A lesson for art students

Number 2, 2002

A short story by Isaac Crawford

“I know that it is early in the semester, but I had hoped for more polished work at this point.” Professor Jenkins was glaring at the assembled paintings on the wall. “I do not see a single piece that I would call finished, and I certainly don’t see anything that I would want in my portfolio even if it were finished.”

Fred Williamson rolled his eyes. He didn’t want to admit that he mostly agreed with the professor, the paintings were, for the most part, hopeless. There were the typical figure studies in strange shades of green and blue, incredibly static still lifes of dorm room junk, and the inevitable landscapes. Fred’s painting was the only one that didn’t depict anything obvious. His was a swirl of various shades of color and straight lines running across the canvas. As he looked at his own work he thought, “Could be better but...”

The rest of the class didn’t seem to be paying too much attention, save one student. Samuel Pritchard was worried. His paintings didn’t look much like the meadow with which he had fallen in love. It was recognizable, and he had managed to put a fair amount of detail in considering his use of water colors, but it wasn’t what he had wanted his painting to look like. When the professor resumed the critique, Samuel reacted as if someone had just woken him out of a nap.

“Ah, our resident abstract expressionist... What insights do you have to offer us today, hmmm?” Jenkins was addressing Fred’s painting. The professor looked closely, and then took off his glasses and backed up. He squinted, and then in an exaggerated motion, turned his head to the side, eliciting a giggle from several members of the class. Fred glared at the back of the professor's head. “Mr. Williamson, your style is a little, shall we say, obtuse? Perhaps you could offer some explanation to the class to help us understand where you are going with this piece.”

It’s right in front of you asshole! Fred’s thoughts were so forceful it was a wonder no one else heard them. Why should I have to explain myself to you? With as much offhandedness as he could muster, Fred replied to Jenkins’ back, “I think that I’ll let the piece speak for itself.”

Samuel certainly didn’t understand the painting, he never understood those paintings that weren’t of something. The professor straightened up and then turned to face the class. He looked briefly at Fred and then spoke to everyone, “What are we to do when no one understands a piece? What should we do if the artist refuses to let us in on what he is thinking? It’s a difficult situation to be sure... It would be different if we had a piece such as, say, this,” Jenkins pointed to Samuel's painting,” At least we have an idea of what the artist had in mind.” Fred just scowled while Samuel broke into a smile.

Catching sight of his smile, the professor continued, “Don’t misunderstand, this landscape is far from being an effective piece, but at least I don’t have to ask what the motivation was. This,” pointing back at Fred’s painting, “is a mystery, and not a good one at that. If the artist has no intention of letting us help him, I think that there is only one thing to do.” With that, Jenkins grabbed the painting, took it off the wall, and handed it to the shocked painter. “Make sure that there is some transparency to your intentions next time, and that goes for all of you. I have yet to see why any of you were accepted into this program and if I had my way you would all be back in a fundamentals course. I was under the impression that this was an art school.”

Samuel was petrified. He couldn’t fail, he was already on thin ice with his parents. They couldn’t understand why he was wasting his time at a prestigious university studying art. It didn’t help that he couldn’t explain it, not well at least. All he could do was admit that nothing else made much sense to him, that nothing else seemed to mean anything. His honesty placated his parents for the time being, but he knew that if he brought home a bad grade, that would be it. There was no way he could afford this on his own.

“Well, what would you like to talk about?” It was an innocent enough question, but professor Jenkins was an intimidating man, especially to Samuel Pritchard. Sam was shy around most people and it was only sheer desperation that brought him into the professor’s office. “I imagine it has something to do with your paintings...”

“Yes sir, I haven’t been turning in very good work.”

“No, you haven’t.”

“Well, “Sam swallowed hard, looked up at the ceiling, at the desk, anywhere but Jenkins’ eyes, “I was hoping that you could help me.”

“Of course, why do you think I’m here? Let’s start with the obvious, you keep painting the same meadow over and over.”

“Yes sir, it really appeals to me. I don’t know why, but I feel like I should paint it...”

