Embarrassing him

Today was going to be a good day.

After lunch, at around 2 PM, I'd have my first Painting practical lesson. The teacher had allocated the class into smaller groups of 10 students, making it a workshop. On Monday, Maddox had shown me the art studio designated for students, and I was so excited to finally paint there with the guidance of a master of the craft.

Professor Agnes Sminton (she insisted we called her by her first name) was a petit woman in her mid-forties. She looked harmless in her long dress and sandals, but appearances can be deceiving. She was one of the most celebrated artists working at Durham. It was truly a dream to be coached by her.

She told us that, for her course, she didn't want us to paint in a specific style or movement, she didn't want us to check off techniques as if it were a shopping list. All she wanted was for us to produce a cohesive body of work that showcased a variety of genres, themes, ideas, mediums. She wanted us to perfect our own personal style, whatever that may be.

"If you haven't found your voice yet, if you are unsure of your style, don't worry. We are all here to learn and discover ourselves. It's only through experimentation and thinking outside the box that we test our limits and grow as artists. If we make mistakes along the way, who's keeping score?"

I absolutely loved her.

Our workshops with her were quite demanding. We only had her once a week for 4 hours straight, meaning that we had to complete our work in our own time. That was why the art studio was always open, 24 hours a day. I could already picture myself, back hunched over a desk, hard at work until the early hours of the morning, finishing a piece for my portfolio.

For the first lesson, Professor Agnes wanted to get a feel of who each one of us was as an artist, so she gave us free range to brainstorm ideas for our portfolio. She'd then go around and speak to each of us individually.

She spoke to each student for about 20 minutes. She really wanted to know each and every one of us. When it was my turn, I had already made a few sketches of trees and parks, light rays shining through the leaves.

"Ah, I see a Renoir fan." Professor Agnes said as she took a seat beside me. "What's your name dear?"

"Blair De Montmorency." I said. I had to admit, I was a bit starstruck.

"Alright Blair, I see here you have already some ideas, or at least you know the style you enjoy the most. Tell me, what is your background, where did you study, what artists do you like..."

I told her the short version of my life story. I was fascinated by the great French painters and techniques, especially impressionism. In my previous studies, I had always gravitated towards the painting of light itself, characteristic of the impressionist movement.

"You could really do something very interesting. I just think that, for now, your ideas are very broad and lack... how do I say... Meaning? Not to say that Art needs to have a meaning behind it, but at least a clear intention is crucial. Why are you painting light? What is the message you want to convey, what is the story behind it? Just some ideas to think about. I'll just finish speaking to the other students, but if at any time you need me, just ask."

After that, she moved on to the next student.

Professor Agnes' constructive criticism was exactly that: constructive. I now knew what I had to do, explore themes and genres, and try to create a story through my art.

What story did I want to tell?

By the end of the class, at 6 P.M., most of the students were packing up. Not me. I wanted to explore the materials at our disposal to see if I got inspired by anything.

As everyone was getting up, I noticed Professor Agnes had walked to the side door of the art studio. This door gave direct access to the studio next door. It made it easier to get art supplies without having to walk in and out of the corridors constantly. As soon as I heard the voice on the other side, my eyes widened in shock.

There, standing right next door with his body leaning in the door frame was Professor Reynolds, chatting with Professor Agnes.

"I have good news: Kent is finally getting his own exhibition." He said, his hands in his pockets, a beaming smile. Wow, he looked completely different from the first time I saw him: his hair was messy, his shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, he was no longer wearing a tie, his smile was sincere. Who was this man and what had he done to the real Dr Reynolds?

"So I've heard. I'm so happy for him, Felix. I always knew he had potential. He just never believed in himself."

"He actually asked me to give you these," he said, taking from his pocket two tickets. "He wants his favorite teacher at the grand opening."

Professor Agnes swat Dr Reynolds' arm. "You boys are too kind, remembering your old painting teacher after so many years. Tell him it'll be my pleasure to go."

That was when Dr Reynolds and I locked eyes. He must have sensed someone was eavesdropping and staring intensely at them.

"De Montmorency!" He shouted, moving in my direction. I had the sudden urge to cover all the drawings I had done that afternoon. There were only a couple of students left in the studio now and no one seemed to be paying attention to us. "I should have guessed I'd find you here."

He then turned to Professor Agnes. "This one here is troublemaker. Keep an eye on him."

My stomach fell to the floor. Did he just embarrass me in front of the Agnes Sminton?