Art class is crazy. Some of the kids are wadding up newspaper and throwing it around the room. Others are using the papier-mâché glop to paint their faces. They wait for it to dry, then peel it off, shrieking about how gross it looks. Is this grade six or grade nine? No one could tell by looking. There are a few kids discussing the quotes they’ve chosen for their mirror. I suppose this could be considered mature?
There’s a girl saying, “That was my idea. I said it first.”
The other girl replies, “So what? You think you own it? Get lost.”
Girl number one: “You get lost!”
Girl number two: “Now look who’s copying! You get lost!”
No. This is definitely not mature.
I catch another conversation. A guy is telling Lacey, “I’ve got my quote. I’m gonna use that line from the U2 song. I still haven’t found what I’m looking for.”
I think that’s pretty funny. Clever.
Lacey frowns. “What do you mean by that, Rav? Didn’t you just say you, like, know what your quote will be?”
Is she slow, or what?
Rav raises his eyebrows and stares at her for a second.
I can’t help myself. I speak without thinking. “Duh, Lacey. If he puts that line behind the mirror, he’s saying he’s still searching for himself. Or...,” I hesitate before adding, “he’s saying that he isn’t happy with what he sees.”
Rav stares at me now. He looks like he just noticed my existence. Like maybe I was invisible until this moment. He says, “Yeah. Yeah, um, what’s your name again?”
“Sable.”
“Right. Sable. You got it.”
Lacey tosses her blond hair. “Okay, I get it too, Rav. But isn’t that, like, negative?”
Rav shrugs. “Maybe. But it’s the truth.”
I don’t say anything else because a wayward wad of newspaper nails me right between the eyes. Mr. Ripley chooses that moment to return to class. The girls arguing about their quote don’t notice him right away and one of them screeches, “You’re such a stupid cow.”
Mr. Ripley is not impressed. He roars, “That’s enough!”
Everyone freezes. I don’t think any of us knew he had that kind of volume. We wait, some of us watching him, some of us looking at the tabletops. I figure we’re in for a class detention and I hate that. I don’t know how many times I’ve sat in detention after school because my classmates are morons.
He takes his time. He looks around at each one of us and makes eye contact. For those who are staring at the tabletop, he waits. They can feel his gaze and sooner or later, they all look up. I’ve never seen Mr. Ripley so angry.
At last, he speaks. “What is art?” he asks.
This must be a trick question. Nobody answers.
“Never thought about it before?” He pauses, rubs his jaw. “There are many definitions of art.” He touches the rose in the vase on his desk. “Some say it’s intended to create beauty.”
He taps his forehead. “Some say it’s meant to communicate a thought or an idea that is best shared visually.”
Mr. Ripley strolls across the room, takes an art history book off a shelf and flips through the pages. “Some say it makes a record of time and place, or that it’s a measure of culture.”
He puts the book down and opens his arms wide. “Others say art is none of these things; it simply exists for its own sake.”
He makes his way back to his desk, leans against it and looks at us. “I will not tell you what art is. That’s for you to decide. With this final project, I hoped that each of you would find a way to understand art at a personal level. However...”
Long pause.
“However, I do not see you taking this opportunity for introspection. Do you know what that means? It means looking inside yourself. I hoped each of you would look inside and try to find a bit of yourself to put into a piece of art.”
Wow. Who knew he expected that from us? Even I missed it.
He starts rubbing his jaw again. Then he smiles. This is not the normal Mr. Ripley smile. I’d say the smile is tinged with evil. He claps his hands together and says, “Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to assign partners. You will spend time with this partner and try to get to know something vital about that person.”
I have a very bad feeling about this.
He goes on. “Then, you will find a quote that you believe describes your partner. You will present your partner with this quote, and you will explain why you chose it.”
My mouth is dry. Lacey’s mirror has morphed into a nightmare.
He’s not done yet. “Your partner does not have to use the quote you provide, but he or she will benefit from your input.”
One of the “get lost” girls puts her hand up.
“Yes?” Mr. Ripley says.
“Can we choose our partner?”
“Oh no,” he replies. And that evil smile is back. “I will select the partners. And be prepared. I’ve had the entire term to observe this class. I know who hangs out with whom. None of you will be partnered with a friend. I will announce the list tomorrow.”
A moan escapes from nearly everybody in the room. Not from me. I feel too ill to moan. A class detention is looking real good right now.