The Art Professor's Tale

The Art Professors Tale

Part 1

Strands of long black hair fell from his lowered head hovering above the teak wood adorning the top of the desk. Worn hands failed to conceal the unsteadiness he felt inside as they shuffled through papers. Fingers filled with tremors of his emotions lingered on individual pages before moving on to the next. Eyes unable to focus through the blur of his thoughts stared blankly at words written in meter and verse.

A regular squeak of hinges floated from across the room as the large wooden door swung open before gliding closed again. Each time calling out for oil to soothe its grating tune. Scrapes from chair legs sliding across linoleum squares played a broken melody. Unattached voices from young artists milled about in the air of the waking classroom.

"Who's work is that?"

"The detail is exquisite."

"The artist really captures their love, perfectly."

Professor Blasco lifted his arm, but not his head before saying.

"Please take your seats. We will discuss the art at the end of class after I have finished my oration. Until then all thoughts of this piece are to be held." His hands shuffled the current piece of paper behind the others and brought another one forward as silence overtook him again. Young eyes looked from one to another searching for answers. Not finding any, some went to their easels, others simply sat on their stools. Anxious tension stretched tendrils into the quiet room. Idle hands reached out to touch brushes and paints. Rearranging them in new orders. A chorus of nervous throats began to clear themselves.

Many of the students filling the room, perhaps all of them found themselves in a mild state of shock. This was not the class they had attended every morning of the spring semester up to this one. The professor sitting behind the desk was not the professor who had been there before. Their Professor Blasco was a force of nature. This imposter was anything but.

"Create my students, find your easels today we paint as the masters have done. Before you is your muse, find your inspiration, and paint your works of art." He danced when they painted, a danseur, on a stage pirouetting from canvas to canvas, "Make your strokes with more passion, don't hold back let yourself go. Use more color, that's it pour yourselves into your art."

To see a man so alive with art, so subdued behind his desk, left his young artisans, his budding flowers waiting to bloom in the light of their artistry's sun, dumbfounded.

A new hush fell over the already silent room when Professor Blasco placed his hands on the desk's flat surface and stood. A needle dropping on the floor would have echoed like cymbals crashing together. Without taking his eyes from the papers that remained in his hands he walked to an easel standing in the front of the room. Where a painting of an elderly couple walking arm in arm along a sandy path that led to the ocean was displayed.

For a moment Professor Blasco stood with his back to the class staring at the art unmoving. A gasp escaped several mouths behind him when the papers in his hands fell to the floor. Making no movement to pick the papers up he turned to face his students. With his hands still struggling to hide the unsteady shaking in them he pushed his black curls back behind his ears. Traces of moisture glistened on his skin just below his eyes. When he spoke his voice carried an undercurrent from the river running through his soul.

"This morning a very dear friend of mine left this life. A friend who was a student. A student who once sat at this easel when it was the furthest one from my desk and the one closest to the door." He gave a brief pause before he went on. "I'm afraid I didn't make my friend feel very comfortable when he first came into this room. I did something an artist, a person should never do. I judged him before I learned of him. A mistake I hope to never repeat. But I know as an imperfect vessel the possibility is always there.

When my friend first entered my door, he was a stranger the way all of you were when you first came in. But during his hours as a student and the years that followed after, he became someone who taught me more than I taught him." Moving his left arm Professor Blasco held his left hand open toward the painting and said. "Victor Watkins painted this painting. He gave it to me as a gift, along with a story he told to me over the many weeks and afternoons we spent together in this classroom. A tale he added too and elaborated on for all the time that I knew him" His voice fell silent again. Pairs of eyes watched as he turned to face the old couple walking beside a wooden slat fence. An uncomfortable blanket settled down in the air of the classroom as they watched his back rise and fall with heavy breaths. He didn't turn back to them when his voice came returned to the room.

"The tale I have decided to tell you this morning can only be told from its very beginning. A beginning that began when two people, who grew old together were very young. When a girl who fell in love with a car ran across a busy street to meet a boy.

Summer 1968

The light changed moving from yellow to red. The rumble of the engine slowed as the white walls adorning the 1961 Lincoln Continental convertible rolled to a stop. The summer air felt good in the breeze blowing through Victor's hair. Sunshine reflected off waxed black paint adorning the hood beyond the clear glass of the windshield. Procal Harum sang a Lighter Shade of Pale from speakers mounted under the dash in front of him and the rear deck behind. Reaching to turn the dial of the volume knob he was interrupted by a screech of rubber across asphalt. Turning his head, he heard her voice for the first time.

