People see what they want to see and what people want to see never has anything to do with the truth.
—Roberto Bolaño
Think of Krell as an angry art god who requires human sacrifice.
Our teaching assistant’s warning rings in my ears as I tear into the alley two blocks away from campus. It’s five of nine, and I’m cursing myself again for not buying a parking permit. I need to run like hell if I’m going to make it to class before Professor Krell arrives with his chai latte and scathing comments.
The spot behind the abandoned florist shop is empty, so I park the Honda and grab my portfolio case. Then I streak down the alley past the machine shop and out onto the sidewalk, the big black case banging my legs the whole way.
Of course the crosswalk light’s red, and a cop’s parked outside the homeless shelter across the street. I hammer the button on the light post. I can’t jaywalk, not with the cop sitting here. He let me off with a warning a couple days ago, but the fine is a hundred and ninety dollars I don’t have.
The light changes and I fly through the crosswalk. Don’t stop, don’t stop, I tell myself even though my skinny-heeled boots are ridiculous to run in. I can’t be late for Krell.
The art institute looms on the next block, four stories of gray cement and glass. I dash past the shelter and the scent of pancakes and warm syrup. I’m halfway down the block and picking up speed when the light turns red, which is good because by the time I get there, it should be green.
My luck’s holding out, because as I smack the walk button the light turns, and yes! I might actually beat Krell to class.
I power down the block past the corner of the CALINVA building and the words carved three feet high into its side: QUESTIONING. PROVOKING. AGITATING. I slam through the first set of glass doors and up the forty-foot-long ramp to the lobby.
Whoever the sadist was who designed the entry, I’m pretty sure the skateboarders are the only people at CALINVA who like it.
By the time I get to the top of the ramp and through the second set of glass doors into the huge cement lobby, I’m breathing hard, but I still have to get to the third floor. The elevator is notoriously slow, so I sprint for the steel stairs. I’m really moving now, but halfway up, my heel catches in one of the holes in the open weave.
Son of a…! I jerk my foot to get free, and a slip of leather peels off my heel like a piece of tomato skin.
But there are still people scurrying for class, so I charge up the last stairs and down the hall. And no no no. The door of Studio 322 is shut, which tells me that today, for the first time in weeks, Professor Krell’s on time for Painting Strategies 101.
I crack open the door. Krell’s holding court at the front of the room, where a painting is propped up on a big wooden easel. Bryian Ahring slouches against the wall nearby, gazing humbly at him.
Krell ponders the canvas, his face all angles and points from the widow’s peak in his receding hair to the slash of his brows, his sharp nose, and chin.
I duck down, hoping he’s too caught up in his critique of Bryian’s assignment to notice me winding through the forest of students and easels. It’s not easy, because the floor is littered with backpacks, portfolio cases, and plastic toolboxes, and the heels on these stupid boots are so damn skinny I can barely balance.
Finally, I slip onto my stool and set down my portfolio. My fingers refuse to lie still, so I take out a pencil and pocket-size sketch pad and with a few quick strokes capture the line of Krell’s stance and the tension in his shoulders as he contemplates Bryian’s painting. I glance at the canvas, wondering what Krell’s thinking.
Jagged green rivers striated like agate radiate from a blob that looks like a thin section of human cells. It looks a lot like a painting we saw a few weeks ago on our field trip to the Museum of Contemporary Art, and I wait for Krell to tear into Bryian.
“See how the composition radiates from the center. The viewer is lured in and then . . .” Krell’s hands explode outward. “Movement! Electricity! Note the provocative use of color and shape. This is exactly the kind of work I expect in this class.”
No, you’ve got to be kidding me. On my right, Taysha’s rolling her eyes. Okay, so I’m not the only one who thinks Bryian ripped off a Kerstin Brätsch.
What is it with Krell and Bryian Ahring? Ever since we arrived at the California Institute for the Visual Arts, Krell has showered Bryian with more praise than any of the other first-years.
Which would be a lot easier to take if Bryian wasn’t such a poser with his blue mirror glasses perched on top of his shaved head, and “humbleness” dripping off him.
I unzip my portfolio and slide my canvas onto my lap. I worked my ass off and it turned out even better than I hoped. This time Krell has to admit my work is good.
“I see Ms. Reyes has deigned to grace us with her presence.”
Everyone turns to look at me, and I squirm in my seat. “Sorry.” I don’t bother to offer an excuse or explanation, because if anyone ever tries, Krell silences them with a hand.
“Since you have my attention, Sabine, you may bring your assignment to the front.”
I hold my canvas at my side and thread through my classmates. I barely know them, but Taysha nods at me, and Kevin from Kansas gives me a look. You got this.
My stomach is a fish flapping on the floor.
I am true to myself. I am true to my vision.
I’ve worked on this painting for over a month, keeping in mind all the ways Krell’s faulted my composition, colors, or theme, and a couple of times all three. Since the first class of the semester, he’s made it clear my work’s not up to his standards. Safe, he’s called it. Timid.
I place the canvas on the easel, and I take a position by the wall. At the very back of the room the lights flicker, and I realize there’s a maintenance guy on a ladder fiddling with one of the fixtures and he’s been in the room the whole time.
“What is the title of your work?” Krell barks.
I snap back to attention and see the smirk on his face. “Appetite.”
My painting is a still life, a place setting for a fancy dinner party shot from above. Stargazer lilies artfully arranged. Three wineglasses, silver for four courses, and centered on a platinum-rimmed plate, a dead songbird beside a toasted slice of baguette.
“Is that a photograph?” someone whispers.
“Nope,” someone else answers.
I take a deep breath and steel myself. As the artist, I am not allowed to speak, and I’m definitely not allowed to defend what I’ve done. All I’m permitted to do is answer Krell’s questions.
He stalks back and forth in front of the easel, a finger tapping his thin lips. Then he pushes back his wrinkled linen jacket and poses, hands on his narrow hips. “The assignment was to be provocative! To get us to think, to respond to your art. And my response is: LAZY!”
Heat surges in my chest. Lazy? I worked for weeks to express the light, to capture the reflective surfaces, to convey the texture of the iridescent feathers, the arched flower petals, the dull look in the dead bird’s eye.
Krell jerks his head at the room. “Every. Single. Student in this room can re-create reality. It’s nothing more than simple drafting.”
My cheeks turn hot and I know they’re crimson. Cadmium red #3 if I had to call it.