Chapter 10

"Mr. Randahl, do the arts contribute to society or are they a drain on resources needed elsewhere?" It was Monday morning and Grossfeldt was in his usual mode—hassle the troops and see what comes of it. If he thought he was going to get a yes or no answer from me ... well, by now he should have known better.

"That's a pretty loaded question, sir. They are a drain on resources if you consider the money used to support museums and institutions like this one could be used for things like cancer research or something like that. On the other hand, life would be pretty bland with no arts or places to make them available for people to see them."

"Mr. Randahl, do you even know how to offer a definitive answer?"

"Yes, sir, but only when the question has one. My girlfriend uses the term "fuzzy subjects" to cover courses where most of the questions don't have just one correct answer like they do in her engineering classes." Pushing, Tommy, pushing.

The explosion I expected didn't appear. Instead Grossfeldt just nodded and turned to his next victim. "Do the arts have any intrinsic value ... Miss Kennedy?"

"Um, do you mean money-wise or what?" Lois Kennedy was one of my classmates whose father had more money than she had smarts, although I had to admit her paintings showed a lot of talent.

"Leaving any monetary value out of the equation. Do the arts have any value?"

"Well, they show us what things were like in the past," she ventured.

"And would you consider those works to be accurate representations of the past?"

I heard Brad Hutchins next to me snicker. Wrong move, Brad. Grossfeldt turned in his direction, leaving a very relieved Lois happy to be off the hook.

"Mr. Hutchins, you seem to have an opinion. Would you consider those works to be accurate representations?"

"No, sir. Back in high school my History teacher told us history is written by the winners. Wouldn't that be true for art, too?"

"Interesting point. Mr. Randahl, do you feel this changed with the advent of photography? Surely you must have a definite answer for this."

Oh, boy, I was in for it again. "In some respects, yes. Mathew Brady is probably the best known photographer from the Civil War and most historians seem to think he did a pretty good job of showing what war was like, but he did all his work while travelling with the Union army, so I guess I'd assume his work was mainly from their point of view. The same would be true of photographers in World Wars One and Two. Look at Joe Rosenthal's picture of the flag raising on Iwo Jima. You can't get much more one-sided than that.

"I guess that changed, at least a little, in Viet Nam and the Middle East when live TV news showed how messy war can be and showed some of the bad stuff our side did. The picture of the South Vietnamese officer shooting a prisoner in the head is a perfect example, I can't imagine seeing that in a painting. But in general the art—if you want to call it that—was still pretty much one-sided. I've even heard some battles were planned to coincide with the nightly news back here."

"So you feel technology has not improved honesty in art?"

"No, not exactly. I think it makes it more possible to get an accurate view of what's going on, but it's still going to be filtered through the opportunities the photographer or video crew are given and what the censors will allow through, not to mention how honest the photographer can be."

I saw something I didn't expect—a nod of approval from Grossfeldt. Where'd that come from?

As we left the room, I overheard several continuing conversations on some of the points Grossfeldt had dragged out of us. Is that what he was aiming for? Hmmm.

I left school and drove to Jim Moore's office, proofs in hand.

"Hi, Tommy, Matt's waiting to see your work. Let's go back to his office."

"Hey, Tommy," Matt said as we shook hands. "Have you got some good stuff for us?"

"Well, I hope so," I said as I opened my portfolio and spread out the proofs I'd printed last night.

"Tommy, you've got some great stuff here," Matt said as he looked through my work. "I think we can use several of these on the web site. Oh, and a couple for the company album we've started."

Twenty minutes later I had a list of what he wanted. As I was getting ready to leave, Matt grinned at me. "So, Tommy, what are you doing for Spring Break?"

"Probably working," I replied.

"Would you like to go down and visit Bob and Sue Webber again?"

"Oh, man, I'd love to and I know Beth would, too, but our breaks don't match up. I'm out a week before she is. But thanks for the offer. You've got a real slice of heaven down there."

"Oh, well, maybe some other time. I know the Webbers would love to see both of you again." I thought of seeing Sue standing nude in the surf and could only nod.

