This professor really had no clue how boring he was. Talking about 'structure' and 'poise' as if he were Leonardo himself. Connie rolled her eyes. She was so happy to almost be done with this class. Having taken summer classes, this would be her final semester of 'art lessons'. She scoffed at the thought; That you could teach art. Technique, sure. But not the passion and vision that someone has in their mind. Someone like Monet, Van Gough, even lesser known artists like Ian Francis and Yoskay Yamamoto. They had passion, they had vision, and they are great artists. Not some failed art student who had to resort to trying to teach the very subject he was defeated by decades ago.
She rested her head in her hand and closed her eyes for just a moment to let her mind go blank, back to a better time when she saw the sun, had plenty of sleep, and fun adventures with Steven. Oh... Steven.
Thinking about him grasped her heart and made her stomach ache. She missed him so much. The voicemails, the texts she never sent, the missed calls from him. Guilt gripped her and she felt like she was going to be sick. As much as she missed him, she literally had no time. She had classes from 8:00am to 7:00pm with maybe an hour around 1:00pm to get in a meal. Then she had to get back to her dorm room, get her homework done for all the classes she was taking, fit in another meal, shower, do whatever stupid chore had been piling up, and do all of that before getting into bed at midnight to get maybe seven hours of sleep before doing it all over again. She hadn't meant to cut off contact, time just slipped by. Days became weeks. Weeks became months and before she knew it, it was a whole new semester.
She groaned softly and opened her eyes, trying to pay attention rather than deal with the anxiety/depression/guilt trip that was the package of missing Steven. Her groan caught the attention of the professor and he asked a question and called on her. She hesitated.
"It depends on the subject's light sources and angles and or curves of the subject."
"That's correct, for realism." He said with a condescending tone.
"It only applies to realism, sir." She said without panic of backlash or a hint of mirroring patronization. The class seemed to stop and stare at the invisible war between Connie and her professor. She collected her things and walked toward the door, grabbing her final assignment sheet off the desk.
"Goodbye." She said and left. Outside the building, the air had that smell of crisp snow but there were no clouds in sight. Just a star or so peeking through the light pollution the city provided. She shuddered in her sweater and headed towards her dorm, her watch reading that of about 7:45. She wasn't really concerned with leaving class early and how it would affect her grade.
Her dorm room was small but clean and warm. She let her supplies and laptop slide onto her bed as she sank into her chair, laying the assignment sheet on her desk. It was the outline for her final. The piece that will cement her grade into place forever. And it was as vague as could be.
The top said 'Subject: Your Heart', and the description was so short and indistinct it left room for creativity and also laziness. The particulars read 'Make a piece about your heart. Make your style a clear choice and be able to present it to the class on November 18. Your oral presentation must be at least 7 minutes'.
"My heart?" She repeated out loud and tossed the sheet down. The paper swayed back and forth before landing face down, unyielding to give the satisfying thud she wanted. She crossed her arms.
"What does that even mean? Does he want my literal heart? Like an anatomical piece? Or..." She looked around her room and her imagination bloomed into shades of Lapis water wings and rose petals on rivers. Sword fighting ballerinas and small titans. A person made up of more than just brains and brawn. That's when it hit her. That was her heart. She smiled and pulled out her water colors and went to work.
She outlined snow around a frozen lake.
"Use the sleeves of my sweater, let's have an adventure. Head in the clouds but my gravity's centered. " She sang softly.
The lake had anonymous skaters and bystanders at one side, but the focus was on the closer left side, where a green bush was in full bloom of large pink roses, defying the season.
"One love, one house. Just us, you'll find out."
Around the bush the snow melted and grass was prevalent and the lake was like spring on that shore.
"'Cause it's too cold for you here, so let me hold both your hands in the holes of my sweater."
She painted in light blue a star where the edge of the snow was, to mimic someone drawing in the snow.
