Challenging him

"Mr. De Montmorency, since you have already given us a piece of your mind, why won't you go first?"

Professor Reynolds’s words rattled in my head. My immediate reaction was to pull my eyes away from him, but I quickly looked back at him. Of course, he wanted to humiliate me further. Luckily for me, I was more than prepared to speak about the paper. I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of seeing me fail.

"Sure," I said confidently, my eyes meeting his. He put his weight on his right leg, folding his bulging arms across his wide chest, giving me permission to speak.

"Ames-Lewis affirms that early Renaissance artists like Da Vinci and Raphael were engaged in a rapidly increasing intellectualization of artistic activity—a combination of classical and literary influences and technical developments that advanced the visual arts (primarily painting and sculpture, of course) and created a sophisticated elite who legitimately claimed the elevated social status of practitioners of established liberal arts."

I expected him to comment on my statement, but he gave no feedback.

"What else?"

"Each chapter considers a unique aspect of the intellectual life of the artist. For example, chapter 2 explores the education of the artist, which, although not generally classical, gradually needed some familiarity with classical languages and themes. By writing treatises, biographies, poetry, and other literary works, by seeking contacts with humanists and literary men, and by investigating the arts of the classical past, Renaissance artists honed their social graces and broadened their intellectual horizons.

They also experienced a growing creative confidence and self-awareness that was expressed in novel self-portraits, works created solely to demonstrate pictorial skills, and monuments to commemorate themselves after death."

Dr. Reynolds was silent. My heart felt like it was beating out of my chest.

"That's all very well, Blair, but I want to hear your opinion. If I wanted a summary of the paper, I'd g****e it."

The rest of the students chuckled around me. I didn't think the situation was funny at all, but apparently, everyone else did. They were just happy it wasn't them on the chopping block. My thoughts scattered; my hands started to sweat. I looked down at my notes for salvation, but nothing helped.

"Well?" he insisted, sounding impatient.

I had to say something—anything. Better to say something stupid than to just stand there in silence.

"I guess I could say that what I took from this paper is how so many different factors can shape an artist.

Their environment, education, experiences… As we all know, the Renaissance was marked by humanism, which placed the human being at the center of all things. This new thinking became manifest in art, architecture, politics, science, and literature. In other words, this belief of placing humans as the center of it all made it so that art itself was the product of artists, but it also shaped artists themselves. That's why I think the Renaissance is so fascinating: you can no longer separate the art from the artist. An artist's education, upbringing, and experiences is the art itself."

He smiled for the first time that morning. It was a grim smile, granted, but nevertheless, a smile.

"You can no longer separate the art from the artist…"

He repeated my words, letting them linger in the air theatrically. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is the reason why Art History is so important. The art you will produce in your lifetime will be a direct reflection of your influences, of your studies, of your experiences. How can you become great artists if you don't know what the greats before you have done? Perhaps you'll be inspired by most of them. You'll finally be able to see the artist behind the canvas—what and who inspired them, what myriad of variables led them to create the art they did."

The lesson went on, and Dr. Reynolds didn't pay much attention to me again. I felt like I did a good job commenting on the paper, but he didn't give me any sort of verbal or non‑verbal reassurance.

At the end of the lesson, I packed up my things and followed Maddox down the stairs of the amphitheater.

"Oh shit, Dr. Reynolds asked me to speak to him at the end," I said to him.

"Good luck, man. When you leave, text me and we'll have lunch together."

I nodded, making my way in his direction. There were a few students queuing up to speak to him, so I just waited for my turn. As each student left, my heartbeat accelerated.

When the last student left, closing the door behind him, I was left in the room alone with Professor Reynolds.

He was packing his things, looking down at his desk. I could smell his cologne from where I was standing.

"Excuse me, Professor Reynolds, you asked to speak to me at the end of the lecture," I stated, trying to keep my voice straight.

He gazed up at me, his big blue eyes burning through his elegant, black‑framed glasses. He took his hand to his beard, which was impeccably trimmed, and leaned back on his chair.

"I don't think I need to tell you that your behavior earlier in the class was unacceptable," he said sternly, although he kept his voice low. "This isn't high school, Mr. De Montmorency, this is university, and when a teacher asks you a question, you answer it. I hope we won't have any more problems from here on out."

I kept my head low, taking the reprimand. "I apologize, Sir."

He smiled, not showing his teeth.

"It's easier for me to accept your apology after your successful participation in class," he added, closing his laptop and standing up from his chair. He suddenly became much taller than me, and I instinctively took a step away from him.

"Tell me, Mr. De Montmorency, what are you studying?"

"Painting," I answered shortly. Why was my chest beating more erratically than before?

Dr. Reynolds clicked his tongue. "I should have figured. A sassy, French painter… You're representing your stereotype fairly well, I must say."

I felt the anger rise in me immediately. Why did he feel so entitled to say these things to me?

"Well, and you're letting down the stereotype of the old, boring, serious college professor."

I covered my mouth the second the words came flying out. It wasn't my fault though; he was provoking me.

Dr. Reynolds sighed, walking in the direction of the amphitheater doors. "Do me a favor, Mr. De Montmorency, since you're an artist, paint a desk and hang it on your wall. That way you won't forget your manners," he said with a cheeky smile. Oh, he definitely wanted me to answer back.

"Maybe I should gift it to you. That way you won't forget how to pronounce my name."

I expected him to say a strong remark, to scold me, but he just made an angry, shocked face, like I had defeated him. His expression then softened as he said, “Touché,” in an American accent.

He walked out of the room, the noise from the corridor filling the amphitheater. My knees were shaking as I watched him walk away, the strong muscles of his back moving beneath his dark suit.

I waited a few seconds before walking out as well, not wanting to bump into him in the corridor. I texted Maddox, asking where he was. He said he was by the main entrance having a cigarette.

Shit! I seriously needed one.