As Jim and I were walking back to the lobby I stopped. "Jim, what's with Matt? He looks pretty tired. You guys working him too hard?"

"Tommy, I just don't know. I've asked him, but he keeps insisting he's fine. Then he'll say something like 'Don't worry, you guys'll be okay.' Everybody's worried.

"Tommy, when will you have the prints?"

"They'll be ready by early next week. Do you want me to send the jpegs directly to Jim and Dan for the web and bring the prints out here?"

"The pics for the web site? Yeah, why don't you. It'll save a step."

"Okay, I'll call when everything is ready," I told Jim as I left.

I walked into the house and was met by my lady, looking her usual calm self, unless you really knew her. I could see the suppressed excitement in her eyes.

"Did you see Matt today?" Hint, hint!

"Yeah. Both he and Jim say hello by the way." The imp on my shoulder wasn't going to let Beth off right away.

"So did Matt have any news or anything?"

"Well, he asked what we were doing for Spring Break."

"And what did you say?"

"I told him we couldn't go. Remember, our breaks don't match?"

"Wha? Oh, shit, I forgot!" I really felt sorry for Beth—she looked ready to cry. I could tell she was hoping for a week in the Caribbean and I felt a little guilty for having strung her along.

"But he did say some other time. Maybe even this summer? I know it won't be as nice as getting out of here in the winter, but still..."

"You just want to see me splashing around in the water without anything on. I know you, you dirty old man!" She squealed as I stepped behind her, reached under her sweater and slipped my fingers into her bra.

"I can do that here. You want to take a shower, little girl?" I growled in her ear, doing my best dirty old man impression.

"Well, it's not the Caribbean, but..." She purred as she backed into me, rubbing her perfect butt against the growing lump in my jeans.

Dinner was late that night. Very late. As a matter of fact, it was breakfast.

Mr. Nordstrom walked into Photography and waited until everyone settled down.

"Well, ladies and gentlemen, how did you do with your assignment?"

You've never seen a room of more polite people—everybody was waiting for someone else to speak first.

"Oh, come on, people, I rarely bite, especially this early in the term.

"Nobody? All right, Mr. David, what did you learn?"

Anse David was one of the better guys in the class—he seemed to know what he was talking about but didn't make a show of it.

"Um, well, it seemed difficult to ignore the color when I was trying to compose a picture. When I converted my pictures to grayscale I was surprised to see how much of what I thought I'd seen just wasn't there without color."

"Ah, Mr. Nordstrom, since everybody shoots color, why even worry about black and white?" That came from Frank Fowler, one of the "great photographer" braggarts from the first day of class.

"Good question. Anyone want to take a shot at an answer? Mr. Randahl, you want to tell us what you found?"

All I could go with was what I'd discovered—pretty much what Anse did.

"Well, once I got the hang of looking past the colors in the scene I was able to see more of the stuff that makes for good composition, but it was tough remembering to ignore the colors, especially if they were really bright."

"Yeah, but what difference does it make if you're going to end up with color anyway?" Frank wasn't going to make any points today.

Mr. Nordstrom looked almost as if he couldn't believe what he'd just heard. "Mr. Fowler, don't you want to create the best images you can? I seem to remember you talking that first morning about what a great photographer you are."

Ouch!

Frank looked as if he'd been slapped. "Nobody's complained about my work. If everybody likes it, why should I change?"

Nordstrom looked resigned. I got the feeling he'd heard this before.

"So why are you here, Mr. Fowler? Just looking for an easy degree?"

From the look on Frank's face, Nordstrom's jibe hit a little too close to home.

"As long as I'm here what difference does it make?"

"It makes no difference to me. I'm here to present information and techniques that will help you better your craft. I'm not one of your high school teachers forcing you to learn. What you get out of this class is entirely up to you.

"Now, getting back to Mr. Randahl's comments. It is difficult in some situations to look past the colors, especially if they're vivid, they tend to overpower everything else. The human eye responds to color and movement above all else. You have to learn to see all the elements of your composition, to look past the surface colors and see the entire image."

"So color isn't important?" one of the other kids asked.

