by Forest, Will
“No, I didn’t…”
“You know the numbers,” she interrupted. “Seven and a half majors per year or the State Education Council says our program isn’t viable. Damn you, Christopher! We risk losing our department to procrustean bureaucrats, and you go off and expose yourself on a military base. What were you thinking?”
“I confess that I wasn’t thinking about viability. But maybe a little exposure can go a long way. Some students may feel drawn to a department with an outspoken civil libertarian unafraid of social experimentation. ”
“Some concession.”
“Actually, I did think about my topic for the spring humanities seminar.”
“Somehow I’m not surprised.”
Dr. Ross picked up the university bulletin on the desk and read the course description: “HUM 200: Humanities Seminar. A variable topics course offered in several disciplines and required for all university students as part of their general education.”
“Yes, and we need to take advantage of the fact that it’s a requirement in order to attract students to the discipline.”
“Exactly! But this is what has not been done effectively in the past. Here, look at these previous titles for the HUM 200 sections taught by our colleagues here in philosophy: ‘Cogito Ergo Sum: Descartes and Ontology,’ ‘The Socratic Method Reexamined,’ ‘Kierkegaard’s Irate Iterations of Insanity’—where the heck did that one come from?—and ‘Nietzsche: The Lost Annotations.’” Christopher blew a raspberry.
“Now I’m not saying they couldn’t be interesting, maybe, but they’re all very limited, unimaginative. And each is based on the works of only one person, always one of the Dead White Dudes club members. We need to mix it up, give the students a more attractive topic, open enough for them to feel they have room to explore. The student-attracting topic for my section will be,” Christopher grinned, “Aesthetics of the Human Body.”
Tabitha cocked her head to one side. “What’s the attraction? Did I miss something?”
“Maybe.”
“Is the ‘human’ part of the title gratuitous? I should hope not.”
Christopher did not blink. “Let’s hope together.”
Tabitha sipped her coffee, staring at Christopher over the mug rim. “What texts do you have in mind?”
“I want this to be broad-based and multicultural. We’ll study approaches to the body in art and aesthetic thought in Western civilization, granted, but also Asia, Africa, Oceania and among the indigenous peoples of the Americas, in different cultural contexts and time periods as appropriate. If you give me the green light, I’ll start putting together my materials for a photocopy packet, which I can also put online.”
“Are you planning on showing films or slides?”
“Most definitely.”
“If it were somebody else, Christopher, I’d consider it. But you, you’re developing an obsession with the body that I don’t appreciate. I can’t afford any more angry students complaining about racy films or posters. It doesn’t help our public relations. And speaking of which, do you think students who have read about your arrest in the paper are really going to want to take an artsy-fartsy, touchy-feely course with a nude beach bum? Surely such would be their perception of your proposed seminar.”
“Some of them might. Perhaps a strategic advertising campaign...”
“I am neither convinced nor entertained. Be on your best behavior. I mean it! No more shenanigans.”
“Yes, ma’am.” This time Christopher sported a bemused smirk as he said it. “I think all this scolding means you’re protective of me, like a mother hen.” He left the office, but stuck his head back in the doorway to add, sarcastically, “Now don’t you maternalize me!”
Dr. Lasseter-Peebles felt too disconcerted to respond. He was right: she had interpreted his actions as childlike. She had overreacted. Yet even as she realized that Christopher’s comment played on the paternalization accusation that female faculty, herself included, had so often invoked in their struggle for acceptance in a male-dominated profession, she felt oddly strengthened. She resolved to keep herself from feeling threatened, from lapsing into scolding and direct accusation. And she understood, as she sat sipping her coffee a minute, that despite her protestations, despite having to wager the future of her department on this unsettling rebel, she would let him go ahead with the course. She had no alternative.
3
SEPTEMBER
September
From the Known to the Unknown
A cloud must have blocked the sun, because the light from the window had changed when Terrence next looked up. The white lace veil looked thicker and the orange less radiant. But the model was still absolutely stunning. He tried not to think about her cascading mane, her perfect bust—the left breast exposed in the dim sunlight and the right breast cradled in the veil—her outrageous hips and nonstop legs. He had to shake his head to refocus on the technical aspects of the image he was drawing of her, for that was what everyone else in the studio was doing. But as he penciled in her eyes he was reminded of the way he used to sketch his family at home, which reminded him of his parents, which made him think how much they loved him to put up with him studying art when they had an immense lack of faith in any desirable outcome from such endeavor. Their faith rested solely on him, and his belief in the power of art as an idealistic, socially redeeming tool. His passion focused him on becoming a muralist renowned for depicting the history of his community and its struggles. And with his effervescent personality he would become a mentor for younger artists, providing instruction, studio space and materials, and encouragement above all. He especially excelled at encouragement, except for that certain internal support he needed in order to struggle through the pre-med courses his parents pushed him to take, “just in case.”