“I can tell... did you bring any sketches with you?” Sam opened up the wooden box he brought with him and pulled out several sheets of paper. Jenkins held the drawings at arms length and then put on his glasses. “Hmm, I can see why you were admitted, very nice use of gesture in these sketches, I wonder where that goes when you paint?”

“I don’t understand... My paintings are much more detailed than my drawings...”

“Yes, but they aren’t as good as your sketches. There is a much better feel to your drawings, more of a presence.”

“But if the paintings don’t look like the scene, I can’t show what I’m seeing.” The professor just frowned. Sam couldn’t take the stare and his eyes looked for a less imposing subject. He settled on a print of Pollack’s Number 1, 1950 that was hanging on the wall. Remembering his utter failure at the Whitney to get even a glimmer of sense out of it, he frowned as well and turned back to the professor. Jenkins was looking at him expectantly, and if Samuel hadn’t known better, approvingly.

“Professor?”

“Hmm?”

“Professor, I have an idea.”

“Yes, go on.”

“Perhaps if I worked on the titles of my pieces, people would think a little more about them. Say for instance I titled the one in your hand Number 2, 2002?”

Jenkins’ frown returned and quickly turned into a grimace. His hand came down flat on the desk with a sudden force that made both of them jump. “That is perhaps the most pretentious, conceited title I’ve ever heard! You have no right to compare your work to Pollack’s, the first time you do it in my class will be your last!” Sam recoiled in his chair as Jenkins sprang out of his and started to pace.

“I, I’m sorry...” Sam offered.

“Oh never mind!” Jenkins snapped back. Sam hung his head. It was bad enough to get killed in critique, but now... He only hoped that he could stay in the class. Looking up, he realized that Jenkins had stopped. The professor had a censorial look on his face, but it was a vague one, with an ambiguous target. The professor seemed to remember something and almost imperceptibly nodded his head.

Sighing, Jenkins sat down and addressed his student again. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have... yelled at you. Make no mistake, what you said was beyond the pale, but I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did. It’s just that you hit a nerve and I was not able to hold back my reaction.”

Sam just sat in shock, unprepared for his professor’s apology. Jenkins took this slack jawed silence as an acceptance and continued. “You are going about this all wrong, don’t you see? A title like that reeks of cleverness, and cleverness is a sure sign of a second rate artist. You are capable of much more.” Sam cocked an eyebrow, the professor continued before Sam could ask a question, “Why else do you think I am so harsh in my critiques? I’m trying to push you to what you are capable of, not just what you think you can do.”

“But I don’t know what to do.”

“My suggestion is to let the painting take over, don’t be so concerned about what it looks like.” Once again, a blank stare was all Sam could muster. With a sigh, the professor asked, “Or perhaps you’d rather talk about technique?”

Nodding gratefully, Sam practically gushed, “I was hoping for some tips, I’d like to show more detail, and maybe some different brushes could help?” Jenkins winced visibly. Catching sight of the Pollack print, something occurred to him. Without warning he asked, “What is that box you’ve brought?”

“Oh this? That’s my portable easel.”

“Do you usually keep your paintings in there?”

“Well recently yes. I’ve had just enough time to paint my meadow with the right light, then I fold up my easel, throw my paints and paintings inside and come directly to class.”

“Hmm, I see. Have you always used water colors?”

“Yes sir, at least recently... they seem to suit me well.”

Jenkins eyed the box for a moment and reached a decision. “Watercolors do not suit you at all, you need to use oils. Do you understand?”

“Yes sir! Do you think that’s been my problem?”

Jenkins rolled his eyes. “We’ll find out I’m sure.” Sam looked almost overjoyed but then Jenkins added, “Remember, you are not doing well in this class, I expect a marked improvement in your work. I will comment on your progress in tomorrow’s critique. You will put up your work no matter what you think of it. It’s the only way to learn you know.”

“Yes sir! I can hardly wait to start tomorrow when the light comes back.”

“Good, good. Now run along and get your supplies, I have some work to do.”