"I'm not saying that, I'm just saying that color is only one part of the image, just part of the picture, you could say," he said with a grin.

That brought a groan from all of us. Well, almost all. I noticed Frank was sitting there almost pouting. I had a feeling he wasn't used to being told he wasn't right all the time, or that his opinion wasn't the most important one in the room. Either way, he wasn't a happy camper.

I found it no problem to superimpose Jason Williamson's face over Frank's—just another spoiled rich kid. That brought me up short and made me remember what I'd thought of Beth before I got to know her—just another rich kid, which led me to wonder how many others I'd unfairly typecast in that melodrama otherwise known as high school.

A couple of weeks later we were having Sunday dinner with Beth's folks. As soon as we walked in the house Chuck dragged me out to the garage.

"I can't wait to show you my latest toy!" he said, pointing to the corner. It took me a second before I spotted a new Miller welder sitting on a cart. Chuck had taught me to weld—sort of. I could get two pieces of aluminum to stick together, but that was about the extent of my ability. Most of the details Chuck gave me in the next fifteen minutes could just as well have been in ancient Hittite—what did tungsten have to do with welding aluminum anyway?

His discourse was interrupted by a gurgled scream from the kitchen.

"THOMAS GEORGE RANDAHL, YOU'RE DEAD MEAT HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME?"

We bolted for the main part of the house, neither of us knowing what was happening. In the kitchen we saw Beth holding a rolled-up magazine in her white-knuckled fist.

"What happened?" Chuck and I asked simultaneously.

"Tommy, you talked me into this and now you're dead!" Beth said as she held out the offending publication. Part of me could only see her as a Roman centurion wielding a gladius, ready to disembowel me.

I disarmed her and unrolled the magazine, only to see my sketch covering a half page of ... not the student publication I'd expected, but the glossy magazine the Art Institute sent to all its contributors and members. What in hell had happened?!

"Beth, this isn't right! Ms. Adams said she was going to submit it to the student magazine." Hadn't she?

"Oh, Tommy. I knew I never should have agreed to let you use this. I mean, what am I supposed to tell everybody?"

Think, Randahl, think! "Where did you see this? I mean who told you about it?"

"Tommy, the Institute sends them out. We're contributors and get it every month," Bev responded. "I was just thumbing through it when I saw this drawing that looked like Beth. At first I thought it was just a coincidence until I saw your name."

"Has anybody else asked you about it?" Maybe I could get through this with my skin intact.

"No one has mentioned it. But that doesn't mean they haven't seen it."

"How long have you had this?" I asked Bev.

"I guess maybe a week, why?"

"Don't you think somebody would have mentioned it if they'd recognized Beth?"

Beth, Bev and Chuck looked at each other. "Well," Beth's dad said. "You've got a point there. But how did it happen in the first place?"

I tried to remember exactly what Ms. Adams had said. Had she mentioned the student publication or had I assumed it?

"Chuck, I don't know, but I WILL find out. Not that it will make any difference." I finished to myself.

Needless to say dinner was not the most pleasant meal I'd had at the Jones house. Both Beth and her mom kept glancing at me as if they were trying to figure out why I'd betrayed her trust.

As we were leaving Bev pulled me back. "Tommy, do you have any idea what this has done to Beth?"

"Bev, I know how private and shy she is and please, please believe me that if I'd known my instructor was talking about the Institute's big magazine I would never have even considered it." I just wish I knew how to fix it.

"Tommy, it's not just the fact that they published the drawing, it's, well, how would Beth explain it? I don't know why you drew it, but shouldn't something like that be private? Just between the two of you?"

Shit! I hadn't thought of that.

"Bev, one thing I can guarantee—if anyone asks me who the model is, I won't say it's Beth. It's nobody else's business and I'll make sure Ms. Adams won't tell anyone either."

"Thank you, Tommy. I should have known you wouldn't do anything to hurt Beth. Even when the two of you were apart it was obvious to us that you cared for her and wouldn't cause her any pain if you could help it."

"Bev, that means a lot, to know you and Chuck trust me. I know I'm not perfect, but Beth is ... well, she's everything to me."

