I felt naked in that room. No one was looking at me like I was naked, but I was certain felt like I physically had no clothes on. It was an art class, and I feared that people would take my nakedness to be an art statement; a “bold” but insignificant comment on the nature of showing art. If was the end of the semester, and everyone was meant to show their body of work. I felt like I had none.
I left. If they weren’t seeing my nudity, then no one else would. As I walked down the city street, no one noticed the flaws I saw in myself. I glanced at my reflection as I passed shop windows and saw that I was dressed. I don’t remember putting on clothes, but I was clothed all along.
I felt pressured in that room. Everyone was looking at me. The instructor said, “If you’re so fast and skilled, draw [description of two things to draw]”. I looked for paper, but none of it was large enough.
“Mr. Ross, can you give me some paper?” I continued to look for paper in my bag, around the room, something.
I looked for tools, but none were the right ones. When I would find one suitable I would start to draw, but then something would break. Or it would go missing as someone else took it.
I’d find black paper, but then be unable to find white pens or pastels. I’d find light paper, and not be able to find pencils or charcoal.
Those around me also were producing art faster, but not at the quality I would want coming from my fingers. They didn’t meet the requirements of the description, but they were happy to just do the work. They were making the art they wanted, not the art that was required.
The deadline approached and the instructor asked why I hadn’t started. “I usually work larger, sir.” He produced a sheet of paper around 8’x5′ and I started to draw. I sketched one figure, and my charcoal was gone. I looked for more but could find none.
I wanted materials. The room was full of scrap paper, cut at odd angles and of a color not suitable for art. I flipped through some stacks of rectangular sheets and found the color paper showed signs of weathering and aging. These materials haven’t even been looked at in years. Who even owned them? I didn’t think I could take any of it anyway.
I walked to the next room, and called in, “Hello?”
Someone responded, “Hello, come in, how can I help you?” I walked in and saw art hanging above the desk where the man was getting up. It was cut from different sheets of paper and displayed in deep square frames to give a three-dimensional look.
“Yes, hello, I’m just looking around and was hoping to find someone who would like to tell me about their art.”
He introduced himself and took me to the art on the wall with the door. He said he spent time living in Japan but he returned because it was too expensive and everyone was too “clean”. His art resembled manga but bore some unfinished qualities like Degas’s ballerina sketches.
“How do you reconcile that the art is unfinished?” I asked.
“The art is finished as soon as your intention is met.”