“Yes sir!” Sam ran out of the office, almost knocking a plant over with his easel in the process. The professor just shook his head as he heard Sam have another close call down the hallway. Jenkins turned back to the Pollack print, “I hope you can do it again...”

Fred was sitting in his studio, looking out the window and fuming. “Jesus Christ! It’s just a tube of paint, how hard can than be?” He had sent Robin out on his errand half an hour before, but it seemed to him to have been at least an hour. He distracted himself by rehashing what Jenkins had done to him last week. Working himself into a fury was becoming a habit for Fred.

The creaking of the door announced Robin’s return. “I’m back! Traffic was a mess but I got your stuff.” Fred didn’t say anything, he just stuck out his hand. She instinctively handed the tube over even as she realized the rudeness of his action. Fred glanced down and groaned at the sight of the tube.

“What?”

Fred thought to himself, She’s nice, but not too smart. “I asked for Cadmium Yellow Light, not Naples Yellow Hue..”

“Why are you being such a pain in the ass? What’s the matter with it?”

“It’s only completely wrong, I can’t use it, and I have to turn this in tomorrow.”

“Oh come on, how different can yellow be?”

“Have you ever seen a canary the same color as the sun? Or maybe a banana the same color as a lemon? There’s plenty of difference if you pay attention, and I can’t make that line this color, “pointing to the offending paint. She raised an eyebrow in question and Fred responded, “Because I don’t want it that color that’s why.”

“God, you take this too seriously. It’s just an art class, don’t kill yourself...” The thought briefly crossed Fred’s mind that more people would be interested in his stuff if he was dead, but Robin’s voice brought him back. “Anyway, you just have to turn something in, it doesn’t have to be a work of genius...”

“But I want it to be a work of genius! Why should I be happy with the same kind of crap that everyone else hands in? Shouldn’t I hold myself to a higher standard? God, I sound like that old bastard Jenkins... He’s supposed to be brilliant and all, but God, if he doesn’t stop assigning crap like this I’m gonna shoot myself... I should entitle this piece ‘Death of a Promising Artist in the Wrong Shade of Yellow.’”

She turned from him and gazed at the unfinished masterpiece. Wrinkling her forehead but not looking at him she asked, “What is it anyway?”

This was a question that had been asked by everyone that ever saw his work, and he never knew what to say. He had always admired the cleverness of the more abstract painters like Matisse, Mondrian, and Pollack, but no one ever seemed to say the same of his works. “Just leave, I have a lot of work to do and you’re not helping.” She took the iciness in his voice in stride and with a last look and shrug at the painting, she left.

If he was annoyed before, he was burning now. Fred attacked the canvas, wrong color or no. Paint splashed against paint, lines and spots appeared. Maybe she’d be happier if I did a pretty landscape? How about a sunset, or maybe some flowers? He didn’t want to admit it, but he enjoyed being angry when he painted. I’ll show Jenkins what he can do with his assignments, fuck him anyway, what does he know about what I want? He took a palette knife and whisked a big line through the middle of his canvas letting the the paint hit the floor on the down stroke.

“After all, “ he said to no one in particular, “If they’re too stupid to know expression when they see it, who am I to save them from their pointless, little lives?” He spun around and addressed an empty chair in the studio. “Jenkins, can you tell me the significance of representation without expression?” He waited, and when he got no response mocked surprise, “You mean that you can’t tell me why the landscape you loved last class is superior to my painting? I’ll tell you why you loved that one and hated mine, it’s because you don’t understand." He addressed the entire empty studio, “You see, he can get his little mind around something as mundane as a grassy meadow, but if the painting doesn’t represent something, he’s lost. I don’t suppose any of you idiots can figure out what is in front of you either, well, I guess you’ll have to wait for the critics to tell you what you missed.”

Turning his back on his audience, Fred faced the painting again. He looked startled, as if someone had interrupted him and was trying to remember what he was talking about. His expression quickly turned to one of grim determination as he muttered, “It must almost be finished...”