The ride home was a quiet one. Beth stayed up against the passenger window as if she was trying to keep from punching me. I opened my mouth a couple of times to apologize again, but realized there was nothing I could say that would make things better. Let's face it, I blew it. I knew how shy Beth was, and to even consider using a sketch of her—let alone in such a vulnerable pose—was, well, just stupid and selfish. Add to that just assuming I knew where it would be published. Well, let's just say Beth wasn't half as mad at me as I was with myself.

As soon as we got home Beth walked into the bedroom and closed the door. The only saving grace was that she closed the door gently, no house-rattling slam. Maybe there was hope for me yet. I plopped down at my drafting table, or as I thought of it, the scene of the crime. I started to pick up a pencil a couple of times, then remembered what happened last time I was doodling and changed my mind.

I'd been beating myself up for about an hour when...

"Tommy." I heard a quiet voice behind me. "I'm sorry. I over-reacted. I know you wouldn't do anything like that on purpose. It's just I wish it hadn't been that drawing."

I pulled her to me, burying my face against her and tried to explain what I was feeling and how sorry I was but nothing came out but a single huge sigh. That I'd done something to hurt my lady had me boiling mad—at myself.

Beth wrapped her arms around me and was soon rocking back and forth, almost as if she was trying to calm a small child, and in a way I guess she was.

"Tommy, let's go to bed," she whispered.

When I crawled into bed and snuggled up behind Beth she wrapped her arm around mine, holding my hand to her breast. "Tommy, quit beating yourself up," she whispered. "I didn't have to let you use that drawing you know."

That helped ... a little.

After class on Monday Ms. Adams had stopped me on the way out of the room. "Thomas, have you seen this month's Institute magazine?"

When I got up Monday morning I was determined to have it out with her, but by the time I got to class I'd calmed down. I tried to look at the whole thing from both sides and had reached the point where I'd decided not to even mention anything—until she brought it up.

I assured her I had seen the magazine and went on to tell her the fallout over my misunderstanding of where it was going to be published.

"Oh, Thomas, I'm so sorry! If I'd known submitting your sketch would cause so much trouble I never would have suggested it. I'm sorry, Tommy."

"No, it was my fault for not making sure of how it would be used. I knew there were two possible publications and I just assumed you were talking about the student one. I guess I was so excited about maybe getting something published I didn't even think to check.

"Would you do me a favor? If anybody asks, please don't tell them who the model was or even that we're a couple?"

"Of course. Since you said you drew it from memory, I'll just say that as far as I know no one posed for it. That may be devious but it IS a true statement, right?"

"Thank you, Ms. Adams. That will help," I said as I turned to leave.

"Tommy, for what it's worth, your sketch shows a lot of talent. Would you ever consider changing majors?"

Huh? Give up photography?

"Um, I don't think so. I've felt comfortable with a camera in my hand ever since I first picked one up. I enjoy drawing, but deep down I'm a photographer."

"That's what I thought. Well it never hurts to try," she said with a sigh.

The groans were universal when Grossfeldt decided a quiz was in order. Tests in any class were a pain, but Grossfeldt's were even worse than most.

Although I have to admit the questions on his quizzes and tests tended toward things that were useful, we're still talking about a test. He didn't spend a lot of time on individual dates which had surprised me at first, considering this was a history course. He concentrated more on individual artists and stylistic periods and where they fit in the artistic continuum rather than exact dates. That didn't mean his tests were easy—far from it! No "C-is-always-the-right-answer" multiple-guess tests for him! He seemed to love essay questions—tough essay questions.

By the time the period was over I'd pretty much put down on paper anything I knew or could fake about the period from the Renaissance to Neoclassicism and where the Baroque fit in.

When I walked into Photography I saw Nordstrom had set up the view camera at the front of the room. I had to chuckle at Frank Fowler rolling his eyes when he saw the "old camera" sitting front and center.

When everybody had settled down Mr. Nordstrom brought up a picture of a tall building. "Anybody ever had this problem?" he asked as he pointed out how the building looked wider at the bottom than the top.

