AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Chapter 11
Jack
As I walk home fromthe art class, a torrent of emotions, words, and ideas are swirling around in my head. Am I crazy for doing this? I’m not even anartist, certainly not the way everyone in that class would consider.
My mind goes over everything a million times, replaying the whole scenario over and over like a broken record player. It’s a surreal experience sketching a naked woman. It feels both forbidden and exhilarating. I was behind her, with a spectacular view of her back, and I would be lying if I didn’t feel slightly voyeuristic. But also, what a rush.
By the time I arrive home, my fingers are itching to open up my art supplies—I feel absolutely compelled to paint again. To pick a brush, a pastel, or even a pencil, anything, to give escape to the pictures and thoughts overflowing in my head.
Once home, I get out a blank canvas and prop it up on the easel. I lay out some acrylic paints and let the images in my head unwind themselves into something recognisable. I imagine my painting as but a scene in a longer story. My protagonist, an artist, is virile and clever. He stands with his back to us, the audience, looking into the distant clouds, grey sky and moorland dominating the landscape.
The charcoal sketch of the woman from the art class is pinned up on the wall behind the easel. Every time I feel I need an extra boost of inspiration I glance at it and when I do I’m transported back into the room with her again. There is something about her, this woman I’ve drawn. Something I see but do not understand. She sits with her back turned to me, her right shoulder slightly higher than the other, haughty and nonchalant at the same time. There is something so familiar about that woman in charcoal, but whatever it is, it’s evading me.
As I stand back from the canvas I’ve just painted, I can see how my feelings of longing have been projected into the work in front of me. The man in my painting stands there uncertain, looking for something out of the ordinary. Something rare and precious. Something he wouldn’t be able to find anywhere else in all of England. He stands alone on the moorland looking for a woman who is willing to match his own absurd sense of lurid adventure.
He’s looking for a woman who enjoys the game just as much as he does.
‘Good luck with that, mate,’ I mutter to myself and the forlorn canvas, tossing the paintbrushes aside.
––––––––
THE NEXT MORNING, Ifeel revitalised. I walk through the town and arrive at work early.
But as soon as I set foot on the campus I can feel the creativity and excitement getting sucked out of me, as though the automatic sensor doors hoover up any sort of ambition and motivation I might have had. As I walk towards my office, I think about how much universities have changed since I first started. They used to be places of learning and excellence. At least, it used to be that way for me when I first set out.
Now as a professor, I struggle to see the reason why anyone would ever want to become an academic in the first place. Maybe it’s just me. Bruno and Dom love their jobs. Dalton and Gerik never seem to be in their offices and they’re happy. I couldn’t imagine Anders doing anything but academia. But for me, the constant meetings, dealing with difficult colleagues and students, the incessant push for more talks, more papers, more everything—it’s a monumental drain. There’s the grant money we are expected to bring in, the world-class papers we’re expected to publish. Bonus points if your work has real world applications —because it’s simply not good enough just to publish anymore. How the fuck do I find a real-world application for a conceptual analysis of late Victorian literature? Not to mention, the nepotism makes me sick. I’ve never taken part in that aspect of academia and I never will. I want my work to be recognised for what it is, not because I treated a buddy of mine, who now happens to be the editor of a prestigious journal, to a drink and we reminisced over our good old days at an elite university.
Universities are businesses as much as they are places of learning. As a student, you don’t always sense that. But as a professor, I am reminded of it every single day.
‘Good morning, Professor Stanhope,’ one of the tea ladies smiles up at me as she prepares the cups and trays for the day.
‘Good morning, Diane. Another lovely day,’ I smile back at her.
She snorts and laughs, as she always does, because in the North East of England, it’s nearly always rainy, grey, or windy at this time of year. It’s not too often you can sayIt’s a lovely dayand actually mean it.
I barely have time to go through a few emails when there’s a knock at my door.
‘Morning, Jack, you alright?’ It’s Padraig, another colleague of mine in the English Department. Sometimes we go for a pint after work. He’s one of the ones I can actually stand to be around. ‘Board of studies this afternoon.’
Son of a...I’d nearly forgotten. So much for getting any of my own work done today. Board of studies is this three-hour-long meeting where everyone shows up ready to do battle. Most of it is passive-aggressive banter, insults bandied about as seemingly-harmless comments, questions or recommendations. That being said, I’ve seen a few shouting matches over the years. The point is, you never know what you’re going to be in for, and you never know quite how long it’s going to last.
‘Thanks for that. To be fair, you shouldn’t have reminded me. At least I could have honestly said I had completely forgotten.’
‘Ah now where’s the fun in that? I heard that Jacob’s got a bee in his bonnet about the new head of department selection process so should make for an interesting afternoon.’
‘I think you mean alongafternoon. There should be some sort of intermission where half of us can just leave midway through.’
‘Attending endless board meetings is just one of the perks of being a professor at thisstellar, top-notch, high-techinstitution of higher education.’ Padraig’s Irish accent rises in pitch with each word he stresses. ‘I see they still haven’t sorted out the computers in the write-up room.’
‘It’s only two months ago I asked for that,’ my voice drips with sarcasm.
‘Like I said,high-tech, top notch,’ Padraig winks. ‘Right, I’m supposed to be meeting a student right about now so I’ll see you this afternoon.’
‘Looking forward to it...’
‘Aren’t we all!’ he shouts back at me from the corridor.