"Sorry, sorry." The girl standing in the road apologized as she spun dancing away from the hood of a car with an angry driver inside lifting his hands up from the steering wheel in frustration. Victor's eyes followed the girl as she ran with her arms held out from her sides. He watched every movement she made as she worked her way through the maze of cars traveling across the intersection in front of the Lincoln. Victor forgot about Procal Harum or the light that was still red. He only saw the girl's dark brown hair with streaks of blonde running through it, lifting from her shoulders, and bouncing in the summer air. He only noticed the way her skin glowed in the bright yellow rays of sunlight shining down from the blue sky above.

He only listened to the way the girl's voice sounded like an angel's as she continued to apologize. Everything about her seemed to be wrapping him up inside. He watched as she moved effortlessly across the pavement.

His breath became a captive of his lungs. The world in front of him played out like the scenes from the movies he went to sometimes on Saturday afternoons at the drive in. The ones where the boy first sees the girl. Seconds passed like frozen icebergs of time. Victor looked at the girl the way Charles Bronson and Henry Fonda looked at Claudia Cardinale in Once Upon a Time in the West.

Panic thrust its way into his chest when he realized the girl was headed straight toward him. With copper in his throat, he spun the volume knob still under the tips of his fingers all the way down. He watched, feeling every beat of his heart resonate through his body, as her hands came down on the top of the door beside him.

Clara saw the car first, the boy second. She didn't know what made her move into the street, but her feet stepped from the sidewalk before she was really aware that they had done anything at all. Maybe it was the freedom of the California summer, maybe it was the sleek black car that gleamed like a purple dusk colored diamond in the sun, maybe it was the cute boy with the black hair. She really didn't know. But it really didn't matter because she was halfway across the street dancing through cars and angry drivers by the time, she started to question what she was doing.

She apologized each time a car had to stop as she moved through the traffic trying to get to the boy and the long black piece of American muscle. Her hands slapped down on the hot chrome lining the edge of the door where the rolled down window rested inside. Her upper thighs and waist fell against the heat coming from the paint as she collided against the door. She watched as the boy sitting inside the car looked up at her with eyes that were as wide as quarters. Not waiting for the boy to say something, Clara started talking, rambling, hurrying to get out what she'd risked her life to say.

"Hi" Her breath whispered heavy in her voice. "I'm Clara." She said, spreading an, I can melt your heart smile across her lips. "I had to meet whoever was driving this car, it's fantastic!" Her smile widened as she stretched her arms back to get a better look at the car. She noticed as the boy followed her with his eyes again. Coming back to the car to rest her waist once more against the warm painted metal, she asked. "What's your name?"

Victor looked up at Clara. At the freckles she wore on her skin like beauty marks. He lost his thoughts in the clear blue oceans swimming through her eyes. His name drifted somewhere off in the distance. Her hand touched his shoulder stopping his breath again. "Are you okay." The corners of her lips fell slightly as concern began to register in the perfect lines of her face. Horns around the Continental began to erupt in extended blasts. Fresh beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. It's now or never, he managed to think.

"Victor, I'm Victor." Cars began moving around them in aggravated jumps and starts. His tunnel vision eased. His breath returned. "You should get in, you're going to get hit out there." He watched as Clara ran around the front of the Lincoln's hood. His eyes following her every step. The door on the passenger side flew open, then she flopped down on the seat next to him like she'd always been there. Her smile looked at him again and he thought he could see an endless number of forevers in the way it lit up her face. A scent of sunflowers floated across the seat to him from where she was.

"You better go." Clara said before she gave the lightest laugh he'd ever heard. His right foot moved toward the floor a little more than he meant. The large engine roared. The Lincoln shot forward, Clara threw her head back, her hair rose up over the seat in the new wind that was coming in, her arms lifted up in the air, and her voice rang out in a "Wooooooo."

Victor took Clara to a malt shop that afternoon. Where they talked for hours. They talked again the next day. They never stopped talking." Professor Blasco paused again before finally turning to face the class once more.

Part 2

"Victor and Clara were married on a beautiful Santa Monica afternoon with the Pacific in the background. I wasn't there with them that day, it would be decades before Victor would come lost into my classroom. I never met Clara, but I know her in my heart. I have listened to hours of her story sitting with Victor. I know where they shared their first dates, going to movies at drive-ins, dancing in clubs listening to their favorite music, eating at what Victor swore was the best place to eat a burger in all of Berkely. And for those of you who have been to The Smokehouse, I'm sure you will agree that Victor was right." Reaching back, Professor Blasco took a drink from the bottle of water he'd left on the stool beside the easel.

"Victor and Clara were both UC Berkley graduates like hopefully all of you will be one day. Which is why Victor came to my classroom when he decided that he had gone as far as he could with his painting on his own. Victor and I sat in this very same room late into many nights talking about what Berkley was like in the sixties and seventies.

