The Captain's Sculpture, parts 268 - 271

 

268. As I was saying all these mean things, I was also thinking about why I seemed to be angry as well. I think it was because I did not like the fact that she had, just before my tirade, been severely criticizing her husband.

 

269. I found her criticism of her doctor husband very threatening. All along, even since all of that business about her hat box and the photographs of her as a young woman, my feelings about Agnes had been changing.

270. I had to admit to myself that I was more than simply attracted to Agnes; perhaps I was actually in love with her.

271. But I did not want to be in love with my sculpture teacher, what would be the point in that?

The Captains Sculpture, parts 264 - 267

 

264. On the contrary, I became even more severe, and even accusatory. I pointed out that her own work was not abstract in any way, and that she avoided scribbles and dripping paint in her paintings.

265. “If drips and smears are so important, and so creative, why do you go to the trouble of making sure nothing like that appears in your still life painting?”

266. “Why not just slobber all over the thing?” I concluded. I have to remind you however, that I was saying all of this, in a slightly angry tone; on the very day she had been informed that her painting had been rejected from the Detroit museum show.

 

267. Why was I being so mean to my instructor, what do you suppose was the force behind my comments? Even as I was speaking, I had to subject my actions to some analysis.

The Captain's Sculpture, parts 260 - 263

260. Although we might not live to see it, the day will arrive when all the people who groveled in front of those huge empty canvas things will find themselves out of fashion, and embarrassed by their former opinions.

261. After I said all that, surprising even to myself in that situation, I suddenly felt a pang of alarm. I sensed suddenly that I was going to far, and risked the possibility of needlessly hurting my teacher’s feelings.

262. I saw what I thought was a tremor pass across her face as she listened to me wide-eyed, but did I relent?

263. Did I temper my comments; did I offer any qualifying remarks? Not a bit.

The Captain's Sculpture, parts 256 - 259

 

256. But behavior like that must result in a rupture in the end, even if one never sees it coming. So I said to Agnes Festini…

257. “I have to tell you that I think that this ‘twombley’s scribbles are just scribbles, like anyone else’s scribbles, and Mr. Pollock’s drips are just drips no different that any other drips.

258. No one is ever going to shed tears over Mr. Warhol’s soup cans, and I am sure the day will come when all those things will be in permanent eternal storage.

259. There are paintings worth millions that not so long ago were worth nothing, and I think the reverse is probably also true.

The Captain's Sculpture, parts 252 - 255

 

252. That is a good question and goes right to the heart of the matter.

253. I did not want to appear to be stupid; that is all there is to it.

254. It was a convoluted situation. For almost three years I had, over and over again, found myself treating with respect and admiration, things I thought were stupid and pointless, so as not to appear ignorant.

 

255. That is my explanation of my duplicitous behavior, deceptive and false to nobody but myself.

The Captain's Sculpture, parts 248 - 251

248. I don’t know, I just do not know what possessed me to suddenly attack my sculpture instructor that Saturday afternoon, after she said the word ‘twombly.’

249. The word somehow set me off, and an entire disjointed, frustrated diatribe burst out of me, ostensibly in defense of her husband, and his intention to write a limerick instead of an epic poem.

250. I had become sick of pretending to appreciate various works of art presented to us as worthy of consideration, that seemed to me to be entirely without merit of any kind.

251. And why, you ask, would I pretend to appreciate a work of art that I felt was pointless?

The Captain's Sculpture, parts 244 - 247

 

244. That poster had annoyed me for a long time. It looked like a picture of a chalkboard, on which someone had scrawled a series of ovals.

245. It was obvious that it was not just a chalkboard, because the poster was an announcement for an exhibit, held some years ago, at a museum in Germany.

246. Twenty years ago, apparently, someone’s scribbling was considered art in Germany, and ever since this poster had been in our sculpture studio, yellow around the edges.

 

247. “But that’s Twombley,” my teacher explained, as if uttering a person’s name would be sufficient explanation of the poster.