Art in the Back Seat My Very First Handjob
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Art CriticChapter 4: Plunged Into Darkness free porn video
Annette and I were officially seniors. So were Kendra, Les, Mavis, and Susan. Dad helped Morgan set up an agency LLC with Les as a contractor—even though Les was still a year from graduation. The two of them began recruiting artists from the incoming senior class, starting with Annette, Kendra, Mavis, and me. They decided to focus their efforts on getting more of our material into the public eye. I was a painter, Annette was a writer, Kendra was a sculptor, and Mavis was a photographer.
For six weeks, Mavis and I made love every Saturday morning for two hours. That’s the only way I can describe it. When we posed with each other and sank into our silent eye-to-eye communication, we were making love. I’d never really touched her breasts, delved into her pussy, or even kissed her passionately. We would spend two hours lying on the daybed with our bodies pressed close together and look into each other’s eyes. When we were finished, we would hug for a few seconds and share a light, but not passionate, kiss.
The clay maquette that Kendra made was exquisite. Soon it would be time for her to move it to the studio at the University so she could do the plaster version from which the bronze would be cast. I loved the piece.
Over the summer, the modeling roles were reversed. Mavis pressed Les and me into service to pose with Annette, Morgan, and Kendra in various settings. She loved people and the out-of-doors. As a result, we found ourselves in a variety of costumes and settings as she captured some particularly gorgeous landscape.
By fall, we were all energized and ready for our senior year in school.
Our disciplines all required about the same class load of just twelve hours a semester, but even though the classes were titled the same, there were different specializations among them, so we only had one class during first semester together. That was ‘The Anthropology of Art’. When I say together, I mean Kendra, Mavis, and me. We were on BFA programs in Fine Art. Annette and Susan would get a BFA in Creative Writing and Literature with an emphasis on creative fiction. Annette began working on her first novel. Les had classes in both museum and gallery practices and a practicum in arts management. He had really taken to being a literary agent and it looked like that would be the major division of labor in the new agency.
My other classes were Senior Studio, which was essentially independent study to prepare for my BFA exhibition, and Professional Practices, which was to prepare me for the business side of being an artist. I was glad I had Morgan to help me with that.
It was the third week of October when I had my official meeting with my Advisor, Dr. Robinson, and the department chair, Dr. Lowenstein, about how I would structure my BFA Exhibition in the spring. That is where the final blessing would be bestowed by the university and I would be granted my Bachelor of Fine Arts degree. Morgan was dressed professionally for the meeting and looked like a knockout. I went back to my room and discarded my torn jeans and t-shirt. She never said anything to me about what I wore, but I didn’t want to embarrass her. I didn’t put on my suit and tie, but I found a pair of neatly pressed blue jeans in my closet that I’d never seen before. They were hanging next to a white oxford shirt and a blue herringbone jacket. Annette smiled at me when she came into the room as I was pulling on the jacket.
“That’s such a good look for you, Pen,” she said. “Nice choice.” I was pleased that I got the message without being explicitly told.
We sat at a round table and I was across from Dr. Lowenstein and between Morgan and Dr. Robinson.
“Morgan, it’s nice to see you yet again,” Dr. Lowenstein said. “Looking professional as always. Do I take it correctly that you are representing Art as well as Kendra and Mavis?”
“Yes, Dr. Lowenstein. We’re looking for other compatible artists as well,” Morgan answered.
“I hope you are not spreading yourself too thin. Representing artists takes a substantial time commitment.”
“This is my job, not my hobby,” Morgan said. Dr. Lowenstein smiled and nodded, apparently satisfied with her answer.
“Arthur, this isn’t a meeting you need to worry about,” Dr. Robinson said. “We’d like to review your portfolio and make suggestions regarding what is needed for your BFA exhibition. We always want to show our graduates in the best light.” With that we began looking through my portfolio. I had large prints of my work stretching from my admissions work to my latest pieces. Part of the review was to look at my progress as an artist.
As we worked through the portfolio, I saw Dr. Lowenstein become a little agitated, looking sideways at Dr. Robinson. I wondered if he had another appointment and was impatient to leave.
“It’s an impressive portfolio, Arthur,” Dr. Robinson said. “I knew when you came to us that you were a prolific painter. What I see here is that your technique has really improved.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“Are you happy, Arthur?” Dr. Lowenstein said abruptly.
“Um ... Yes.” I had a home, friends, lovers, art ... It was all I’d ever wanted.
“Well, that’s something anyway,” he said. He shook his head. “Frankly, I’m a little disappointed.”
He could have punched me in the face and I’d been less surprised. Even Dr. Robinson seemed taken aback as she looked at Dr. Lowenstein. Morgan tensed as if she were going to pounce at him.
