Want to see your drawing

"No need, Professor Agnes. I behave in the lessons that I actually enjoy," I retorted, annoyed.

My professors exchanged looks.

"Well, I'll pack up then," said Professor Agnes, making her way to her desk, ready to leave. I thought Dr Reynolds was leaving too, but instead he approached me and looked at my drawings.

"What's that supposed to be, a tree?" he spat. I sneered.

"What do you know about Art, Professor Felix? You teach Art History. One thing is to teach about what other artists have done, another is to actually do it yourself."

"You should probably stick to drawing desks, Mr De Montmorency," he said, moving away.

"Who says I haven't already?"

He furrowed his eyebrows, the veins of his neck popping slightly. "You actually did it?"

I cleared my throat. "Yeah. Why are you so surprised, Professor? It was good practice."

He was silent for a few moments, deep in thought. My stomach turned into knots as silence fell between us.

What the hell was happening to me?

"I want to see it," he said at last, breaking the silence. I looked away from his intense gaze, my eyes settling on his thick, veiny hands. It was then that I knew that once I got home, I'd spend the whole night trying to draw them from memory.

"Why?" I asked, embarrassment growing in my cheeks.

"I want to see your style, your technique," he said, coughing at the end and taking a step back from my desk. "I am always interested in my student's work, especially if the assignment was given by me."

I nodded, giving him a closed-lipped smile. "I left it at home, but I can go get it in a flash. Besides, I should take a walk, stretch my legs."

"You live close by?" he asked, nonchalantly. I realized this was the first time we were speaking to each other in a normal way, not attacking each other or being sarcastic.

It made me extremely nervous.

"Yeah, just a 20-minute walk," I answered vaguely. I didn't want my professor to know where I lived.

He checked the time on his watch.

"Well Mr De Montmorency, if you aren't in fact messing with me and you have indeed made this painting, I'll be grading papers in my office until a quarter to eight."

I nodded, not saying anything. A weird feeling came over me, a feeling in the pit of my stomach that said that I shouldn't go, that I should just make an excuse and go home.

With that exchange, Dr Reynolds left the studio, leaving me all alone with my thoughts.

I decided to stay a little longer and focus on my work. I had to calm down and get Dr Reynolds off my mind before I even thought of getting the painting and showing it to him.

I explored the materials available to us students. We could use them freely, but consciously, of course. I wouldn't dream of using Durham's art supplies for my own personal art.

The storage rooms and lockers contained every type of paint, infinite brushes, palettes, painting and drawing surfaces (special types of paper and canvases), charcoal, crayons, tempera... It was quite overwhelming to say the least, but incredibly exciting. They also had massive cardboard cutouts, metals, plaster, styrofoam, wood, clay, glass, and stone. I was literally in art heaven.

I jotted down some ideas before packing up. I still wanted to have a quick meal before coming back and showing my painting to Professor Reynolds.

.....

It was ten to eight when I arrived at Durham. The sun had already set, and the world was painted in blues and blacks. I wasn't anxious walking down the road since the neighborhood was well lit, but the night was chilly, even for late September.

As I walked inside the main building, art folder in hand, my hands started to shake, and it was suddenly hard to breathe. Why was I reacting like this? He was just a professor, nothing more.

A very hot, very young, very intimidating professor, I added in my head.

The halls of Durham were completely vacant. My footsteps, although light, echoed through the building.

When I finally reached the Art building, I scanned the sign at the entrance to see in which floor the professor's offices were located. The sign said on the last floor, so I made my way to the elevator. Inside, I checked myself in the mirror. I brushed my hair back and straightened the collar of my shirt.

The elevator doors opened way too soon. I stepped out, making my way to the offices. I read the names of the professors on each door. Each time it wasn't Dr Reynolds my heart skipped a beat.

I just wanted this to be over with.

It was when I reached the last door that I finally read "Dr Felix Reynolds". I took a deep breath and softly knocked on the door.

"Come in," his voice sounded from within. I opened the door extremely slowly. It felt like any noise that I made was amplified due to the deafening silence of the empty floor.

Professor Reynolds kept his eyes on a paper he was reading, a red pen resting leisurely in his right hand.

"Professor Reynolds," I said. His eyes darted up. He motioned me to take a seat in the chair in front of his desk.

His office wasn't much, but it had the essentials. A wide, wooden desk with papers mounting on either side, a bookshelf filled to the brim with books and folders, a cabinet file, and a coat hanger.

"I didn't expect you to come." He said, leaning back. He took off his glasses, resting them on his desk.

"I took it as a challenge." I said. I was starting to think my boldness was my way to appear confident when, in reality, I was not.

"Why so?"

"Exactly because you didn't expect me to come, Sir."

He sighed and shook his head.

Dr Reynolds extended his hand to me. "Just give it to me already." I gave him the folder, holding my breath in anticipation.

He lifted the cover, revealing the painting inside. He was totally silent for a few seconds. Then, he furrowed his eyebrows, tilting the painting slightly. He then placed it on the desk, tossing it to me.

"This is lousy work, Mr De Montmorency." He said sternly. "I'm not gonna lie, I expected a little more from you. With you it's a lot of talk, but no action."

My heart hammered in my chest painfully.

I reached for my painting and brought it close to my chest, protecting it like something fragile.

"Why? What's so wrong with it?" I asked. I sounded hurt by his rude comment. I immediately regretted showing my emotions.

He leaned forward, extending his hand once more, wiggling his fingers. "Give it to me." I reluctantly obliged.

"See here," he said, picking up a pencil, "The lines are just messy and incoherent. There is no distinction between the shapes. And this wall, for example... The angle is wrong." With everything he pointed out, he made a thick circle with his pencil, leaving a graphite mark. "The shading around the lamp is questionable at best. The chandelier looks like an afterthought, doesn't belong there at all. It's distracting even. And this portrait of the man in the suit... Why would you give yourself the trouble of painting it if you can't even see the face properly? And it's so dark, why is it so dark? It truly feels out of place."

I was stunned. It was like I had been stabbed in the stomach multiple times. Tears started to sting my eyes, but I forbade them from falling.

I looked at the painting I had worked so hard on, now all ruined with pencil marks. A sudden wave of anger came over me. Did he just call me here to humiliate me?

"It's not a chandelier, it's a candelabra. It symbolizes the old convent. The lines are blurred because, with you, I can't make the distinction between what is acceptable and what is not." I said, mustering all the self-respect I had for myself to defend my work to a man who was clearly there just to make fun of me for his own amusement.

I got up, tossing him the painting roughly.

"The man in the portrait is as dark as the man who inspired the painting, but you wouldn't get it because you're not an artist. Good evening." I said, my tone cold as ice.

I turned around and walked out of Dr Reynolds’ office, not giving a fuck about what he thought of me from there on out.

", wait a second, come back here." He said from his desk, but I was already halfway out the door.

"I said good evening!"

Involuntarily, my voice cracked at the end, tears falling down my face.

What a fucking jerk. Who did he think he was?

As I walked down the empty hallway, I heard him dragging his chair and locking the door of his office behind him.

"Blair De Montmorency, you're being immature." He said, walking in my direction. I ignored him and kept walking, not looking back. Once I realized he was following me, I decided to take the stairs instead of the elevator.

Once I started going down, I realized he had given up and wasn't on my trail anymore. I wiped my tears away, careful not to smear my face.

When I reached the ground floor, my breathing erratic from descending lightning fast, my stomach fell once again to the floor.

He had taken the elevator.

Of course he fucking had.

"Blair De Montmorency, stop right there." He said commandingly.