More Than Water (33 page)

“I will,” Grayson, the small-framed guy with bleach-blond hair, states.

“Brave of you.” Professor Turner pivots in Grayson’s direction. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Wolfgang, Tawnya, and I corral toward our respective projects while our teacher interrogates Grayson about his work—a mixed media piece comprised of photographs and metal. Bold and sure, Grayson presents his ideas on industrial society over the next few minutes.

My palms sweat.

I fidget.

The whole process is nerve-racking, and I’m beginning to wish that I’d presented first instead of my classmate because anticipation sucks.

After some dialogue, Professor Turner shakes Grayson’s hand, congratulating him on excellent work, and welcomes him to be a part of his gallery show in a week. He then steps toward Tawnya’s project without any announcement.

It’s immediately apparent that our professor is not impressed with her work—a display of paper airplanes to represent the transient nature of human life. I overhear words like
simplistic
and
underwhelming
, and my anxiety intensifies. After a few short minutes and little conversation, the professor tells Tawnya that her work is passable, but he doesn’t have a spot for her in the gallery show at this time.

Leaving Tawnya with unshed tears, Professor Turner continues down the line and pauses in front of my work.

“Okay, EJ,” he says, observing my sculpture full of lines and color. “Explain to me what you’ve got here.”

I swallow and then begin to present my work as confidently as possible. “This is a representation of man as science.”

He rubs the scruff on his chin. “Go on.”

“Humans are all made up of the same substances, a balance of elements and molecules, crafted together in a similar pattern. In some ways, the human race is nothing more than a series of clones.”

He steps closer to my work.

“Chemically,” I continue, “we’re all the same, but there’s an aspect of each individual that can’t be quantified. It can only be qualified. As humans, we’re scientifically similar, but perspective is what makes us unique. That is what I’m exploring here. The perception of man’s individuality and likeness to each other and how, essentially, they’re rooted from the same source.”

“And this is something that interests you?” He scrutinizes my work. “Something you have a passion for?”

“I think we all have a desire to know what makes us what and who we are, and I’m no different.”

“Is that all?” His head tilts.

A cold sweat erupts at the base of my neck. “It is. That, and what you see before you.”

“Okay then.”

Professor Turner silently cocks his head from side to side. He steps even closer to my piece and then further away, looking at it with one eye open and then both. The prolonged lack of words streaming across the space of the ticking minutes builds a considerable doubt within me.

“I’m at an impasse, Ms. Cunning,” Professor Turner finally announces, still focused on my piece.

“How so?” My voice shakes.
Fuck.

“Technically, the work is very strong. Your brushstrokes and use of color are extremely compelling. Your message is undoubtedly clear, and it’s definitely passable work.”

“Thank you.”

He nods.

“But,” I breathe, “it’s not good enough for the show, is it?”

“You see, this is the conundrum, EJ.” He circles to face me. “Your work is definitely good, good enough to show, but…”

“But.” I seal my lids shut. “But is never good.”

“I’m sorry, but it doesn’t move me in the way it should, and I tend to follow my instincts on these things.” He observes my work once again. “It’s a pity, too, because the composition is so close.”

My world comes crashing down. “I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

“You haven’t disappointed me. You just haven’t convinced me.”

“Of what?” I question, always the pupil.

“That it means something…or rather, that it answers any questions.”

“But isn’t that the point?” I stress, calling forth one of the many lessons I’ve learned over the years. “Not necessarily to find the answers yet to ask the questions?”

“True.”

“And have I failed at that?” I debate, unable to submit to defeat. It’s not in my blood.

“No, you haven’t.”

“But it’s still not good enough for your gallery show?”

“No.” He exhales audibly. Staring at the colorful bust, he cocks his head in thought.

We’re all silent.

Finally, he turns to me and says, “See me after class.”

“Sure.”

“You’ve passed, in case you were wondering.”

“Thank you.”

Professor Turner then moves down the line of students, focusing on the final piece presented by Wolfgang.

My friend has one of the oddest and most unique works I’ve ever seen. His depiction on violence in society is shown using real dyed locks of hair tightly braided, scattered, and strategically placed across a sticky-looking canvas that drips with hues of bliss and blood, all at once. It’s weird and amazing.

