Page 11 of Out of Bounds
“If you keep it up, you have a shot of getting into the Quarterly Showcase.”
“What’s that?”
“The faculty selects the top four pieces created each quarter across the art department - majors and non-majors - and they get displayed in an exhibit at the Zelman Gallery on campus. A few times, curators from galleries across the state have picked up student pieces.”
Visions of success swirled in Brennan’s head. The showcase could be a launching pad for him and a way to make his name at his new school.
“So what’ve you been working on over the summer?”
Brennan let out a nervous laugh. “I was focused on packing and moving up here.”
“All summer?”
Brennan squirmed in his seat. The overstuffed bookcases were closing in on him.
“All of these pieces you submitted were from your freshman and beginning of sophomore year. What did you complete last spring?”
“I, uh, was busy with the transfer process, and it, uh, threw off my game a little.” He wasn’t sure if that made sense, but it was better than getting into things about Paul and how any piece he worked on, Paul found a way to brutally criticize.
“You didn’t work on anything?” Professor Adamson’s tone switched. Brennan saw himself fall from her new favorites in real time.
He shook his head no.
“Countless students come to this art program and get intimidated or realize that the two pieces they created at a summer art camp in the Berkshires weren't going to cut it here. I’ve lost track of all the students who have sat where you’re sitting bawling their suburban, upper-middle-class eyes out.
“As your advisor, let me give you some advice. If you want to be an artist, you have to produce. Not just for class assignments. And if you want to do this professionally - and I think you have the potential to do so - then consistency is key.”
Her words were firm but caring.
“Yeah, I know. I appreciate it.” As frustrated as Brennan was, it wasn’t directed at her. She was right. “Artists have slumps.”
“You’re too young for a slump, kid.”
Anytime he tried starting something new, he heard Paul’s voice, reaffirming his mediocrity. He realized going to a new college and art program wouldn’t give him the distance he needed, not with Paul in his head.
“Don’t feel discouraged. You have a voice, and I look forward to seeing what you come up with.” She leaned forward in her chair to close the space between them. “You’re settled. You’re good and transferred. That’s done. Now it’s time to get to work.”
* * *
After a few minutesof going over administrative details, like accessing the art studio and obtaining supplies, Brennan left his advisor’s office.
He strolled down the long corridor of the Gorman building, which would be his new home for the next two years. Brennan stopped at a photo collection from last spring’s Quarterly Showcase. The talent on display made him feel even more like a fraud.
Brennan had loved to paint and sketch since he was a kid. His eleventh grade history teacher proudly hung one of Brennan’s doodles that he’d drawn during a particularly boring class. When he got to FSA, he was the darling of the art program, a shooting star. And one professor had taken a special interest in his body of work, and then his body.
Their relationship came fast and furious, fueled by the illicit nature and by Paul’s brilliance and talent. He knew as much about art history as he did how to create art himself. Brennan had never met anyone like him coming from a small town where the definition of art extended to a portrait of flowers hanging above a fireplace. He would regale Brennan with tales from the Miami and New York art worlds and then make love to him into the night. Brennan had only been with girls; he didn’t realize he was attracted to men until Paul.
Around Christmastime last year, Paul was passed over for tenure and his latest works didn’t sell. It flipped a switch within him. Or maybe it was always there. He became more critical, his feedback more cutting. While he had once found Brennan’s use of found objects bold, it was now a crutch to hide a lack of technique. He pointed out errors and faults in his work, things Brennan hadn’t been discerning enough to notice.
The criticism quickly outweighed the positive feedback, yet Brennan tried to heed them. He wanted to make Paul proud. After their divorce, Brennan’s parents essentially ditched him to start new lives and new families. The Warners tried to make him welcome at family dinners, but Brennan knew he was only a visitor in that house. Paul was the first person who made Brennan feel loved and wanted in years. Until he didn’t.
By spring, their relationship had devolved into a non stop barrage of fights. Paul would go out of his way to belittle his talent and hit the rawest of nerves. It was yet another relationship that made Brennan believe the worst of himself. Paul wasn’t his savior; he was proof of a pattern: that Brennan wasn’t meant to be close to anyone, that maybe not all people on this earth deserved love.
He applied to Browerton, wanting to be around the familiar face of his closest friend. He tried to block out Paul from his memory, but his words stuck. He saw more of his flaws in his work. He tried new styles, new techniques, but he could feel Paul’s sneering in his head, and as much as he wanted to ignore him, Paul still found a way to mindfuck him.
As Brennan was leaving Gorman Hall, he stopped outside the classroom studio closest to the main doors. It had two rows of long tables where students sat in pairs, like a science lab without the bunsen burner and sink. Up front, the professor talked them through proper shading techniques as they focused on their sketchpads. Brennan could tell it was an intro class by the verbal hand holding the professor was giving them on technique. A part of him wished he could go back, start his art journey anew.
He put that thought on hold when he spotted Cliff, his forehead crinkled as if he were struggling to solve a calculus problem. There was something transfixing about watching him put this much effort into his sketch.