Philosophy Tales – Life is an artist
'Silence!'; blasted from the quivering chords and
through the aged, pursed lips of a learned man causing the chit chat and
bustling of the year-eight class of Ginningberg school to fade to a few brave
murmurs.
'Today, you will be trying to produce a
work of Art!' Mr Klein stated. 'Now, what is Art you may ask and you do ask.'
He began in the same manner with
the same speech every Tuesday afternoon, putting this question into the mouths
of students who never had even fathomed it, let alone asked it.
'Yes Art!' Some of the attentive pupils
sarcastically mouthed along.
'Not Mathematics, not Science and not
English, but Art!' he said; in an authoritative voice with a lingering Germanic
accent. Mr Klein passionately
continued pacing around the classroom, 'Art is the creation from a manifold of
impressions, gathered together by the tools of the mind, than reframed by the
powers of the imaginative...'
'What is he on about?' Sel whispered to his unsuspecting crush.
'What is he on about?' Sel whispered to his unsuspecting crush.
'Art obviously.' she giggled.
'Art is the bla bla of the bla bla, de bladdy bla.'
he humoured boyishly.
Mr Klein was still
executing his inordinate speech; “....and transported to a blank canvas. Take
control, take control of life!”
'Art is life force.' Sel joked,
holding his finger above his top lip to mimic Mr Klein’s rather scruffy
moustache, but he suddenly stopped as he saw a flash of disdain from those
haggard, coffee'd up eyes; they daren’t speak again.
Summing up with some pompous words Mr
Klein placed some quite peculiar, gothic looking objects in the centre of each
table, returned to his bureau and slumped in his chair.
'Begin!' he shouted, throwing his
nimble hands into the air then through his white untamed hair. And the class
began.
Paint was squeezed into pallets;
brushes were whirling around like the drum of a washing machine meshing colours
into concoctions. Blank canvases
were tarnished -some more delicately than others- and the year eight pupils
painted the peculiar objects as My Klein
occasionally jolted and mumbled some inaudible gibberish in the
background.
In the centre of Sel’s table was a
globular gargantuan thing, he knew not what it was, but he proceeded to paint
to the best of his ability, hoping to impress, as did the rest of the class.
'Life is an artist and you are its
masterpiece, but take heed as you too can cast your impressions.'
A few eyebrows raised and the corners
of mouths irked into smiles as glances were exchanged among children in the
quiet shared knowledge of not understanding anything Mr Klein uttered. Approximately twenty minutes had
passed, mostly filled with rumour and showing off, not much producing a work of
Art.
'Enough!!!' and the class dropped their
apparatus and stood, unable to predict their teachers next moves. “Let me ask you a question?” Mr Klein
said as he analysed their portraits. 'Is a mirror an Artist?'
There was silence.
'Well, is it?' There was a clear
lack of enthusiasm to answer this question.
'No.' Sel thought his crush brave
for answering.
'And why not, Loiussssssse?' Mr
Klein hissed edging closer and closer, but she could not elaborate.
'Because it has no creativity, Sir, Mr,
eh.' Sel swooped in heroically, like Tarzan to save Jane from a giant ungroomed
baboon. Mr Klein’s moustache
snarled up until some of his hairs entered his nostrils.
'And would you say creativity is a
requirement to be an artist?' Mr Klein pushed.
'Er, well, um.' Sel stammered
uncontrollably, not sure whether he said something wrong or right, despite the
fact it seemed as though there was no right or wrongs in Art; but this was Mr
Klein we were talking to.
'Creativity is ‘the’ requirement!' his German accent aggressively protruded
through his eloquent English. 'A mirror merely replicates its surroundings and
what have you done? What are these portraitures? They are replica; mass
production! Are you mirrors? Passive! Pointless! Merely representing
representations which may in turn be representing something further still? I am
in no need of murkier waters. Now paint!'
The class continued to paint; some of
their nerves had caused their wrists to vibrate giving some kind of blurred
affect to their pictures. No one knew what Mr Klein wanted; no one knew what to
do. His language was cryptic. Most had just grasped that they shouldn’t be
mirrors, whatever that meant. Many
questioned if their portraitures were like reflections, they did not think
their painting that good. And it wasn’t. Alas, none questioned Mr Klein’s
authority; he had a degree.
'Life, a great Artiste, will beat you
black and blue, green with envy, or rouge with embarrassment. Let life be the
artist and I its master piece.' Mr Klein’s voice gradually elevated louder and
louder. 'That is what you class are, Art; determinants of its great
interpretation. But develop,
develop into Artists and paint life. Decide what is beautiful or hateful, good
or useful and realise that Art is more than impressions; it is interpretation,
judgement, choice. Become. Interpret the world. Thrive and make life your
masterpiece!'
Something had happened inside Sel’s
head, something magical triggered by Mr Klein’s grandiose speech and he painted
like he had never painted before. It was like although something had possessed
him. Sel frantically painted, jolting and twitching. His eyes had glazed over as Mr Klein’s words went around and
around.
'Finished!' Sel’s hands automatically
flung into the air; exposing his stomach. You could see the air pumping in and
out of his fragile frame and a creepy, disconcerting smile had seized his
countenance. The children
gathered around and awed at his creation, ‘ewing’ and ‘arrring’.
Mr Klein slowly approached and the
children stood to the side allowing this great man to inspect this
creation. He scanned his eyes over
the piece, examining every particle of paint before he turned to Sel who was in
a frenzied state. Mr Klein’s lips parted, his tongue hit the back of his
exposed teeth
'Terrible!' he said spraying his saliva
all over the class.
“BRRRIIIINNNNNGGGGGGG”
The school bell rang; time for RE.
By Ellese Elliott