"I miss the beach, yet here I stand. In Cambridge City with the snow to my hands."
She added the palest blue wings to a bystander and a soft brown square around another's head.
"One love, two mouths. One love, one house." She blushed but continued to paint a flexible skater out on the ice with a graceful stance and another smaller person trying her best.
"So let me hold both your hands in the holes of my sweater."
She finished and was happy with the outcome. She let her chores wait and skipped supper, getting herself to bed to allow for some well deserved rest.
The next morning was brutal. It was discourse after discourse about finals. She still had two weeks left of school before winter break and she just had to keep it together. As she got her assignments she powered through her finals early, focusing on one each day. For some of her classes, this was actually her last semester, just like her art classes. She really pushed herself this summer and it was all about to pay off.
The next week was a blur. She was pumping out theses like she was a machine. Each was impeccable, but lacking the tender care her art final had.
After getting everything else out of the way, her final class was finally here. November 18. She walked into the class with her final in a sealed tube and sat quietly. When it was her turn she stood, grabbed an easel and two clips to keep the piece displayed temporarily. She cleared her throat and looked to her class.
"To begin, being assigned a mandatory seven minute speech about our piece is absolutely ridiculous unless you want to hear my entire life story. It's a harsh restriction on a subject that is anything but restrictive. So you can time this, but I prefer quality over quantity." She paused for effect and spotted a scowl on her professor's face. It pleased her, but she didn't show it. She stayed polite.
"This is a landscape piece in watercolor, which seems simple enough but it's also a conceptual piece. This frozen field is where I am now. I'm stuck like the grass until spring. The lake is, in a sense, a playground for my mind to fall back on when I am too overwhelmed. The people playing in the snow and skating on the ice are the people I left behind and the people who matter to me."
"What's with the spring on the other side?" A student asked. She blushed.
"That's my heart. The rose bush is where my heart is, and my heart is always warm and new when this bush holds my heart for me. It's never frozen, it's never still, it's never barren. My heart is full of life and love with this bush and everything around us seems to melt into spring with us. You can't see my heart without seeing a picture of my mind so I call this piece 'The Rebellious Spring'."
A few students clapped wholeheartedly and her professor's face was actually soft and intrigued. She smiled and took down her piece, storing it away in a safe spot. After the rest has presented their finals they were each called up to the professor's desk to receive their final score. He made sure Connie was last.
"Maheswaran", he beckoned her. She held her piece to her side and took a neutral stance at his desk. He was silent and scribbling down something before looking up to her. he narrowed his eyes and tossed his pen onto the desk.
"I'm not sure I've ever had a student so lively and at the same time so infuriating."
She was silent.
"You should have majored in English because you surely have mastered a language in order to insult me while being a good student and civil at that."
All she wanted was her grade. None of this mattered.
"Mr. Collins, please. I have been through a tough few weeks. Can't I just have my grade so I can start heading home?"
"I can't decide how to grade you. That's the problem." He paused and crossed his arms. "As much trouble as you've been, as many times as you and I have not been on the same page... I can't deny the beauty of your projects. There is so much emotion in them that's raw and painful, yet the art is soft and light in watercolors or pastels. You are telling two different stories with your art and I can't tell which one is real. Sometimes I can't even tell if you thought about it at all or if it just happened. So which is it?"
She was confused and didn't answer.
"Are you a prodigy or a fraud?"
She shrugged her shoulders and couldn't help but smile.
"Pardon the pun professor, but art is subjective."
He was quiet for a few ticks before a smile spread across his face. He grabbed his pen and made a quick scribble, passing her a piece of paper.
"Your grade will be uploaded over the weekend, but since I won't see you, congratulations."
She looked at the paper and saw a 3.9 written on her transcript. She looked at it and raised an eyebrow.
"3.9?"
"Well, you owe me a fraction for being a pain in my ass."
She smiled and they both laughed.
She left with her head held high and could wait to start packing. She was coming home.