I listened to Victor tell me over glasses of bourbon how he and Clara got their first apartment after they graduated. How their love grew with every passing day until on a whim he got down on one knee in the middle of the sidewalk, one evening when he was walking Clara home, and told her he would never move again until she agreed to marry him. How after she said, I'll marry you they held each other and kissed for what seemed like an eternity while strangers walked past them unnoticed." The last words seemed to catch in his throat. Professor Blasco lifted his hand to the class and took a minute to regain his composure.

"Now that Victor is gone, I keep thinking of the moments I shared with him in our friendship. More and more I find myself returning to what is probably my favorite memory of him.

You see when Victor came to a place in his paintings where he didn't know how to go on. He would step back and take in a very deep breath. Then he would recount his wedding vows aloud.

I don't know how many breaths I have left. I don't know if tomorrow will be my last, or if I will live a hundred more years, but I know I love you.

Life is fleeting, it can be gone in the blink of an eye. None of us are guaranteed anything more than right now.

However, many more days I have left. However, many more memories I still have left to make. I don't want to spend another one without you. You are my center, my compass in a spinning world. You are all I ever need, all I ever want to know. I am the happiest I could ever be when I am with you.

I promise to spend every day of the rest of my life trying to be the man, the husband, the partner you deserve on this journey we're about to take. I may fall short at times, but in every misstep I take, my love for you will only grow. In every storm we face, on every perfect day we share, I promise I will always be with you.

Then without fail he would step forward and begin painting again.”

Professor Blasco wiped the bottoms of his eyes with his hands. Turning away from the class, he let the returning silence linger in the room. Looking out one of the classroom's windows he watched for a moment the flight of a frisbee across the quad. Gathering himself for the next part, he took a deep breath into his chest and went on.

"Victor and I knew each other for six years before his passing. In that time, I learned more than a few important lessons from my friend. The first coming the very first time he passed through my door on a hot July afternoon right after my summer classes had come to an end." He stopped speaking, taking a brief moment to glance back out of the window overlooking the green grass laying between trees standing tall in the quad, and then continued. "He came that day to teach me about the meaning of epiphanies.

Fall 2016

Music drifted in from the quad, filtering in muffled sounds through the glass of the windows behind him in a mixture of rock and roll and hip hop. Paintings covered every part of the classroom that itself was only half put away in preparation for the weeks of hibernation before the reawakening of the fall semester.

All that was left to do before he could leave for a much deserved vacation was the grading of the summer student's final offerings. Most of the works were okay but lacking a true eye. Some were quite good with the beginnings of an artist in them. Only two were the exceptional works of a promising artisan. Anthony Blasco moved around his classroom unexpectant of visitors. He almost jumped out of his skin when a knock came against the propped open door of his classroom.

The figure staring back at him when he turned to face the door wore many years etched in the lines of his face. His skin showed a life too long in the California sun. Neatly ironed khaki pants along with a cardigan sweater left the impression of a well to do retiree. Anthony felt irritation beginning to creep up from his chest. This escapee from the golf course had obviously wandered into his room lost looking for a grand child who hadn't given the old man good enough directions.

"Can I help you?" His words were quick, his tone ruder than he intended.

"I was hoping to introduce myself, Mr. Blasco. I'll be taking your class this fall."

"You will be taking my class? Are you sure you really want to take my class?" Anthony's arms found their way across his chest. "Can you paint? This is not a beginner's course, you will be expected to paint right away. Are you sure you would not be better suited joining the community center in Berkley? They have a program for seniors there with a very nice art club you can join." The elderly man stepped forward.

"My name is Victor Watkins, and I will be taking your class this fall. I have been painting all summer and I look forward to learning from you."

"You have been painting all summer. You will need more than that. I do not think this class is for you." Victor stepped forward toward him again.

"Before I tell you, I'm an alumni of this school. Before I explain that the Dean herself was a dear friend of my late wife Clara and that she helped me sign up for this class. Before I do that, I would like to explain my feelings on epiphanies if you will allow me." Fire burned in Anthony's cheeks. He just wanted to finish grading, forget about this old man, and get to Aruba where he could drink himself into a stupor every day and night until it was time to return for fall classes.

"Go ahead, if you must, Mr. Watkins."

"Epiphanies are where a fundamental truth becomes apparent for the first time."

"Yes, I know what it means."

"I have lived a long life, Mr. Blasco, and in that life, I have had five true epiphanies. The first one happened on June 27th, 1968, at an intersection on this campus. When I saw my Clara for the first time as she ran across the street toward me. In that moment I realized that I would never wonder again what perfection was, because my Clara was perfect in every way. I knew watching her hair bounce in the sun of that day that I would never find anyone like her again.

