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Dropping my bag on the floor near my feet, I take a seat at my usual desk in the classroom where we meet for photography class. This is an art elective that I’m using toward my art history degree. I’ve been fortunate to have many of my desired classes overlap with the required ones for my major.
“Hey, sexy thing,” Wolfgang, my fine art major friend says, sitting at the desk next to me. He then offers a foam cup to my empty hand. “I brought you a coffee—skim milk, no sweetener.”
“I love you, Wolfie,” I enunciate with far too much emotion. “You’re way too good to me. Remind me to send you my firstborn in payment.”
“No need, short stuff. This one’s on me.”
“You’re the best.”
“That’s what all the girls who have had the indulgence of my lips say.”
“Yes,allof them do say that.” I wink at him. “Do I need to remind you that there’s only ever been one?”
“And she was the best one ever.”
Since freshman year, Wolfgang and I have been good friends even though we have different majors. We used to see each other more often in the classroom environment, but as the years have passed and our majors are now more focused, we see less of one another. However, we do try to schedule a pertinent elective together each quarter, and this term, it’s photography. When it comes to art, I highly value his opinion, and sometimes, I refer to him as my studio husband. He’s good eye-candy, too—even if he does play for the other team.
Early in our friendship, he claimed to be bi-curious, and confided in me about the social pressures he felt. So, we made out a few times as an experiment. I was his only subject. He might like to look at girls, and he enjoys their company, but the man salivates for other men.
Since our make-out sessions, he’s been dating men exclusively, and I’m positive it has nothing to do with our lip-mambo moments. I’m not that bad of a kisser, no matter how much he might tease me.
“How’s your photography series coming?” Wolfgang questions, pulling out his binder of prints. “Are you getting the shots you need?”
“I’m not so sure anymore,” I respond tentatively, unhappy with where my subject sits. “It feels like it’s missing something. Will you take a look at it for me?”
“Anything for you, darling.”
“Thanks.”
Our professor, Dr. Jensen, tromps into the room with his haphazard light-brown hair sweeping across his brows like some grungy band member. He’s not even carrying a briefcase, like most typical educators at the college level. He just has some brown paper bag with a grease stain.
Stopping at the front of the room, he writes Friday’s date in red ink on the whiteboard, circling it about a gazillion times.
“Due dates, people,” Dr. Jensen announces. He replaces the cap on the dry-erase marker and then turns to address the class further. “We will be critiquing and judging each one of your series this Friday. All prints should be cut to five by eight and matted on an eight-by-ten white board. You are required to turn in a minimum of six prints and no more than ten. Don’t forget. This will count for thirty percent of your final grade in this class.” He tosses the marker onto the empty desk where it quickly rolls across the hard surface before landing on the linoleum floor. “I’ll be coming around to see if you have any questions. Once I’ve checked in with you or if you don’t have anything you’d like to discuss, you are free to go and use the rest of the class to work on your projects.”
More than half of the class rises from their seats, collects their belongings, and exits out the door. When a professor lets a class loose early, it’s often a good excuse to head home and go back to bed. We’re responsible for our deadlines, of course, but the liberty to work when we want is something I love about this program. It allows free-flowing thoughts, creativity, and inspiration to come naturally, not forced.
“Are you staying?” Wolfgang questions me, gathering his things.
“Yeah, I want to get an opinion.” I sip my coffee. Still piping hot, it slightly burns my tongue. “I’m not feeling one hundred percent about my work.”
“There’s a good reason for that.” He leans closer, and at a lower volume, he says, “It’s because you’re an artist. Doubt is part of the process.”
“Then, I’m a super artist right now.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Yeah. It’s not sitting right with me.” I flip through the images I’ve taken over the last week. “The direction is there—I feel it—but everything I’ve attempted misses the mark.”
“It happens to all of us,” he consoles. “I’ll wait with you.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Nah, it’s all good. He can look at my stuff, too, and then we can talk shop and make sure you’re on track. You can look at my horrid work, too.”
“I love everything you do. It’s like you can’t create anything wrong.”
“Or you can stroke the hell out of my ego.”