The weather cooperated with Samuel and he got to his spot a little early to give himself time to set up. He had bought a new canvas and a handful of Windsor and Newton paint tubes. Looking at the paint on his palette, Sam felt moved to speak to whomever wanted to listen to him in that deserted meadow. “Professor Jenkins really knows his stuff, I can already see what he’s talking about... These colors are... wow!” Looking up, he saw his light and he began to paint.

He quickly learned the joy of working the oils together to form different colors, textures, and brightnesses. He worked and worked and the image behaved itself admirably. For the first time, Sam felt as though he was putting on the canvas exactly what he wanted to. As he brought his hand up to make a dramatic swipe of the brush, he noticed his watch. “Ohmygosh! Look at the time!” He quickly gathered up his supplies, folded his easel, absentmindedly put his painting inside, and with a “SNAP” slammed the easel shut.

Sam sauntered into class, set his easel down, opened it up, and nearly fainted. He didn’t have the heart to look down at his painting because the inside lid of his easel was covered in paint. I am such an idiot! Of course it wasn’t dry! Sam stood there in horror. He looked up and saw Jenkins give him a wink and then motion towards the wall. Sam’s knees buckled. I am so dead... He had no choice, if he didn’t put anything up, he would be out of the class. Maybe he could blame this on his newness to oils? After all, watercolors don’t smear even when they’re wet. Maybe the professor would understand, maybe he wouldn’t. With his heart in his stomach, he looked down to grab the painting and stopped when he saw it. His meadow had been smooshed and slightly moved as it was against the inside of the wooden easel. The detail was gone, and there were now new color combinations around the former boundaries of the objects in the painting. It was certainly a mess, an interesting mess... but he couldn’t worry about that now, it was time to take his lumps.

Sitting through the other pictures was torture for Sam. Instinctively, he started to compare his work to the others up on the wall. All but two of the paintings were obviously of something. His and some hideous yellow thing were the only ones that were abstract. He hoped beyond hope that he wouldn’t be lumped in with the painter of the yellow one although he wouldn’t blame them if they did.

Each time Sam looked at his painting, he stayed a little longer. The blue of what was his sky still oriented the image, and the green and brown blobs that used to be trees and bushes framed the lighter green and yellow of what was his meadow. Just when he thought that he was getting the hang of the image, he was distracted by a sound behind him. It was Fred getting into his usual fringe seat, slouching provocatively.

“Now this is a departure.” Sam whirled around in horror to see that Jenkins had started on his painting. Gripping the seat of his chair with both hands, Sam prepared for the worst. “Who did this? Anyone?” Sam couldn’t speak, he knew he was watching his last critique. “Very well, an anonymous work... that will make it more difficult to grade of course, but perhaps the artist can identify themselves to me later on. Very evocative, don’t you think?” All of the students that Sam could see nodded their heads. Sam blanched. I must be hallucinating, everyone is agreeing with him... He watched as Jenkins leaned in close to his painting. Here it is, my number’s up.

“Well, I don’t really understand this brush technique, but I will say that if the artist must use oils, they should dry them before putting their work on display, wet implies, at best, poor planning and certainly leaves one with a sense of incompleteness.” I knew it couldn’t last, I’m in real... wait a sec, he knew they wouldn’t be dry when he told me to use them... “Still...” Sam’s mind raced during the pause. “Hmm... perhaps using oils was a good choice, the colors used and their blending really adds to the feel.

Jenkins then tuned to the class. Sam knew that the professor was looking right at him and his blood froze when Jenkins frowned. “I have to say this is a very successful painting. Can anyone tell me why?”

Sam was now holding onto his seat so hard that his hands hurt. He started to lean over because of the pain but he couldn’t let go for fear of what his hands might do. A voice from behind caught him off guard. It was Fred.

“It works because it’s unreal. It’s just colors but the painter makes you think it’s a landscape.”

“Ah Mr. Williamson, what a surprise, you have an opinion to offer.” Sam smiled despite himself, the tension had to come out some way. “You have made an interesting comment, but you are quite mistaken. Playing tricks on the eye does not an artwork make. Really, if you think about it, all paintings are just blobs of paint. No, like all great art, it is pure representation.”

