Page 158 of Crystal Iris
“I can’t do that today. I’m being… reviewed.”
“What?”
“Yeah, they do that sometimes. Have someone sit in on the class, evaluating.”
“Why are you only telling me this now?”
“I’m not worried.”
“I can see that.”
“I don’t mind it, really.” I finish putting my shoes on.
“I just got you a car. The driver’s waiting. Get out of here,” he says, handing me my bag.
“Have a safe flight, call me after the surgery,” I say, pressing the elevator button.
“By the way—last night, best night of my life,” he tells me, and I look at him.
“I love you,” I say as the elevator opens.
“Seriously, get out of here before I throw you in the pool.”
I bring my index finger to my lips, then gesture it to his, just like he did before, and leave.
Thirty-Three
“The aim of art is to represent not the outward appearance of things, but their inward significance.” – Aristotle
Imake it to the classroom just in time; luckily, the hotel was only fifteen minutes away. Flynn is the last one to enter the room, and I wait for him to sit before beginning. I’ve chosen the controversial paintingThe Ugly Duchessby the Flemish artist Quentin Matsys (1513) for the lecture. I know I’m taking a risk, but I doubt Walter Flynn wants to hear about da Vinci again.
There’s something about having my lessons reviewed that reminds me of being a student myself. And yet, I don’t mind it at all. If I’m being honest, I welcome it with open arms. I’m not entirely sure why. However, after last night, I learned something about myself: I like the attention—not exactly on my body, but on me in general. Especially when it comes to my work. I’m proud of what I know, how I think, how I feel about the arts. I don’t mind being evaluated because I want recognition.
I don’t mention Flynn to the students; I want them to ask their questions, participate like any other day—even if the one being judged is me and not them. The auditorium is packed. They probably don’t even notice the stocky old man in the back.
“The painting looks brighter in person,” says Mary. Somestudents roll their eyes. Mary has a way of always mentioning her travels.
“There are a few different theories about who is being portrayed in this oil painting. Anyone want to share what they know?” I ask.
“Wasn’t she the ugliest woman in history?” says a tall blonde girl. I’ve forgotten her name.
“This woman was mistakenly identified as Margaret Maultash, Duchess of Carinthia and Countess of Tyrol. Enemies called her that,” I explain. “Any other guesses?”
“Is this a satirical portrait?” asks Gil.
“Why do you think that?” I ask him.
“Because of her wrinkled skin, the withered breasts…” he answers.
“Why would Matsys want to make fun of her?” I ask.
“She looks like a man,” says Terry.
“Let’s take a look at what she’s wearing,” I say. “The horned headdress—we know it was out of fashion for the time. Her dress, with its laced corseted front, is outdated as well. We know she must be wealthy from the ornaments and the large gold-and-pearl brooch. If it’s a satire, which many believe it is, then perhaps Quentin could be mocking old women who try to inappropriately recreate their youth.”
“Is she holding a red flower?” asks Mary.
“Yes, although it’s only a bud. Perhaps a symbol of a flower that will never blossom.”
