Free Zero by Tom Leveen Page B

your first day of art!”
    Doctor
Salinger swirls among us as if on tiptoe, using her hands to paint invisible canvases as she speaks. “In addition to teaching you the basic, the ever so
rudimentary
application of various paint media, I will offer lectures on modern art and art history….”
    Scattered groans, mine not among them. A couple of granny types twitter excitedly. Junior college appears to be areplica of high school, except with ashtrays and a student body age range of High School Graduate to Older than Sanskrit.
    “… which you will not be tested on. Attendance and completing your assignments will affect your grade, naturally. But it is your work on the paper and the canvas that is worth the most percentage points. It is your heart and soul that matter.”
    Geez. Hippie much? Still—I can’t disagree.
    A student raises his hand but doesn’t wait to be called on. Rebel.
    “Is that fair?”
    Dr. Salinger raises her eyebrows. “I’m sorry, your name?”
    “Frank.”
    “My dearest, dearest Frank.
Life
isn’t fair. I would have expected you to have learned that much by now.”
    The rest of the class chuckles. Teacher 1, Frank 0. Frank sneers at us.
    “I paid a great deal in money, time, and linseed to become the accomplished scholar you see before you,” Dr. Salinger goes on, “so I intend to pass all my worldly wisdom and knowledge on to you.
My
pupils.”
    The older broads coo and titter again. I snicker under my breath.
    “Now, I do realize most if not all of you are perhaps
hobbyists
, uninterested in becoming modern masters, and that is all well and good. However, you enrolled in this class to learn how to create and share art, or as I like to think of it, create and share your
soul
.”
    Uh … okay. Two
souls
in two minutes? That’s a bit mucheven for me. A smarmy noise sneaks out of my mouth, and Dr. Salinger stops and gives me a brief glare.
    “Sorry,” I mutter. Blah. Not a good start. Well, wait till we start drawing; that’ll show her.
    “We will search for art
together
, experience life at its heights and depths,” she goes on. “We will squeeze and knead our experiences without mercy and transcribe the results to canvas and paper.” She claps her hands together. “Doesn’t that sound simply
wonderful?”
    The older broads cluck again. Oooh, oh, yes, wonderful, indeed, mm-hm!
    Like they know. I want to ask them all to name ten American artists of the twentieth century and at least one of their works each, by name.
    “We shall plumb, indeed,
eviscerate
our own lives for subject matter and vigorously apply our findings with brush, with pen,” Dr. Salinger goes on. “With oil, acrylic, charcoal, water-color, the pencil. With whatever tools we have at hand. Let’s begin at the beginning, shall we?”
    She picks up her clipboard and scans the roll. I know even before she says it:
    “Miss Amanda Walsh. Tell us, what
is
art?”
    I look around the room just to make sure there isn’t another Miss Amanda Walsh nearby. “I’m sorry?”
    Dr. Salinger stalks toward me. Her eyes sparkle.
Malevolently
, if you want my opinion.
    “What. Is. Art?”
    A trick question. I swallow nothing and twist my fingers into a knot, trying to recall the vocabulary I learned in high school and from Mr. Hilmer.
    “Um … art—can—comprise a series of lines? Area, space … color?”
    Dr. Salinger wrinkles her nose. “I see. By the end of our time together, I hope all of you can answer that question somewhat more effectively. Miss Walsh?”
    I cringe.
    “We’ll try again next week,” Dr. Salinger purrs. “Now, what was I talking about? Ah, yes! Art.”
    There’s a short murmuring of laughter. Teacher 1, Zero 0. Ironic? I think not.
    There must be some mistake. I wasn’t expecting a Mr. Hilmer, because he was a one-of-a-kind, but come
on
! It
is
college. I should have a great teacher, and show off what I can do—what I think I can do—and prove to the world, or maybe just me, that I’m