The second was on an evening under the stars holding her hand. Clara was talking about her classes, and it hit me like a Rocketship falling from the stars. I never wanted to spend another night of my life without her. So, I dropped to my knees without a ring or a plan knowing I couldn't live another minute without hearing the answer to the question I was about to ask.

The third was when her hand woke me up shaking my shoulder. Without a word I knew it was time. We got up, grabbed the bag we had already prepared and raced in the middle of the night to the hospital where hours later my first daughter was born. The moment the nurse who checked to make sure Abigail or Abbi, as we like to call her, was healthy, handed her to me. I knew my life had just changed forever. I would never be who I was before that moment again. My daughter would forever change my life. I was a parent, and my perspective would never be the same again. Each of my children has shown me with their birth what it truly means to care about someone else more than yourself.

The fourth was the morning I woke up and though my Clara was lying next to me, I knew she was no longer there. Through the tears that fell from my eyes that morning I knew that my world would never be the same. I knew that I would have to redefine every aspect of a life I had spent with a woman who had been my reason for everything. I knew that all the happy moments we had shared together would forever be tainted by her absence.

The fifth was when I realized if I didn't find a way to breakdown the wall of my sadness, I would start the car Clara drove, that hasn't moved from our garage since the morning she passed and end my life.

I knew I couldn't do that to my children. So, I went on in turmoil until one day I stopped in our hallway. When I noticed the painting of a sunset over a beach, we got at the Berkely art festival a year after we were married. I stood for hours staring at that painting remembering how it had always been Clara's favorite because it was the first piece we bought together.

I stood there not knowing what to do until it finally hit me with all the force in the world. I left my house that morning, went to an art store, and started painting that day. I went on painting night and day after that. Slowly over time I improved, I even got good. But I have taken myself as far as I can go, and I need your help to continue my journey.

So, I am sorry that you don't like that I am taking your course, I truly am. But this is the only way I have to beat back the sadness and find my smile again. So, I hope you will understand Mr. Blasco, but there is nothing that will stop me from taking your class because painting brings me as close as I will ever be again to my Clara.

Part 3

"This painting is the last painting Victor ever finished. He gave it to me only a month before he went into the hospital for the last time. Of all his paintings this one has become my favorite." Professor Blasco turned to the painting to begin his analysis. "The setting depicted was very special to Victor and Clara. It was their favorite place to get away, a small beach town called Rodanthe in the Outer Banks of North Carolina.

Everything about their love is spoken in their posture, in their reference to each other. You can see decades in the way they are together. There is a memory painted in every stroke. The path symbolizes their journey, the places behind them, the destination still ahead. By showing them so close to the ocean I believe Victor is symbolizing the end of their journey.

The moment painted in the artwork was the last time Clara was able to travel. The last time they were together before she went into hospice. You can see her struggle in the way she leans both against Victor and her cane.

Victor has also carefully painted them exactly together neither he or Clara ahead or behind. I believe he did this to show that their lives were equally lived for each other. The painting is masterfully focused on them, on the story of their love as everything in the distance grows more out of focus the further away your eyes go from them. Their entire story from their first meeting until the morning she left him is told in this one painted image.

This painting for me personally has taken the place of my friend. I look at where it hangs in my home, and I relive the tale of Victor and Clara's love. I remember the times he talked with me for hours. I remember the friendship we shared together.

Victor is not famous. His works will never hang in museums, but he is an artist who will be remembered by those who have seen his work and that is all an artist needs. To create an impression that lasts.

Art is expression and true art is expressed through true meaning. If you want to be an artist who is remembered, you have to find true meaning in everything you paint. Victor's true meaning was his life with Clara. Through that expression we can see the power, we can feel the emotion of his truth.

Victor wrote a poem about the paintings he created. I have left a copy in the bottom of your easels. I would like each of you to read Victor's poem. Then I would like you to paint a work of your own that expresses true meaning. You may choose anything you want as long as you capture the type of meaning Victor has expressed in his work.

Victor called his pieces of art, The pictures of our lives. Think of that when you search for inspiration for this work. I want you to pour more of yourselves than you have ever poured before into these paintings. When they are finished each of your paintings will be displayed along with Victor's in a show honoring him that will run in the Worth Ryder Art Gallery for the entirety of the summer. So please, paint with your true hearts."

With that Professor Blasco turned, not saying another word and went back to sit behind his desk. As the shuffle of sound from his students pulling Victor's poem from their easels filled the classroom, he slipped a flask from the bottom drawer of his desk and took a drink in honor of his friend.

The End

Author's note:

I really don't know much about the artwork. I came across it one night on Pinterest and it inspired me to write a poem. I've googled the work and the name V. Watkins, but I've never been able to find anything more than other Pinterest posts about DIY art. If you would like to read Victor's poem mentioned in the story, the one originally inspired by this piece you can find it here.