“I ... um ... what...” For two years I’d been conquering my fears and inability to talk to people. I’d made friends. In five words, I was on the verge of a panic attack and could feel my throat closing.
“Dr. Lowenstein, Arthur has been getting rave reviews and has work in five different galleries now. I think calling that record disappointing is hardly fair,” Morgan snapped.
“He could be in a hundred more galleries in five years,” Dr. Lowenstein said. “Even have your own galleries in popular shopping malls. Arthur, you could become the Thomas Kinkade of draped nudes. Is that what you want?”
Talk about slapping me with an insult. Thomas Kinkade was a good artist with his own private galleries in shopping malls across America. But all his art somehow looked the same. A house or building with glowing yellow windows against a dramatic landscape that gets darker as it moves away from the light. He even has his own slogan for the art. “Paintings of Radiant Light.” He was only 56 when he died back in 2012 and his commercial success was astounding. His company estimated that one in twenty homes in America had Kinkade artwork in them. But critics were as unkind to him as Dr. Lowenstein was being to me.
I just sat there shaking my head. Morgan wrapped her arms around me as she glared at him. Now that he had said it, though, he was on a roll.
“I should have been following your progress more carefully,” he said. “I assumed you were progressing as much in your art as in your technique—which is flawless. When I looked at your admissions portfolio and then the progress you made during your freshman year, I saw hidden genius. Once you made that leap, though...” He shuffled through the portfolio to my freshman painting of Susan draped in front of my window. “Here,” he continued. “This leap to the passion and intensity of your first draped nude—you stalled. Your paintings since then have improved technically, but there has been no great movement artistically. It’s obvious that you have a strong connection to your models, but the relationship is not speaking to me.”
“What ... can I do?” I whimpered.
“Arthur, I know this hurts and I’m sorry. That’s why it’s called PAINting. All I’m asking you to do is look inside and see if that genius is still hidden in there. You are going to receive your BFA. You will have a beautiful exhibition and it will continue to get rave reviews. For now. I just hoped for so much more. More that I know you are capable of.”
As I looked at him I scowled. I wasn’t near a panic attack. This was worse. I had black thoughts. Really black. I saw Dr. Lowenstein lose his color in my eyes. Soon, he was nothing to me but a charred blackness. He stood to leave and glanced once again at Morgan holding me. “You can help him, you know,” he said to Morgan. Then he left.
Dr. Robinson tried to ameliorate the situation, offering suggestions that she thought might help. Reminding me of the progress I made when I did my repeated nipple drawings and moved from technical rendering to artistic interpretation. But even as she spoke, I could see her turning black in my eyes. She finally wished me good luck and left. Morgan and I walked back to her car.
As we crossed the campus, I watched colors dissolve into blackness. I was like the Queen in Alice in Wonderland and saw all the roses in black. The buildings turned black. I looked up and saw the sky turn black. The sun turned black. And as I followed her to the car, Morgan began to turn black as well. I couldn’t let this happen. Not my love! I snapped my eyes closed and walked right into her when she stopped at the car.
“We’ll get through it, Pen,” she said. “I’m going to fight this.” I just shook my head and climbed in the car, keeping my eyes closely shut.
“Dad, you have to go talk to him. He was mean and spiteful,” Morgan said at dinner. I hadn’t said anything. I hadn’t looked at anyone. I couldn’t. I didn’t like what I saw. I looked at my black potato and my black peas and my black meatloaf. Everything was black.
“I’m not sure you are being just in your assessment,” Dad said. “He didn’t attack Arthur. He didn’t try to force him into a response or to speak up. He didn’t ridicule him. His criticism was limited to the artwork and his expectations.”
“But he was mean. He made Art feel bad. Can’t you see?”
“The role of a professor is to evaluate the student’s work. He did that. Ask Annette what I said about her manuscript,” Dad said.
“You mean about it being predictable, juvenile, and poorly edited?” Annette said. I realized for the first time that my lover wasn’t having an easy time of it either. How could my own father say things like that?
“That’s terrible,” my sister pounced again. “But Annette can take that kind of criticism. Arthur can’t.”
“Why do you think I can take it?” Annette yelled. Tears streamed down her cheeks. “I thought it was my best work. Arthur isn’t the only one in the family with feelings!”
“It isn’t about feelings,” Mom joined in. “It’s about how you respond to criticism and what you are going to do about it. Annette, what do you intend to do with your manuscript?”
“Rewrite it! I’ll show him!” Annette stood and dumped the rest of her food in the garbage and put her dish in the dishwasher.
“And what are you going to do, Arthur?” she asked. I followed Annette to the garbage and dishwasher.
“Paint,” I whispered.
Annette and I headed for the kitchen door. I could only bear to look at her blackened feet as I followed her. We paused when Mom said, “Morgan?” Morgan was crying. I knew she felt this as deeply as I did. When something affected me, it affected her twice as much. And now it affected Annette, too. Morgan dumped her food and followed us to the door.
