Both Sabasa and I have been watching Allen carefully the past few days. Ever since Megan proposed a showing, he has gone back and forth in his mind, one day thrilled with the idea, the next terrified to show anyone else his work. He is very proud of his own work, but he is still not certain that it is professional caliber.
But yesterday Sabasa had the happy idea of suggesting that he seek out a second opinion. She thought, and I agree, that if someone who makes their living as an artist believes that Allen could do the same, Allen might well believe it himself.
“If only he knew that he has just such an opinion in you!” I told Sabasa, who smiled but only shook her head.
“He needs to hear it from someone he trusts,” she said.
And so yesterday Allen left early from work and drove out of town, headed back to a place he has not visited in many years. Emory and Henry College is about a five-hour drive from the suburb of Washington where Allen lives, and in the first hour Allen considered turning back twice. But as he got closer to his alma mater, he began to remember the person he had been there, a young man torn between ambition and freedom. More and more memories came back, particularly as he arrived in the early evening and took a drive around campus, just to see it again.
He got a hotel overnight, and this morning he had an appointment with Professor Groves, who was his advisor in his senior year and his favorite professor throughout his time there. He found her in her studio, hard at work on a canvas that covered half the wall. She was so absorbed that she didn’t notice him coming in, and so we had the chance to watch her at work for a moment.
Sabasa, who would not have missed the chance to meet the artist who influenced Allen so much, was enthralled. “Look at her brushstrokes,” she murmured to me. “There’s such power in that. She has managed to capture motion in the shape of her work—”
“Gently, sister,” I said, amused. “If you inspire her too much, we may never get to the reason for Allen’s visit.”
He didn’t really mind, of course, and neither did I. Professor Groves’ work was such a beautiful swirl of color and movement, vast and compelling, that even unfinished, one could look at it for hours.
But before long, Professor Groves noticed that Allen was there, and her lined face broke out into smiles. “You should have said something when you came in,” she said, jumping off her stepstool with an agility belied by her age.
“And interrupt a genius at work?” Allen asked.
“Pah,” she said, waving one paint-stained hand. She then extended it to Allen, and he shook it without hesitating. “Well,” the professor said, keeping hold of his hand. “You look good.”
“So do you.”
Again that explosion of scornful breath. “I’m an old woman. I’ll be retiring in a year or two.”
“Never,” Allen said. “Deprive the next generation of artists of your brilliant teaching?”
A small smile crossed her face, and her eyes went dreamy for a moment. “The next generation will be fine,” she said. “They will always be fine. If they have someone to teach them the rules, great, but they’ll just rewrite the rules whether they know them or not.” She shrugged and said, “Coffee?”
“Yes,” Allen said fervently.
She laughed and beckoned. “I’ve got a pot in my office. Bring your portfolio along.”
Allen followed her. He hadn’t told her the reason for his coming, only that he wanted to visit with her. But of course, the presence of the large portfolio case could only mean one thing.
Over coffee they chatted for a while, and Professor Groves asked intelligent questions that made it clear that she’d been keeping up with his doings. Allen listened and watched for any indication that she disapproved of his abandonment of his art, but there was no sign of it that he could see. Nor could I—I saw only a small thrill of hope whenever the professor looked at the portfolio.
Eventually she pointed to it. “So are you going to show me what you’ve got or not?”
Allen cleared his throat. He hadn’t been intentionally stalling, but now that the moment had arrived, it made his fingers shake. “I just wanted your opinion. My girlfriend thinks that I should do a showing, maybe try to sell some of it, but I’m not sure…”
But Professor Groves had spotted the first painting, and she hushed him. One by one she took the paintings out and set them up against the wall, looking at them with the same expression of focus she had worn with her own work. She looked, and she paced in front of them, and she pressed her hands to her mouth, until Allen was about to burst.
He had brought three paintings. His original work had been too large to fit in the case, so he left it behind. Instead, he had his portrait of Megan, less abstract than the others, but still with the style of line that he had used before; a sketch of the Washington Cathedral; and the last painting he has completed, done just days ago, which was inspired by the memory of his mother.
I would have been worried with Allen, for it was difficult to read Professor Groves as she surveyed the paintings. But Sabasa has more experience with an artist’s discerning eye and thought process, and she was beaming.
After what Allen thought was an eternity, the professor exhaled and backed up to stand next to him, still looking at the paintings. “And you brought these here because you didn’t know if they were any good?” she asked.
“Well, yes,” Allen said.
Professor Groves turned and dealt a light slap to the back of his head. “Now you remember that the next time you doubt yourself. Allen. Allen, look at this. The freedom of it, and the shapes you create here…and in this one, I can practically hear the word of God coming from the cathedral walls.” She waved a hand at the third painting. “And this one—there’s so much love here, and so much history. I could go on and on, and I probably will, but really.” She sighed and folded her arms, leaning back against Allen’s chair. “I would be offended if you did not show this work. It’s too good for you to keep to yourself.”
Allen sagged with relief, looking at his work. Now with this affirmation, he could admit to himself that this was not only the outcome he always hoped for, but the one that he thought would occur. He just needed a bit of professional encouragement to believe in it.
But he did have one question. “Would it not be weird for someone who’s not a professional artist to have a showing?”
Professor Groves looked at him. “There are no professional artists, because art is not a profession. Society did us a great wrong when it decided that the arts are skills to be learned. Art is a human behavior. It is something that grows in all of us, and there’s no better or best or even good enough. Everyone creates to their own standards. So who cares if the rest of the world thinks your art is bad? If it makes you happy, then do it, and you’ll still make the world richer and more meaningful.”
I think that Allen will remember these words for the rest of his life.
He rubbed his eyes, then turned in his chair to face her more directly. “Professor Groves, I want to officially invite you to my showing.”
“Lord, Allen, call me Samantha, please.”
Allen immediately rejected this—he has far too much respect for her to even consider it, at least for now. “So, how do I pull this off? Do you have any suggestions?”
Professor Groves grinned and went back around her desk. “Well, first of all…”
Sabasa and I left them to it. I am very happy for Allen, for I think that the showing will be very important for him. Even if it does not bring any so-called professional changes, it will help him to see how right Professor Groves is: that art is something that lives in the soul.
I only hope it goes better for him than the last art show I attended.