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Professor Turner meanders back to the front desk and opens his briefcase.
“Thank you everyone for your work,” he states, pulling out a small stack of papers from the leather case. “Please take your pieces with you now if you can. If not, be sure to have them removed by the end of the day. The staff will be cleaning out this space over the break, and they have been instructed to dispose of anything left behind. If you will be showing at the gallery, please be sure to stop by my desk and pick up a sheet for instructions on setup times. Everyone else, I hope to see you there, supporting your fellow classmates.”
The weight of defeat settles in, like a sinking battleship in the middle of the ocean. I turn on my heel and take one more look at my work—a bodice of Foster covered in everything he emanates. I love this piece, yet it wasn’t good enough.
“Sorry, EJ,” Wolfgang consoles at my side. “It’s still really good.”
“But not great,” I say with resolve.
“You know art is subjective and not everyone sees the same piece the same way.”
“I do.” I ball my hands into fists. “But damn, if I didn’t subjectively want this.”
“I wanted it for you, too.” He sympathetically rubs my back. “Are you breaking it down now or coming back later?”
“Later would be better.” I gather my bag from the nearby table. “I need a break.”
“C’mon then.”
With an arm draped over my shoulder, Wolfgang leads me to the front of room and toward the exit.
“Aren’t you two forgetting something?” Professor Turner calls to us as we reach the threshold.
Stopping in our tracks, we both glance behind us where our teacher is sitting at the desk, holding out a sheet of paper.
“Right,” Wolfgang says, leaving my side and taking the instruction sheet in his hand.
“You wouldn’t want to forget that.” Professor Turner peers around my friend. “Ms. Cunning?”
Wolfgang backs away from the desk and says to me in passing, “I’ll just wait outside.”
“Thanks.” I pause at the edge of the desk, remembering his request from earlier. “Sorry. You wanted to see me?”
“I did.” Professor Turner holds out one of the instructional sheets for the gallery showing. “You should take one of these, too.”
“But I thought…” I reply, staring at the tempting white paper.
“This is conditional.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your work is good, very good, but you can do better. I’ve seen you do better.”
I’m befuddled. “You’ve seen me do better? I’m sorry, Professor, but this is the first class I’ve ever had with you. I’m confused.”
“Don’t look so surprised, EJ. I do my research on each and every one of my students, including you.” He takes a look at the work still remaining on the floor. “I want to know who I’m backing in my gallery, and I’m confident you have more in you than you’re showing. I’ve looked at your slides from previous classes and spoken with the rest of the staff.”
“I had no idea.”
“Of course you didn’t. I don’t exactly announce it to everyone.”
“And your sleuthing is the reason you’re offering me this?” I ponder, hanging on his every word.
“That, and the fact that you’re even in this class in the first place. You do realize that this is an upper-level course for fine art majors, not art history ones?” He lifts his brows, challenging me. “I’m actually surprised you’re in this class in the first place and curious how you managed it.”
“A lot of hard work and determination,” I tell him plainly.
“Ah, a passion.” He taps my hand with the instructional page, urging me to take it, and I do. “That’s what I figured.”