“I’m going to support my lovers and sell the fuck out of their work.”
We all left the room and went upstairs. We’d be hungry and regret dumping our dinner later. Right now, none of us could eat.
We were a miserable bunch. I couldn’t bear to look at anyone. Black. But my Lady and le Fay needed me. I had to shut off my despair ... my panic ... because they needed me.
I didn’t trust my voice. There were no words. I gathered Annette into my arms and held her as she sobbed against my chest.
“I failed,” Morgan said. “I failed you both. If I’m supposed to be your representative, then I should guide you toward success. I took you both into failure.” I reached toward my sister and pulled her into the hug with Annette and me.
“We didn’t fail!” Annette almost screamed. “We were criticized. You didn’t fail. You represented exactly what we gave you. And none of us are going to fail. We’re going to paint, write, and rep. And kick their fucking asses.”
“K-Kendra?” I asked Morgan. Kendra’s presentation had been the day before, but I had been so busy preparing my portfolio that I hadn’t asked how it had gone. Morgan sighed.
“She’s the darling of the sculpture department right now. They are gaga over fusion concept for bronze and glass in the same sculpture. She showed several small pieces she’d been working on. Then she presented the plaster model for the big piece with you and Mavis. Do you know it’s going to be cut into about fifty or a hundred pieces to cast it and she’ll have to weld it together like a 3-D puzzle? They want her to cast two immediately so there’s both a plain bronze without the fancy patinas she’s planning or the glass auras.”
“What about Mavis?” Annette asked.
“Her presentation is tomorrow. We’ll know then,” Morgan said. “Pen, you know you’ll have to pose with her again when Kendra is ready to do the glass, right? Will you be able to do it?” I was flooded with hope and nodded.
The last time I’d posed with Mavis for Kendra’s sculpture had been a three-hour session and by the end of it we were both crying. It was like saying goodbye to a lover or breaking up. When we were finished posing, I lay down beside her and just held her in my arms for half an hour. I just couldn’t bear to let her go.
If we had to hold that pose again, we would end up making love. Right there on the daybed in the studio.
Morgan, Annette, and I each showered separately and went to bed. I kept my eyes closed, even as they came to bed and lay their heads against my shoulders. We didn’t say anything else. Morgan and Annette reached across me to hold each other and that was how we fell asleep. My eyes were still closed. Everything behind my eyelids was black.
I didn’t want to open my eyes in the morning. I didn’t want to see the black world. The colors had all begun to fade after my meeting with Dr. Lowenstein. I walked across campus to the car with Morgan and watched the grass turn dirty brown and then fade to black, like someone had cut it out of the picture and showed a void behind it. Buildings went black. The sky turned black. And gradually the color escaped from the other students I met along the way. They were black. I don’t mean racially black. They were black like someone had dumped charcoal dust over them. Or perhaps they had been burnt up by their own colors. They were black shapes against a black background in a black world.
I didn’t want to open my eyes and see that Morgan and Annette had also turned black. I couldn’t stand it. But even my memories were turning black.
I also couldn’t understand it. I know color theory and light properties. If everything is black then no light is reflected. Yet I could see every minute detail of what was around me. It had no color difference, but I could still see the shapes. I could see the buildings, the sky, the bird in the sky, but they were all the same absence-of-color black. How could I ever paint again if all I could see was black?
My mind was turning black as well.
I’ve heard people talk about living in a black and white world. I’d lost one more dimension. I lived in a black and black world. There were no fifty shades of gray between them.
I didn’t need color, I decided. Color was warmth and light. My world was cold and bleak.
When Morgan and Annette stirred in the morning, I refused to get up.
“Honey, aren’t you going to class today?” Morgan asked.
“No.”
“Are you going to paint?” Annette said petting my back as I lay with my face in the pillow.
“No.”
“Come down to have breakfast with us.”
“No.”
“Aren’t you going to get up?”
“No.”
From then on, I just quit talking. They had their lives to live. I didn’t. I shut out everything. How could I tell them? I didn’t have any more words. They’d all dried up and turned black as well. Everything faded to black. Soon, I wouldn’t need food or water or love or companionship. I wouldn’t need anything in my black world but more black.
I heard Annette leave to go to class. Good. I didn’t want to see her black. Morgan stayed at her desk in the studio for as long as possible, but she had to join Mavis for her photography review. Good. I didn’t want to see her black, either.
When she left, I allowed myself to open my eyes for the first time on my black world. I used the toilet and showered. I looked around my room. It was all black. My easel and the painting on it were black. The daybed was black. Annette’s reading corner and Morgan’s computer were black.
Flowing black lines into black backgrounds and black foregrounds. I couldn’t stand to look at it. I went back to bed.
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