"This is a typical example of the perspective distortion you get when you tilt the camera up to get the whole building in one shot. One of the big advantages of a view camera is the ability to correct for this distortion right in the camera.

"I know Photoshop can correct perspective problems, but I'm going to show you how the right tool takes care of the problem before it happens."

By the time Nordstrom was done I was wishing Beth was here to translate for me. The mechanics involved in setting up the view camera were confusing, especially for a beginner. I was almost to the point of asking Nordstrom if the camera came with a check list like a pilot would use. I mean, when the first thing you see on the top of the camera is a bubble level it was pretty obvious we weren't in Kansas anymore.

I was finishing up shoveling the sidewalk when Beth pulled in. As Cindy got out of the Jeep she bent over to grab something off the floor and the back of her short parka rode up exposing her perfect butt beautifully molded in a pair of tight jeans. When she turned around she caught my gaze. "Tommy, you're just a dirty old man, aren't you!" she said as she walked past me and playfully slapped my arm. Greg was leaning against the Jeep and just grinned when he caught my eye.

"I just can't leave you alone for a minute, can I?" Beth said with a chuckle.

"Hey, I'm studying to be a photographer! I'm supposed to learn to look for special images wherever I am."

"So you're saying it's just homework?"

"Of course. You certainly don't think I'd just ogle my best friend's girl, do you?"

"Oh certainly not. After all you're going to be a celibate monk, dedicating your solitary life to bringing beautiful pictures to the world, right?"

My lady doesn't do sarcasm very well but I love her anyway.

"Up to this point," Ms. Adams said as she stood at the front of the class Tuesday morning, "we've been concentrating on still-lifes and drawing individual body parts—hands, feet and the like. Today it's time for a figure study."

With that, she walked over to her office door, opened it, and escorted a robed figure into the room. A female figure who walked to a stool sitting on a podium in the middle of the room, dropped her robe, and sat down.

The reaction in the room was curious. The girls looked disappointed that the model wasn't male while the guys were busy looking everywhere but at the model. Or trying to look like they weren't looking.

"Come on, people, we're all adults here. Just apply the same techniques you've been learning all quarter." Ms. Adams looked as if she'd been through this before. Although I doubt there were many virgins in the room there were a lot of shy, nervous would-be artists present that morning.

Near the end of the hour I was trying to fill in details in our model's upper torso when I realized there was almost no definition between her nipples and the surrounding areolae. I thought of Beth and how embarrassed she got when her nipples popped out. I'd learned that kidding my lady on her semaphoric bits was done at my own peril—she'd been known to whisper lewd, rude and obscene comments in my ear in public, much to my discomfort. I'd been known to carry shopping bags in front of me while walking through the mall, surreptitiously checking to make sure my zipper was where it belonged.

Grossfeldt was waiting for us, the stack of yesterday's quizzes on his desk.

"Well, ladies and gentlemen, most of you are showing promise. Some as students of the arts and others as writers of fiction. The question is which of you is which."

I cringed at the "fiction writer" gibe. Someday my penchant for filling a five-gallon bucket with a gallon of facts and four gallons of froth was going to get me in trouble. Was today that day?

As Grossfeldt walked around the room, handing people their quizzes I heard more than a few groans. By the time he was done the general feeling in the room was one of resigned depression. But where was my quiz?

I was just going to raise my hand and ask when Grossfeldt turned and launched into an exposition on modern art and whether Andy Warhol was an artist or a soup salesman. The ensuing discussion filled the rest of the hour and I'd forgotten my quiz until we were walking out of the room.

"Mr. Randahl, may I see you for a moment." Not a question, an order.

Oh, oh. What now? Then I remembered he still had my quiz.

"Yes, sir?"

"Mr. Randahl, I am forced to do something I am loath to do."

Oh, shit. I wondered if I could get my old job back at the carwash?

"Mr. Randahl, as you know, in my opinion most photographers are mechanics, with little or no artistic talent."

Oh, shit, I'd spread it a little too thick this time.

"In your case I'm forced to do something unpleasant. I'm forced to admit that I have misjudged you."

Move over, Louis, time for me to wield the wand of suds again. Maybe working in the carwash wouldn't be so bad. Sigh.

