Academism (1)
Me? Yes, I'm a Student. For now, at least. Once today's evaluation is over, that title might change a bit. Still, I'm looking forward to it. This piece turned out quite intriguing, you see.
The theme of this assignment was "Curves." Everyone else connected them smoothly, balanced them out, and tidied them up nicely. The execution was solid enough... but a little too straightforward. So I pared it down to just one principle: transition. Where it bends, where it flows. I stripped away everything else to let that flow stand out.
I run my fingertips lightly along the spine of the work. The ribs part thinly between them, and one shoulder is deliberately lowered a touch more. The slight imbalance like this makes it so much clearer than perfect symmetry. Ah, I left the surface rough on purpose. When light grazes the texture, the muscle fibers and fat layers overlap naturally, carrying the flow onward—not breaking, but spilling over. Can you see it? This transition.
Heh heh... This one's gallery-worthy.
"Student No. 124. Yura."
The Docent in the white uniform calls my name. His collar is crisp, his gaze cuts short and sharp. In his hand, a red pen—and at its end, a large brush with a faint trace of blood. Ah... pointillism. Pointillists are all strict, they say. It fits.
"Explain it."
"The title of this piece is... 'Transition—Opening and Deviation.'"
"It's composed along a single central line. Where it bends, where it flows. I kept only those changes and removed the rest."
The pen moves. A short line, then another beside it.
"Follow this line, and your eye will move naturally. I left only the points of overflow, not pause."
"The basic axis is the spine. Repeating units create rhythm, and parting the ribs slightly lets the space breathe."
A red line slashes across the center.
"I placed the humerus atop it, weighting one side. Revealing direction matters more than balance."
"I didn't refine the surface. When light hits, muscle fibers emerge first, bridged by fat layers, so the structure reads anew."
"I think... that covers it."
The pen scratches the paper briefly, then drops with a sharp clack.
"Body School, huh."
"Yes, that's right."
I answer curtly. His gaze dips briefly, then rises. Ah... this is where it hinges. Body School isn't faring well these days.
"There was a time when grotesque-forward works dominated... but that's played out now. Exposing form, emphasizing contrast, provoking disgust—that Body School approach has been done to death."
His eyes scan the piece slowly.
"Dragging it out now lacks novelty. In short... it's stale."
"That's how it looks to you."
I catch my breath, then continue.
"I saw it differently. Not using the grotesque, but the structure it leaves behind. Provocation is passé."
"So I stripped it away. Emptied the exaggerations, kept the central line. Transition over disgust."
"For overused expressions... preserving surface shock is less fitting than isolating the structure."
The Docent falls silent for a moment... then picks up the pen again. Red ink dots the page in short, even bursts.
"I understand the intent."
His gaze sweeps the work once more.
"Reducing to form, leaving structure—it's not a bad approach. However..."
The pen tip taps the surface lightly.
"The reduction lacks control."
A red line traces the muscle fibers long and bold.
"The saturation and brightness on the surface move independently. For transition, the flow should connect naturally."
The pen pauses below the ribs.
"But here, the layers separate. It reads as rupture, not movement."
A brief silence. His gaze drifts slowly to the spine.
"The composition too."
The pen tip follows the central axis.
"If you've deviated the weight, the tension to bear it must hold. But the spine's rhythm breaks at the core."
His eyes flick up sharply.
"It's not imbalance."
"It's a structure that can't support itself. So it reads as collapse, not direction."
One final line on the paper.
"What remains must be precise, proportional to what's removed."
The Docent concludes quietly.
"But this piece... only the gap between intent and result lingers."
The pen draws one last line.
"Student No. 124."
Yes, I'm listening.
"F. Fail."
Ah.
"...Pardon? I didn't hear that wrong, did I?"
"Fail."
My breath catches. Fingertips tremble faintly. The flow shatters right there.
"How many... is this?"
"The third."
My mouth dries. Cools. Blood chills.
"...I see. So that's..."
The Docent cuts in.
"...This critique exceeds the limit. Three cumulative fails—no further evaluation for Student No. 124."
The pen caps.
"Per the rule granting death's rest to stagnant artists... execution."
"..."
For a moment, no sound reaches me.
"Heh heh... Ah, right."
I lift my head.
"But that critique... isn't it a bit off?"
My voice sharpens slightly.
"...Student."
Other students grab me. Arms press from all sides.
"Even seeing this... no... progress?"
Breath quickens.
"No. You're just blind to it."
I lock eyes.
"Brightness contrast... saturation family... grain direction, fiber alignment, weight deviation, transition phases—all placed with care!"
My seized body lurches forward.
"Surface flows... interior breaks—no, not breaks—"
Breath heaves.
"It's overflow, not rupture. I captured that flow—"
The Docent smiles faintly.
"Student No. 124. Rich vocabulary... but disconnected."
His gaze lowers slowly.
"Muscle fibers, transition, weight... you trot them out. But no talent to bind them into structure."
Paper rustles.
"Records show... always at the bottom. Last assignment too, dead last, right?"
"..."
"Explains it."
Softer, but clear.
"I knew this result was coming."
"You've lingered in the same spot forever."
He twirls the pen lightly.
"Might've been better off elsewhere than art."
A faint smile flickers.
"Fixer work, say... or rote labor."
"Then, as an artist... you might've met a less pathetic end."
Breath stops.
"No..."
Arms tighten.
"That's... not it."
Vision shakes.
"I... I...!"
Breath breaks. Arms squeeze harder.
"I have talent."
I force my gaze up.
"It might not show now... but it's building."
"It was connecting. It'll show someday. Everything will link."
"Brightness, structure, flow... I can reach that end."
"Just a little more polish..."
The Docent's eyes dip briefly.
"...Too much noise. Elements blurring the points will be removed."
"...Forms I haven't shown yet remain."
The pen snaps shut. The brush rises slowly.
Then swings.
Vision splits. Light flashes.
Then nothing.
Light fades in dimly. At first, I think it's afterimage. But no. A faint halo drifts slowly across my vision. It scatters, then reconnects—seems broken, but doesn't collapse. As if clinging to form.
"...Is this the afterlife?"
The words slip out quietly, lingering thin in the air. My gaze rises again. The halo sways slowly. A perfect closed circle. Endless structure.
"...Or another singularity?"
That instant.
A warm trickle slides down my forehead.
I brush it lightly with my fingertips. Red. Still warm flow.
I survey slowly. Open outdoor space. A massive cathedral fills my eyes. Gothic spires stretch skyward, red light spilling thin from stained glass onto the floor. And at its center, I lie.
"...Ah, you're awake."
Someone leans in beside me. A short silver-haired student exhales in relief.
"You okay? Scared us when you dropped like that."
"Hit your head first—still with it?"
"...Me?"
"Don't remember?"
A student behind speaks with exasperation.
"You climbed to the cathedral top. Hung red cloth and did that... performance art thing."
"Who knew you'd actually fall..."
"The rope snapping at the end—part of the act?"
"...Or just an accident?"
Students murmur.
Performance art. I like the ring of it.
I rise slowly. No issues with movement. Joints, bones—all intact.
"Ha... haha..."
My lips curve up slowly.
"Death... isn't the end, after all?"
My gaze traces the halo upward.
"Ahh... so beautiful."
"Colors I've never seen in the city."
"...Hit your head too hard?"
"Hey, call medical."
Footsteps echo distantly. Wind shakes red fabric scraps; a severed wire sways slow below the railing.
I watch it a moment, then look skyward.
The halo. Endless closed circle.
And in this new space.
"...This time. I want to reach somewhere even more beautiful."