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The first week back to school has gone as expected—full of syllabi, reading lists, assignments, meetings, and picking up various supplies. Not to mention, it’s been filled with boring speeches and lectures from professors with a side of homework. I’ve already gone through the chore of checking in with my advisor in regard to my thesis and confirming that I’m on track to graduate come spring. Everything is set and in motion.
Walking into my art theory class, I’m overcome with a sense of pride. This is an upper-level class, usually only taken by fine art majors, and I worked my way here by following an aggressive track since my freshman year. It’s not typical for an art minor and not unheard of either, but it’s something I aspired to accomplish.
I spy Wolfgang seated at the back table, going through his phone while waiting for the professor to arrive. Meandering through the maze of workspaces and students, I take a seat next to him, setting my bag at my feet.
“Well, well, well,” Wolfgang says, shoving his phone into his pocket. “I was starting to wonder if you were alive.”
“What are you talking about?” I remove the beanie hat from my head and shake out my recently cinnamon-tinted locks. “I texted you last night, confirming that we were in the same class.”
“Yeah, after I haven’t heard from you for almost two weeks.”
“It was Christmas break.”
“So? A guy needs to know if his muse is breathing or not.”
“Now, I’m your muse?” I shrug out of my jacket.
“I might have been inspired by you in the past. It’s some of my best work.”
“Of course it is. Nothing but phenomenal things comes from me. You are lucky to have a goddess like me in your presence.”
“And there she is.” He reaches toward his feet, bringing up a cardboard carrier with two coffee drinks. Pulling the smaller cup from the pairing, he places it in front of me and says, “Small nonfat latte.”
My hands circle around the drink. “You really are the best.”
“That’s what they all say.”
A tall man with lemon hair falling to his shoulders enters the room with false panache, banging his shin on the small garbage can near the door. All the students grow silent as the infamous Professor Turner takes his place at the front of the room, muttering a few obscenities under his breath.
The man is a genius in his own right, having consulted on and been commissioned for numerous sculptures on campus, in the city, and worldwide. He’s known for his eccentric attitude and lifestyle full of women, men, and lively parties. One thing he’s also known for is pushing students to their breaking points, actually causing a few in the past to have episodes of madness. The man finds boundaries and wants to break them.
He frightens, intrigues, and inspires me, all at once. I hope to learn a great deal while in his classroom.
“Good afternoon, people,” Professor Turner addresses the class, shuffling through his bag and pulling out a stack of papers. He hands them to a student sitting at the table nearest him and then begins to pace the room as a copy of the syllabus is divvied up to each person.
Pausing at the front of the room, he shoves his hands in his front denim pockets and then leers at each and every one of us. He then speaks, “For those of you who don’t know, I’m Professor Turner. You can see my credentials and accolades as well as how you can reach me on the paper before you. If you’re in this class, congratulations. This is your moment of glory as an artist. Savor it because this is nothing like the real world where you will learn what it feels like to starve and have people spit on your work and your spirit. This is the pretty before the ugly. Don’t get used to it.”
He steps between the tables, making his way down the middle of the classroom toward the back of the room. “In this class, my job is not only to make you reach beyond your comfort zones, but to also teach you how to rise from rejection and objection. If you don’t think you can handle being called a peon and a moron on a daily basis, I suggest you leave now.”
The professor pivots on his heel, and every student follows his path as he slowly proceeds to the front of the class.
“I will be both objective and subjective in my critiques, and I promise, I won’t be nice. If you need flowers and unicorns, the preschool is down the street. Pack your teddy bears for the trip.”
Turning to the group of attentive students, he spreads his arms wide with an all-knowing schmuckish grin playing across his face. “So, are you in, or are you out?”
The classroom becomes silent, and I swear, dust motes can be heard as they float around us.
“Well?” Professor Turner probes everyone. “You had better answer. Without conviction, your work is nothing.”
“In,” a few students mutter near the center of the room.
“That was pathetic.”
“In!” the entire class, myself included, says with confidence.
He shakes his head, pacing toward the window. “You all need to work on your decision-making skills—pronto. Growing a few balls would help, too. This is going to be a long quarter. The world is becoming soft.”
Leaning his backside on the register under the window, he crosses his arms over his chest, letting an uneasy silence rain down, like a black cloud of time ticking away with every pump of our beating hearts. We all hold still, waiting for a bomb to go off, only to be detonated by the yellow-haired man in control of our artistic destinies.
