in the context of your own hard-fought struggle.

 

There’s a balance: demanding the very best, but with patience for the struggle.

 

Ivan:

I had students like Joel Isaac, Gary Glymmer, Keith Merrill, and Jack Cullmore.

Joel once told me, "Don't give me an A until I earn it. I want to use it as a meter to tell where I'm at." He worked for months on a huge painting, and every time he finished, I’d come in and paint over it in white, telling him what he could have done better. Four times. The fourth time, a girl started crying—how could I do that? Joel told her, “I can take it.” That was the best lesson she got that year.

 

Again—this wasn’t a script. What works for Joel might not work for another. I respond to what each individual needs in each moment. Ivan’s magic isn’t in a cookbook approach but in seeing each student—and having the guts to do what’s most helpful.

 

Joel went on to the Art Center School of Design in LA—normally reserved for college graduates, but he persuaded them to look at his work. He’s one of the best airbrush technicians I’ve known. Because of him, the school agreed to accept any student I’d recommend straight from high school.

 

Another: Gary. A hunting mishap left him with a bullet near his heart, then tuberculosis kept him isolated in a sanitarium. I was asked to visit when he stopped responding. I talked at him, but he ignored me. As I left, he asked, "Will you come back?" I said yes—if he let me teach him art lessons. He agreed.

 

Detail after detail, he told me about the colors and reflections in the sink taps—he was coming alive again, drawing even the caster on the bed. Eventually, Gary thrived, got a Cleo award in advertising, and later worked for Hallmark.

 

Mitch:

Ivan, what had to change in you to become a person who could see others and build these relationships?

 

Ivan:

Most people develop a habit of thinking about how they can get things. That habit has to be controlled before anything else can take its place. When I learned that someone else’s wellbeing was as important as my own—that everyone else is as important as I am, no matter what they’d done—that’s when things changed.

 

There are many ways to deliver information. I had my curriculum, but often the student didn’t need that. So, I would adjust it. Once, a student wanted to make a robot. I taught him art concepts by having him design the robot in the back room. When he finished, he showed it off to the class—he didn’t even know he was “doing art.”

 

I love this. So where are we? What are the lessons? What is the key to developing people, even challenging people?

 

My overwhelming sense in sitting with Ivan is that he learned how to see people—really see them. That’s the heart of it. And because he could see people and their potential, he was patient—willing to let development unfold.

Patience isn’t passive—he was always crystal clear so people knew where they stood. And when they fell short, he told them—no scripts, no techniques, no gimmicks, always changing the curriculum to serve the person.

 

I think—to use a word that’s gone out of style—what happened in that classroom, and what lives on in the lives of these students, is love.

 

Leading Outward is produced by the Arbinger Institute. To have a conversation about how we can equip you to transform your leaders and organization, schedule a complimentary strategy session at arbinger.com.

 

And whatever came to mind for you while listening—a conversation you’ve been putting off, feedback to share, or an action you need to take—don’t wait. Take that action, because that’s how change starts.