"Mr. Randahl, this is one of the better essays I have read. Your knowledge of the subject is obvious, as is your ability to articulate the facts and separate those facts from any opinions you may hold.

"I also saw your sketch. Very powerful, my boy." He handed me my quiz and patted me on the shoulder as he walked out.

I stood in the empty room for what seemed an eternity until Brad Hutchins stuck his head in the room.

"Hey, Tommy, better get a move on or you're going to miss Photography!" he said as he turned and trotted down the hall.

I shook my head and followed him, trying to figure out if I'd been hallucinating or not.

"Beth, what's wrong?" We were sitting at the kitchen table that night and I couldn't take it any more. She'd been nervous for a week and the suspense was killing me.

"Oh ... well ... Tommy, is it okay if I audition for a show tomorrow?"

"Audition? Sure, but why did you think you had to ask?"

"That's not what I meant. The theatre department is doing an improv show and I thought it would be fun to audition. But I've never done anything like that and ... Tommy, I'm a little scared!"

"Then why do it?"

"I don't know. Just the challenge, I guess. Your introducing me to performing seems to have put a little itch in my head. I guess if I don't scratch it once in a while I start to twitch. But how many kids are going to be there? I mean this is a university theatre not just high school. What if I make a complete fool of myself?"

"Beth, this is just an audition, right? I mean, it's not like a career-changing job interview or anything. Remember how scared you were at your first audition for Mr. Franks and how you blew everybody away? There's no reason to treat this one any different. Just go in there and knock 'em dead."

"Yeah, but this is improvisation, they'll probably want me to make something up on the spot. What happens if I freeze?" I watched my lady as she sat across the table from me, slowly shredding the napkin she'd been holding.

"I have an idea—can you just sit in on the audition or do you have to pre-register or something? If you can, just watch some of the other auditions, then decide if you want to try or not. Would that be easier?"

"I don't know. I know it's an open audition, but I don't know if they'll let me just watch or not." I could see some of Beth's apprehensions falling away. Suddenly she jumped up, ran around the table and landed in my lap, hugging me to her. "Oh, Tommy, you always have the answers!"

I didn't think that was necessarily true, but if it got me a cuddle from my lady I wasn't going to argue!

Later that night I was finishing up the last of Matt's pictures when my phone rang.

"Tommy? This is Cliff Thomas. I was wondering if I could talk to you about some pictures."

"Sure, Cliff. When would you want to meet? I'll warn you, I'm in school so my hours are kind of limited. Would Thursday afternoon work for you?"

"Sure!" he answered. "Oh, by the way, can you do really close-up work?"

"Well, how close? I have a macro lens that can focus down to about an inch or so. Is that close enough?"

"Perfect! Can you come out here Thursday afternoon? Maybe about three?"

"Sure. I'll see you then."

More work! And I had a feeling this could be interesting. I remembered the chair-at-the-end-of-the-arm ride Cliff had given me and wondered what he had in store for me this time.

I turned back to my computer, closed Photoshop and dug into my homework.

With the auditions the next afternoon, we had to do a little ride shuffling Wednesday morning. I took my Jeep to school and Beth drove Greg and Cindy to the U. After classes Greg and Cindy would drive Beth's Jeep back to the duplex and I would meet Beth at the audition. I had a sneaky feeling my lady was going to need some moral support.

"Oh, Tommy, am I glad to see you!" When I got to the theatre Beth had been pacing back and forth outside the building, wearing a path in the light snow that had fallen on the sidewalk. I've never encountered a boa constrictor, but I now think I have a pretty good idea what it would feel like to be caught in its tightening grip.

"Hey," I said as soon as I could get my breath back, "would I leave you here by yourself? I mean, I know what you theatre wenches are like. I might never see you again!"

"You goof! I'm just glad you're here. I checked inside and there's no problem with just watching the auditions. Steve Lang, the head of the group, just laughed when I asked and said a lot of people do that."

"How many stick around and audition?" I asked.

"I don't know. Steve didn't say."

Once inside we grabbed a couple of seats in the back of the house and watched as the auditions progressed.