A Work in Progress (305 hits)
Category: UberMadness! EntryRating: 2 on 3 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Lechuga (View user info) at 2005-07-19 06:07:57 EDT
This post was an official UberMadness! entry. Click here to view the original matchup.
I never said I liked art school, but it was either that or the Navy. Grandpa would see to that. What kind of choices are those, really? Mom said that after High School I couldn't live at home unless I went onto higher education. Ridiculous, really.
My name is Monty O'Brien, and I am an atypical art student. I listen to Blind Guardian, and Megadeth, wear all black most of the time, and have little respect for artsy jerks that walk around quoting Picasso all the time. I've always liked drawing and stuff, but after my Father died, my Mom went overboard in trying to support any endeavor that I had the slightest interest in.
"Monty, you're always drawing things, going into art school is the next logical step, sweetie," she always says to me in her heavy Brooklyn accent. So it was no wonder that during my senior year of High School I would see art school pamphlets and other such propaganda for my new home away from home.
It was there that I discovered my love for oil paints.
I enrolled in an oil paint class for the hell of it, and found myself not wanting to leave when the clock hit 3:00. I learned everything that I was doing wrong in my doodles, and learned to convey emotion. My professor wasn't bad looking either.
About mid-semester is when I decided that class wasn't enough. I got a job at an on-campus Subway and began saving a bit of money so I could buy supplies so I could continue painting outside of class.
I began buying up rolls of canvas and all the oil paint that a Subway sandwich "artist" could afford, and began painting anything and everything. I painted my Slipknot CDs in a still life. I painted my Mother's obese cat sitting by the window. I even painted a fictitious battle between Agent Smith and Neo from The Matrix.
Gaining popularity, I had everyone telling me how much they loved my artwork, which I was selling for around $200 apiece. It was paying for food that I didn't steal from Subway, more Canvas and oils, and my "for-the-love-of-god-I'm-sick-of-my-shitbox-car" fund.
After finishing my first year of school, I had made about $2,000 from painting alone, and I still had a year to go for my Associate's Degree. This year was met with even more praise; I was an established artist with a recognizable name, and I was a teacher's assistant. I got offers to paint people's portraits, landscapes, properties, residential facades, and anything else that people wanted painted. Photographs are boring I tell you. I was flying through college with a 4.0 GPA, and thousands of dollars in art sales. My Associate's would just mean that I wasn't an amateur anymore.
As I was reaching the end of second semester of my second year, I had to complete a final project for the degree granting committee that would award me with a degree if they deemed it fit enough that I could demonstrate my abilities in a single piece.
I had a month to complete it, but I was at a loss for what I could do. I had always created contemporary pieces, things that people could relate to, and still lives that people see every day, but that was all amateur artwork. This piece needed to include all aspects of my abilities.
Three and a half weeks passed, and I had no idea what I could do. Deadlines approaching and stress mounting, I was at a loss. After getting off work, with the taste of cheap salami on my breath, I had to walk through a park where students gather at all hours to do anything they want--Frisbee, read, gymnastics, whatever-- and then I found it: My inspiration.
It seemed like nothing, it was just a man. He was sitting underneath one of the blue halogen street lamps that dotted the park. In his hands was an old guitar. His face was twisted in sadness, he was singing a song I didn't recognize, but it conveyed such emotion that the image stayed with me until I got back to my apartment and picked up my brushes.
After 10 straight hours of painting, shading, and sponging, I had finally finished my piece, truly one of my best. Something that I had no idea I could even produce, but after all, school is about expanding your boundaries.
I went to bed, even though it was about noon, with a feeling of satisfaction unknown to me my entire life. I was going to get that degree, and the easel in my quaint living room held the key. That Wednesday I would present my painting, now entitled "Noctem" because of its setting, to the committee.
My Mother offered to pay me $500 to hang it over her fireplace once I was done showing it off to my school's administration. I declined her money, but would let her have it anyway. After all, I think she deserved it after her obvious nagging and pushing to get me to go to an art school.
***
Wednesday morning. My appointment was at 10:00AM, and I was to submit a short essay on the thoughts, emotions, and images conveyed in my painting, along with style, flow, and lighting techniques. Not too bad, although I think the painting speaks for itself.
I carefully strapped it into the backseat of my car, and started the short drive to the administration building where all of the students would eventually go to be given their decision. Traffic was mild, but I did get stuck at a long line behind a stop sign. Finally, I walked into the building with the canvas under my arm, covered, and stapled to a backing frame. The heavy paper cover was taped at the top, and covered the painting until I was ready to show to the committee.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, as you know, my piece is a painting. I have demonstrated several techniques in this piece, including impressionism . . ." My description wasn't important to me. I wanted to show them my masterpiece, my life's culmination up to that point. "...I present to you, my piece, entitled "Noctem."
I quickly removed the paper cover and stood beside it proudly. They whispered quietly, when the chairman spoke: "Mr. O'Brien, is this intentional?"
"Uhm, uh, is what intentional?"
"There are no facial features."
I did a double take. I couldn't believe it, the oil had smudged. I looked at the paper cover in my hand and saw it glisten with wet paint. The heat from the morning sun must have melted the paint in that one spot! How could I have been so stupid! Unless . . .
"Yes sir. That was intentional. I wanted to convey an image of facelessness, in the sense that the subject does not need to have a face to still remain human. The emotion is still conveyed with the position of the body, the instrument, and the lighting." I was in trouble. "I also chose not to give the subject a face because of gender issues. I think that the subject should have no gender here." Kill me now. The members whispered to themselves for a few moments before all turning back to me.
"Excellent work, Mr. O'Brien. Let's keep this one instead of selling it, eh? See you at Commencement, young man."
***
"I think it's pretty. It seems like it's leaving everything to the imagination. And you say that it had a full face before?"
"Yes Mom, the sun melted the face off. But to tell you the truth, I actually like it more. Even though the face took me 2 hours to fully complete, but that's another story."
"I'm very proud of you, Monty. You're a real piece of work."
"Ha, I don't think I'm done yet, Mom."
User Reviews
Submitted by JonnyX (user info) at 2006-02-01 17:41:11 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
bullshitting your way through it is always a good idea
Submitted by spedmonkey (user info) at 2005-11-07 11:46:37 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by FunnyAsCancer (user info) at 2005-10-30 05:32:36 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
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