The two men discuss the project at length. It’s clear as day that our teacher is in awe of Wolfgang’s strange and intriguing work. Quickly, I gather that my friend will earn a spot in the coveted show. The professor can’t stop boasting and asking questions. He’s come alive in front of the piece. He’s obviously moved.

When their laughter and excitement dies down, the professor shakes Wolfgang’s hand and welcomes him to the show. The invitation is of no surprise to me or anyone else in the room. Wolfgang has always excelled in the art arena.

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.”

I peruse the instructions, and my blood begins to loudly echo each pump from my heart into my ears.

“The show is in one week,” Professor Turner continues. “If you can improve on your work in that time and illustrate more passion, I’d be willing to grant you a spot. You have to prove it though.”

“A new piece?”

“If you like. Or work from what you already have.”

“That’s not a lot of time.”

“Are you not interested?” He turns over his palm, willing to take back his offer.

“No, I am,” I state quickly, inching the paper closer to my body.

“I thought you might be.” He rises from his chair. “Just email me when you are ready for me to have a look at what you’ve got. I’ll be around over the break.”

“Thanks,” I utter in a tiny state of shock. “Will do.”

“Good luck, EJ.” The professor picks up his briefcase and exits the classroom.

A few moments later, Wolfgang joins me in the classroom. “What was that all about?”

“He’s giving me a second chance,” I state, showing him the paper identical to his own.

“So, you get to be a part of the show?”

“I don’t know yet. I need to re-present to him first.”

“A new project?”

“Yeah. I believe so.”

“The show’s in less than a week,” he states the obvious with his voice rising an octave. “Girl, you are going to be busy.”

“Tell me about it…and I’m clueless as to what I’m going to do.”

“It’ll come to you. Just give it time.”

“I really don’t have much of that,” I grumble.

“True.” He rubs the top of his shaved head. “Damn, let me know if you need help.”

Adjusting my bag over my shoulder, I say, “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

“C’mon. Let’s get out of here, so we can talk about what you’re going to do,” he says, turning on his heel and leading me to the door. “Coffee will help. Coffee is always the answer.”

“Is that right, Caffeine Buddha?”

“It never steers me wrong.”

We leave the classroom, walk down the art building’s empty hall, and exit into the warm spring air toward the campus cafe that’s only two buildings away. The sun is shining bright, and the tulips are in bloom, creating a rainbow of hope across the verdant green grass.

As Wolfgang and I quietly walk together, I contemplate what could be done to prove my talent to Professor Turner, but I come up with nothing. I need to impress him, but my mind is drawing a blank.

“Don’t think about it too much,” Wolfgang says when enough silence has passed.

“That’s it?” I sass. “That’s all you’ve got? Don’t think?”

“You got it.”

“Do you have any other brilliant advice?”

“Be true to yourself,” Wolfgang announces with mock theatrics. “Love thyself. And always practice safe sex.”

I laugh. “Thanks, oh wise one.”

“Anytime.”

About halfway to the cafe, my phone rings out of the blue with my father’s ringtone. He rarely calls.

“Let me get this,” I tell Wolfgang. We pause, and I fish out my cell to answer it quickly. “Hey, Daddy,” I greet him, adjusting the weight of my bag.

“Afternoon, E,” he replies kind and conversationally. “How are you doing?”

“Well. Thank you.”

“Good. I hope exams have gone as expected?”

“Yes, for the most part.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” He harrumphs. “I was calling because I have a favor to ask.”

“What is it?”

“How would you feel about joining your mother and me for brunch tomorrow? We’ll be in town.”

It’s the end of my shift, and everyone has left the library, except for Foster and me. He’s currently downstairs, locking up for the evening, while I continue the task of organizing the stacks.

Today’s final critique with Professor Turner was a hard hit and somewhat of a reality check. I’m likely taking the initial rejection a little too much to heart, but for the first time, I’m questioning whether art is really a worthwhile pursuit. Life is nothing but obstacles to overcome, and I’m no stranger to being spurned, but I’m gutted by today’s events. Not to mention, after brainstorming with Wolfgang over coffee for an hour, I’m still no closer to creating a presentable piece for Professor Turner. I despise the growing doubt. It’s a foreign feeling and not welcomed. I wish it to leave.