Fred had been on the outskirts of the critique as usual but this last statement made him reel. He immediately sat up. How can he say that? What about Mondrian? What about Matisse? What about Klimpt? “What about Pollack? He never represented anything in his best paintings! Are you going to tell me that this painting is better than any of his?”

The death grip Sam had on the chair was the only thing keeping him from falling over. Great art? Representation? I don’t even understand it! It isn’t anything close to what I saw! Sam didn’t dare look up. He remembered the last time he compared his work to Pollack’s and he just assumed not get in the way of it again.

The professor took off his glasses quickly and pursed his lips before speaking. “Be very careful Mr. Williamson. First of all, I said ‘Like all great art’, not that this is a great work, let’s stay on our toes shall we? Second of all, I don’t think that any of us would continue painting if I constantly compared our works with Mr. Pollack’s. Last, and most importantly, if you fail to see the concreteness of Pollack’s work, you have never really experienced them at all. When you look at one of his works, say Number 1, 1950...”

Fred was livid. He knew all of Pollack’s works, knew every stroke. He preferred the other title of that work. “Lavender Mist?”

“The same. As I was saying, when you look at that work, what do you see? Do you see paint spatters, tape trails, and drizzles?”

Fred seemed to be thinking Sam’s thoughts out loud. “Of course, what else is there to see?”

“Oh dear, now I see why your paintings look the way they do...”

“And what does that mean?”

Sam began to wonder if it was wise to sit between these two. The professor answered Fed’s question with one of his own. “I don’t suppose you know that I knew Jack Pollack and painted with him, do you?” Sam looked up quickly and made eye contact with Jenkins and groaned internally. Oh God, no wonder he blew up at me... He must despise me now... Surprisingly, Jenkins showed no reaction to the eye contact.

Fred looked as if he had walked into a wall. Him? With Pollack?

The professor continued. “The primary thing that I learned from him is how important representation is. His paintings are not just, as you suggest, pure expression, they are also pure representation. He once told me that by painting, we were participating in an act of creation. Of course most of his took longer than seven days...” Jenkins was now smiling at Sam. Sam looked at the professor as if he were growing horns. Jenkins sighed and turned back towards the painting. “Part of the reason for that was the occurrence of happy accidents. Things wouldn’t turn out exactly as he planned, but circumstances demanded him to go on. Samuel's hands released their death grip on the chair with a sudden thought. He set me up! How did he know?

“Too many works are arbitrary, mere excuses for the artist to express something that is near and dear to them, usually it ends up being only themselves. Have you ever wondered why Pollack spent months making a painting just to fool the eyes with false depth and color interplay?”

Fred was sitting quite a bit straighter than he had been, as if he might be graded on his posture. “No.”

Sam ducked again as he saw Jenkins’ anger rise. “Any fool can do those things... and in a lot shorter time I might add. No, he didn’t spend his life trying to be clever,” Both Sam and Fred winced, but for different reasons, “He just did what he had to do.”

Samuel Pritchard sat up and looked back at his professor. Something had clicked, but he wasn’t sure what it was. Fred was rubbing his temple, looking as though he had been hit with something.

Jenkins was now staring into space. “He was given a glimpse of something, something that made so much sense, something that seemed so right that he had to devote his life to it. Jenkins looked over his shoulder towards the class. “The trick of course was that he didn’t completely understand it and the only way he could communicate this glimpse was by representing it.”

Transfixed, Sam watched Jenkins turn fully to face the class. “This is the basis of all art, and it is what separates people Like Jack Pollack from everyone else. He was always able to remember the important thing in his work, and it wasn’t Jackson Pollack you can be sure. He told me to remember that if you make a painting about yourself, no one will care. But if you make a painting about not only everyone, but everything, then people have to care.” The professor brought his gaze back from wherever it had been and looked directly at Sam. All Sam could do was nod, something had been explained and it was much more important than what brushes to use. Fred could only stare at the floor in front of himself, letting the professor’s words sink in.

With a weighty sigh, Jenkins turned back to the paintings and muttered under his breath, “Thanks Jack... again...”