As he filled in the model’s long wavy hair, what could be seen of it above her shoulders, he thought about this plan of his for art in society. The longer he thought about it, the more certain he became, but he knew that if he kept on thinking about it he would lose that sense of certainty, because he would arrive at a new perspective from which he could again doubt. He knew, and not only that but he felt, that thinking is an ever-evolving process moving from the known to the unknown, from the felt to the unfelt, and that, ideally, you are always getting to know yourself and to feel yourself in new ways, from new perspectives. Art represents that process better than anything. You lose yourself in a painting only to find yourself again, unexpectedly, in a song. You recognize a life experience in a novel, and you must always marvel at how deep your sense of oneness with humanity can reach through your own artistic expression when appreciated by someone else. And he thought too: oh my God she’s fire, look at that sultry breast, so proud, so aloof, those hips, this sister knows the pose without no clothes. I have to introduce myself.
***
A cloud must have blocked the sun, because she found herself relaxing her squint and sweating a little less. Renee was new at this, learning just how much concentration a posing gig required when compared to her regular work. And for less pay! Her night job was all about the tease of rhythm and movement, presenting her body in an infinite array of positions and attitudes, pulsating to the music, serving herself up like warm fresh bread unto the famished gazes of her salivating customers. But here she was frozen, in a pose she found very unnatural. The orange she held up—how quaint, must be a link to nature, she thought—but my arm is killing me, and this gauzy white veil slung over my shoulder makes me feel like an Amazon, didn’t they bind one of their breasts to better wield the bow and arrow? It must be for these students to practice drawing different lighting effects and textures that I’m standing here with one hot loaf out of the oven, the other one still inside. She decided that she preferred to think of herself not as an Amazon but rather as Oxum, the Afro-Brazilian goddess of beauty, portrayed with only a hint of clothing, like the images she had seen in Rio. But she felt too stiff, too plastic, to be Oxum, who’s always flowin
g, always in movement, even when painted.
Arching her chest just a little more, she reminded herself of her pride in her body, and how she had even told her mom, nonchalantly, about working at the strip club. Her mom, though disappointed, had accepted her daughter’s pride. Renee convinced her that, more than being an attractive and uninhibited dancer, she earned great grades, cared for her friends, and volunteered on campus. Most importantly, she had self-confidence. In her family, for as long as she could remember, if anybody ever felt embarrassed about a bodily function or about being seen in the buff, her grandmother would always say “white folk blush, black folk don’t need to.” She thought of her co-workers at the club, most of whom, although naturally beautiful, had already paid for plastic surgery: liposuction, breast augmentation, buttock augmentation, lip augmentation, nasal reconstruction...enough to make anybody feel self-conscious. Without moving her face, Renee looked around the room to reassure herself that nobody was laughing at her. She couldn’t see very many of the students that way, but the ones she did see were concentrating on their drawings.
“Time is up, class” Dr. Liang’s voice interrupted. “Finish your sketches at home to turn in next time. Thank you to our gracious model!”
Renee knew she needed to retire behind the screen to put her clothes on. She said “you’re welcome” as she stepped off the pedestal, and noted the students’ uneasy fascination as their statue came to life. Only because of her movement and speech did the students begin to feel awkward in her presence. Nude, she surmised, was what she had been while still; now, in motion, she was merely naked. As she slipped behind the screen, Renee remembered her conversation with Alex at the beach the other day: the brain-washed public, inundated in TV and movie violence, tolerates even terribly graphic torture and murder in those media, but wrongly deprives itself of the natural human body by linking it automatically to shame or sex or both. Bunch of uptight puritans control the media, she thought, and the religious right is so wrong...
A knock on the screen interrupted her train of thought. She had her panties halfway up her thighs as she said “Yes?” and there he was, hand extended in nervous greeting toward her derriere.
“Hi, I’m Terrence.”
She continued dressing and said, “I’m Renee. Nice to meet you, Terrence.”
“Renee. Renee...you sure do a great job. I mean you’re a great model. You’re beautiful.”
“Thanks,” she said, smiling as she fastened her bra.
“And I’m proud that a sister like you can show herself as God made her. I mean, you must be completely unashamed of your body.”
“Well, almost completely...aren’t you?”
“No, I uh...well I never...”
“You should try modeling some time. Even if it’s just for yourself. You’re an art student right? You should do a self-portrait.”
“You know that’s a real interesting idea. I never thought of that.” Terrence paused. “But how would I...?”
“Use a mirror,” she suggested while pulling her blouse over her head.
“Oh.”
“See you next time, Terrence. I gotta go.”
“You have class?”
“No, I’m starving.”
“Me too.”
Renee stepped into her shoes. “Well, c’mon already, let’s eat together. What’re you hungry for?”
“You,” Terrence blurted out. He couldn’t believe he said it. But once he did, all he could do was smile. Renee smiled back.
The Palace of Fine Arts
Clutching his bag full of books on ancient Africa, his head filled with notions of centers of learning and culture in Alexandria and Timbuktu, Christopher Ross shuffled across the street from the library to a two-block row of restaurants, shops, and bars along University Boulevard. His feet led him, by force of habit, to The Dive, his favorite spot for a beer after a late evening in the stacks. At the counter decked out with diving flags and other nautical paraphernalia, he recognized a former student tending bar. He couldn’t remember her name, but he knew it would come to him if he spoke with her for awhile. When she brought him his specialty draft, Christopher asked if she had enrolled in any courses that semester.
