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Dylan led the class through a detailed analysis of the painting and did a surprisingly good job. As he spoke, Colleen tried to place herself in Dylan’s shoes and couldn’t. Looking at this small, stone cottage nestled in a clearing with a story book garden, and even a picket fence, was voyeuristic to her. Whatever was going on in that home was none of her business. In fact, the scene unsettled her because it was too perfect.
“I guess the thing I love most about this painting is that the artist has created a safe place for me. After a tough day, I don’t want to come home to an abstract painting and try to figure out what the artist is trying to tell me. Life is hard sometimes. Kinkade helps me forget how painful the world can be, even if it’s only for a little bit.” Dylan folded his notes. “Anyway. That’s it. Thanks.” He pushed away from the podium.
The classroom broke out into enthusiastic applause.
It could have been worse. He could have included some of the more critical things she had said in class. “Thank you, Dylan. That was a great presentation.”
After the final student concluded their presentation, Colleen returned to the podium. “Those were all fantastic. I loved seeing the diversity of artists and mediums. Let’s take a short break and then we’ll have the review for the final exam.”
The students rushed for the exit.
She called out, “Be back in fifteen minutes.”
Robert made his way down to the front. She busied herself pulling the final review sheets from her computer bag.
“Good morning, Colleen.” Robert’s voice dripped with phony charm.
“Hi, Robert. I wish you’d come last week. We had a lively discussion on Judy Chicago’s ‘Dinner Party.’ I asked the students who they would include in an updated feminist version of—”
“I’m sorry I missed it,” he said, cutting her off. “We must be sure to include more feminism in the art history program.” His tone, as usual, was dismissive. He had no intention of doing any such thing.
Colleen tried to calm her irritation. Robert Leventis was a traditional fifty-something art historian. His lectures were as dull as he was; telling the same boring lectures about works of art without considering any new research.
“What can I do for you?” Colleen asked with as much enthusiasm as she could muster.
“I’d like to speak with you in my office when you’re done here. It won’t take long.”
His curt tone unsettled her. If what he had to say wouldn’t take long, he would have told her right now. A private conversation in his office suggested bad news. “Yes, of course. I’ll be there right after class.”
“See you soon.” He rapped his knuckles twice on the podium and left.
****
Colleen knocked on Robert’s office door. “Come in,” he called out.
“Hi,” Colleen greeted him, stepping inside. She waited for him to reply, but he never looked up from clicking away on his keyboard. It was rude to be ignored, but he was her superior and she was at the bottom of the academic food chain, so she had no choice but to ride it out. It wouldn’t always be like this.
“Take a seat,” Robert said, lifting a stack of papers from a spare chair.
As Colleen got settled, her eyes wandered over Robert’s faded posters of the Parthenon and Colosseum. Robert Leventis was a classicist through and through. He disliked contemporary art in any form. She had no idea when he received his Ph.D., but she was pretty sure he stopped learning anything new on the same day.
She spotted a photo of him and his family on what looked like an island in the Aegean and thought of Justin and Lucy on Santorini. She would love to go there one day, take a deep breath, and relax for a change.
“You’ve worked here for—” he said, fumbling through another stack of papers and whistling some unknown tune with a slight vibrato. She was mesmerized by the quivering tips of his mustache around his pursed lips.
“Four years,” she answered, pulling her attention away from his mustache.
“Yes.” He pulled out a single sheet of paper and scanned the contents. “You’ve done well. You’ve participated on a few important committees, your colleagues enjoy working with you, and your student evaluations have always been exemplary.” He tossed the paper on top of his pile of papers and looked up at her.
There was a ‘but’ coming, she was sure of it.
“Unfortunately, the budget cuts have been brutal.” Robert let out a world-weary sigh. “The dean is slashing classes left and right. I’m sorry, but because you’re an adjunct instructor, your classes have been given to one of the tenured faculty.”
“I see,” Colleen said, trying to calm her racing heartbeat.
“If the budget improves and space is available, I would consider having you return in the spring, but I have to be honest with you.” He leaned back in his fancy leather swivel chair. “I’m concerned that you deviated from the course curriculum. Whatever possessed you to include a kitsch painter such as Thomas Kinkade in your course?” His tone was full of contempt.
“To be honest, I’ve never been a fan of Kinkade. His paintings are tacky and simplistic.” She despised the defensiveness in her own voice. “But he’s a popular artist and I thought it would be fun to include an artist my students might be familiar with.”
