A/N: Hello, everyone! I'm bringing this over from my AO3 account and with the intent of continuing it.
If anyone sees any faults with my sociology or art, please point them out to me.
If anyone would like to have a sociology or art discussion with me, please don't hesitate to contact me.
If anyone would like to beta anything, please tell me.
If anyone is miffed at how short this chapter is, please expect longer ones after this.
And if anyone has any commentary on how I can improve, please submit a review.
Thank you, and we're off!
VVVVV
"Erving Goffman adapted the concept of dramaturgy from theater, reappropriating it for use in sociology."
A mass of young adults in the room, some of which idly clicking their pens, others dozing lightly from the ungodly hour, others somehow managing to pay attention despite sleep tugging at their focus. Standing in front of an illuminated presentation was a man, most likely not terribly older than his pupils before him.
"In a nutshell, seeing as we have only a few minutes left of class, Goffman likened human social interaction to a play. Today we'll only take a brief look at a crucial part of the performance, the stage, and then we'll cover more on Wednesday. For our purposes today, we'll assume that a professor is a performer and a student is an audience member."
His vivid blue eyes flicked from groggy greys to alert browns. A marker danced between his fingers as his mouth moved to articulate each sound, each word, each sentence with utmost precision and clarity. The professor took a step forward from his place toward the class, a habit he picked up early the year before as he lectured. He absentmindedly noted that it would fit with his next string of sentences.
"First we'll start with the front stage and, as with almost any spectacle, the audience watches as the actors perform, but I'm fairly certain this isn't new earth-shattering news to you. Now we'll take that and translate it over to sociology. For example, I am Alexander Lightwood and, in this classroom setting, my role is professor. I am fulfilling this role by instructing you, professionality, and even by dressing nicely. How would you, as the audience, perceive me if I came dressed in sweatpants and a random t-shirt? Perhaps if it appeared as if I didn't attempt to groom myself either?"
A few amused expressions were beckoned forth from the invoked image, especially among those who were familiar with the professor and were still conscious.
"Perhaps if I didn't teach the class or even pushed the professor-student boundaries?"
More smirks arose from the students.
Another step back toward the front of the room. Lightwood pushed a renegade raven lock of hair back from his forehead, yet to no avail; it nearly instantly fell back into place. He wouldn't attempt again to tame it until later, most likely after the class. There were times to fight with his hair, and there were other times when it was best to leave the battle be; it was the opportune time for the latter.
"Back stage is with the absence of any such audience. I wouldn't feel pressured to fulfill any such roles such as professor, and you could go so far as to say that I could step out of that role of professor along with, say, Bane. I could discuss with him matters I couldn't with you present, perhaps even some actions."
Lightwood redistributed his weight in the slightest, nimble fingers still toyed with the marker trapped in them. There was the slightest of hesitation in his voice, although none of the students seemed to take notice.
"Or I could perhaps be in my office without students such as yourselves, without the audience. Once one of you, or even a someone from another class, steps into my office to speak to me, I must once again don the role of professor and take the front stage."
The oceanic eyes crashed over to the clock, absorbing the time in little time. "It seems as though the few minutes passed faster than I thought they would. Don't forget your reading for Wednesday and have a great day. If you have any questions, please feel free to come see me."
"Alexander Lightwood, don't make me use this paint on you," threatened a technicolor and splattered man, bobbing a long brush in the direction of his companion. "I will and you know it."
Blues rose to meet gold-flecked greens, the latter of which settling them with almost a chastising tone. Alec's gaze faltered for just long enough of a moment to sweep once again over the man not too far away. Skillfully tousled and spiked hair, eyes outlined surprisingly scantily that day, and a shirt that somehow possessed more of the color wheel than the man's palette, a pair of pants that matched shockingly well with the rest of the ensemble. And, even with the busy colors and hint of sparkle, the spots of paint seemed all too natural on him.
"Magnus, I have enough color, and if you so much as take a step near me with that brush, I will come at you with my carefully constructed argument. We both know how that ends."
They both did, which prompted Magnus to smirk. The poor sociology professor would likely manage to stream a few sentences together, the waters and words growing rougher as the kaleidoscopic artist approached. That prodded Magnus to take those few strides over.
And they both knew what would subsequently happen.
"We should get home, Magnus. It's getting late."
"Seriously, Alec, I don't know how you haven't either come or been forced out yet."
Then again, Alec, everyone knows.