Work of Art

Two Lessons

By Laura Schiller

“The Color Field paintings from the nineteen-forties,” said the professor, “Were huge. Up to twelve metres wide, meant to...” She spread her hands wide, “overwhelm the viewer in a rush of colors and textures. Here is one of them, by Robert Motherwell. They were his specialty, so to speak.”

I turn my head to look at the new slide she is showing, but instead my glance is caught in the deep black eyes of the boy next to me. I thought he was ordinary-looking, but then I’d never looked closely at those eyes before. A girl could drown in them. He smiles and – something happens. Is the room suddenly warmer?

“The Abstract Expressionists proved that art doesn’t need to represent a real object to touch the viewer’s heart. Look at this – the brilliant burning red and orange – and don’t those fields look like they’re moving against each other?”

He’s sitting with his head cradled in his left hand, and drawing on the paper with his right. What would those hands feel like on my face?

His pen slips softly over the page, the ballpoint leaving a fresh trail of glistening ink. He is drawing an airplane...in scarlet.

“And here’s one by Jackson Pollock. They called them Action Paintings because he just let his hand go free...improvised...impulsive. He believed that this way, he could let his subconscious speak...release his innermost dreams and desires on canvas. This one is called Autumn Rhythm.”

It’s getting hard to breathe normally, harder to concentrate on the faraway voice of the professor. My heart is racing. I can see the little touches of gold and silver that the projector light leaves in his black hair. I can just imagine how soft and silky it would feel. My hands are shaking; I can’t go on like this.

“I don’t care of you love these paintings or hate them,” says the professor, “As long as it sparks some kind of reaction. The worst insult you can give an artwork – or a person – is to ignore them.”

I feel every movement, every shift in his position, as if he were inside my skin. From the corner of my eye, I can see his pencil rolling across his desk... picking up speed... approaching the edge faster and faster...

My hand snaps forward to stop it, just in time. Our fingers touch for the briefest of moments as he takes it back. His skin is so warm, it leaves a cold spot on my hand.

“Thanks,” he whispers.

I smile at him. “No problem.”