“I haven’t been in school since last fall. I’m working here full-time now. I know, I know what you’re gonna say, but I need the money if I’m gonna make rent and car payments, let alone pay more tuition.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, because I know you’re sharp and you deserve a better job than this.”
“Well, it has its advantages, Dr. Ross. It’s a nice social environment...”
“Full of second-hand smoke.”
“...and I’d rather move around than sit at a desk.”
“Yeah, I used to wait tables and I’d come home so tired I just wanted to sleep, but my brain would still be running in high gear, you know?”
“Tell me about it,” she said as she excused herself to attend to another customer.
Christopher had finished half his beer, and finally remembered her name, when she stopped by again to wash some glasses in the sink in front of him. “Daphne? I hope you can start classes again in the spring,” he said.
“Thanks, Professor Ross, I know you mean well. But school’s not for everyone, you know.”
“Let’s play a guessing game,” said Christopher, repeating the line that Daphne knew well from his Introduction to Philosophy classes. “Imagine a place,” he thought out loud, “of monumental, open-air beauty. You with me?”
Daphne put down the tray of dirty glasses she was carrying. Resigned, she closed her eyes.
“I’m with you.”
“Sunlit figures pass among wispy tall trees and immaculately carved columns. The figures carry books and instruments; they pass by in groups or alone, they are young, middle-aged and old, but mostly young. Even the older ones are stricken more youthful by their company and by their surroundings.”
“Keep going.”
In his imagination, Christopher revisited Alexandria and Timbuktu, borrowing and shaping from Charlottesville, Texcoco, Salamanca and Coimbra and Oxford. “This is a place where all manner of pursuits relating humankind to itself and to its environment are welcome. The people we see engage themselves in animated discussions and demonstrations, of varying degrees of formality. Much effort is spent on proving, testing, experimenting, documenting and evaluating from a critical perspective. Factual conclusions are highly valued, but intuition and emotion are not without importance.”
“Go on.”
“There is much activity outside, but groups of people often go inside, where a variety of more specific engagements are practiced: reading, sketching, outlining, brainstorming, researching, painting, playing, sculpting, observing, listening, discussing, writing, creating...”
“Do you realize how many ‘-ing’ words you’re using?”
“Gerunds, yes, because this place I’m describing to you is a place of continuous and concentrated action. The effort is endless. When some people leave, others arrive. Changing perspectives, constant renewal.”
“I know what your place is,” said Daphne triumphantly, reaching for a dishtowel. “It’s a college campus, a university.”
“Exactly. The Palace of Fine Arts.”
“That’s what you call it?”
“That’s what I like to call it, yes.”
Daphne flashed her hazel eyes. “But what about chemistry, biology and physics?” she objected. “Or history and anthropology? Those aren’t fine arts.”
“You’re right, that’s a good point. I don’t wish to deny the importance of the natural and social sciences, of medicine and nursing, law, education and engineering. Oh yes, and even business! But I believe that artistic expression is how an individual can best juxtapose an original perception or emotion with the universals that unite us as humans. Henry Moore once said that Shakespeare’s Hamlet, or Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel for example, never could have been created by anyone else, but Newton’s and Einstein�
��s discoveries would have been made sooner or later.”
“Maybe...But Newton and Einstein wouldn’t have made their discoveries without a creative and imaginative spirit, don’t you agree?”
“Absolutely.”
“And besides, I remember learning that Shakespeare wasn’t the only one to tackle the story of Hamlet.”
“You’re right! And yet Newton’s laws could have been somebody else’s and they’d be exactly the same. But has anybody heard of Newton’s Hamlet?”
“Well I guess not, but still, the expression and even the limitations of the laws of gravity were conceived by Newton as a creative thinker.”
“Very good! Creativity is the foundation of the Palace of Fine Arts. Thank you for engaging my ideas. You have an inquisitive and well-ordered mind. Oh, and one more thing, Daphne, I almost forgot. In the Palace of Fine Arts, nobody’s wearing any clothes.”
“What?! You lost me.”
“Everybody’s naked.”
“Yeah, I understand that. I don’t understand why.”
“Nudity is truth. Nudity is sincerity. It allows us to see beyond social class and pretension, of which clothing is always an indicator. Paradoxically, nudity helps us see past gender, of which, again, clothing is always an indicator and even an exaggerator. And nudity encourages us not only to express ourselves unabashedly, but also to openly receive and understand the honest expressions of others.”
“Is that really how you think a college campus should be? I was starting to like your description, but not anymore.” Daphne reached up to hang a clean wineglass from the overhead rack.
“You’ve got a hole in your blouse, right where the seam meets in the armpit.”
“What? Oh, I’m sorry!” She lowered her arm.
“Why do you apologize? Why do you cover yourself up?”