AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Okay then.”
Professor Turner silently cocks his head from side to side. He steps even closer to my piece and then further away, looking at it with one eye open and then both. The prolonged lack of words streaming across the space of the ticking minutes builds a considerable doubt within me.
“I’m at an impasse, Ms. Cunning,” Professor Turner finally announces, still focused on my piece.
“How so?” My voice shakes.Fuck.
“Technically, the work is very strong. Your brushstrokes and use of color are extremely compelling. Your message is undoubtedly clear, and it’s definitely passable work.”
“Thank you.”
He nods.
“But,” I breathe, “it’s not good enough for the show, is it?”
“You see, this is the conundrum, EJ.” He circles to face me. “Your work is definitely good, good enough to show, but…”
“But.” I seal my lids shut. “But is never good.”
“I’m sorry, but it doesn’t move me in the way it should, and I tend to follow my instincts on these things.” He observes my work once again. “It’s a pity, too, because the composition is so close.”
My world comes crashing down. “I’m sorry to disappoint you.”
“You haven’t disappointed me. You just haven’t convinced me.”
“Of what?” I question, always the pupil.
“That it means something…or rather, that it answers any questions.”
“But isn’t that the point?” I stress, calling forth one of the many lessons I’ve learned over the years. “Not necessarily to find the answers yet to ask the questions?”
“True.”
“And have I failed at that?” I debate, unable to submit to defeat. It’s not in my blood.
“No, you haven’t.”
“But it’s still not good enough for your gallery show?”
“No.” He exhales audibly. Staring at the colorful bust, he cocks his head in thought.
We’re all silent.
Finally, he turns to me and says, “See me after class.”
“Sure.”
“You’ve passed, in case you were wondering.”
“Thank you.”
Professor Turner then moves down the line of students, focusing on the final piece presented by Wolfgang.
My friend has one of the oddest and most unique works I’ve ever seen. His depiction on violence in society is shown using real dyed locks of hair tightly braided, scattered, and strategically placed across a sticky-looking canvas that drips with hues of bliss and blood, all at once. It’s weird and amazing.
The two men discuss the project at length. It’s clear as day that our teacher is in awe of Wolfgang’s strange and intriguing work. Quickly, I gather that my friend will earn a spot in the coveted show. The professor can’t stop boasting and asking questions. He’s come alive in front of the piece. He’s obviously moved.
When their laughter and excitement dies down, the professor shakes Wolfgang’s hand and welcomes him to the show. The invitation is of no surprise to me or anyone else in the room. Wolfgang has always excelled in the art arena.
