I hate nearly all the art I made while in high school. What was hailed by my teacher and parents as my crowning achievement, I could see as nothing more than a monument to my failures. As a junior, I began the process of making what can be best described as a duct tape landscape. This mass of tape depicts the chapel that used to be the crown of our Jesuit campus; more specifically its cupola. The board that I used was about as tall as my arm span and nearly three feet wide; it was- is obscenely unwieldy. On it lays four layers of duct tape, five including the stained glass. The first layer is a quasi-galaxy tape with stars and quasars to give a more abstract feel to the piece. The second layer is pure black for shadows; followed by a white layer for the structure of the cupola. Finally, the green layer sits on top to color the faux copper shingles. At the foot of this monstrosity, the white pillars have begun to curl up. One of the ridges on the roof is wider than the others. Towards the top, near the cross, the galaxy tape was stretched too tightly causing it to pull away after being cut, revealing the canvas below. The cross itself is crooked. The stained glass on the first windows is far chunkier and of a less diverse color pallet than the later ones. The first layer of layer of tape that was laid was laid too tightly causing the whole board to arch, thereby pressing the sides against the glass frame. These are my biggest grievances with the piece, had I the work in front of me, I could spend hours points out its flaws, by extension, my failures. I’ve seldom expressed this sentiment with friends or family, when I have they either attribute my narcissism to a cry for affirmation or false humility. Either way, I do thank this piece for teaching me how to keep my mouth shut.
This chapel had previously been the centerpiece of our Jesuit campus. However, after the end of my junior year, it was decided that it should be torn down and rebuilt to accommodate more students since the school only admitted as many students as could fit in the chapel. That chapel was the centerpiece of our campus, but also our lives. Everyone morning the entire school assembled in it. There we sat, brother to brother, rather uncomfortably I might add, for the better part of half an hour, listening to washed up graduates give witnesses or exhortations. Or if we were lucky enough, be lectured at for smoking Huka pens in the bathrooms. I spent many a lunch break inside her comforting walls letting the chaos of high school life pass me by. Yet, it was wrenched from me, from us, Leaving a gaping sore in the middle of our campus and our routines.
The motivation for this work came from a picture I took of the chapel, from the door of our art classroom, with my iPad, much to the dismay of a dear friend of mine, Jared Rupe. He caught me in the act and with palatable distaste, he told me, “You know we have DSLRs for that kind of stuff.” But I paid him no mind, for what could be more fitting than using a picture taken on one of those hellish devices that they announced we would receive in that very chapel. (I know, an odd announcement to make in a chapel)
The teacher that presided over me while I crafted that monstrosity was a very young man named Mr. Ball. Oh, Kevin Ball, with your gently receding hairline, your short stature, lean physic, and sharp chin. God knows you meant me no harm, quite the opposite. For you took more pride in my work than I, but after I was done butchering that canvas, I never wanted it to see the light of day. Eventually, I caved to his will and made that canvas the center of my senior artwork display. After he and I labored to hang that massive work, began the lies. The frame
hung on steel pushpins, so many there were barely enough remaining for the other students to hang their own art. Standing back, with folded arms and fists on hips he admired, and I loathed, my work. “Aren’t you glad you changed your mind?” Mr. Ball asked me, his deadpan voice a little more chipper than usual. Behind it, I could sense his pride. On lips far smoother than my own I replied, “Yes, I know I don’t trust your wisdom often, but this is an exception.” Most of my lies occur through gritted teeth, but this time was different. It was as if someone controlled me now telling me just the right things to say to save face. This spirit of deceit would stay with me all the way through the ensuing art show.
The art show is fun as an observer, not so much as a participant. Torrents of middle-aged women and their rich husbands poured into the multipurpose room. As a senior artist, standing in front of my failure, I had nowhere to hide. They constantly prompted me in their unnaturally high voices, “Oh my! How beautiful! It’s hard to believe something that gorgeous is made out of duct tape! You must be so proud.” But what more could I say besides, “Thank you,” and, “I am.” Oh, how I wished they would leave me. “Go, admire the work worthy of your praises, they are just over there you fools,” I wished to proclaim. But alas, I was trained with a good tong, one so good it even dared to defy my will.
At the end of the year, every senior artist must clear out the garbage, or art if you will, that he has produced during the years. I was no exception. About a week before classes ended, I had already cleared out everything in my draws and said my final goodbyes to my classmates and Mr. Ball. Everything but my AP portfolio that had just come back the final day of school. So, after getting a blast email from Kevin reminding all students to in nicer terms, “get their shit and go” I made the trek back. Thankfully, when I arrived Mr. Ball was occupied with other students, and made no notice of me, as I made no attempt to be noticed. I found the bag with my
AP art pieces and turned to leave when almost magically he apparated in front of me. With one eyebrow raised (far more expression than usual) he pointed with a finger covered in charcoal to that execrable chapel leaning against the table, and said, “I’m not sure how, but you forgot that.” With two light thumps to his arm, I slid past him to the door, turned and replied, “Elephants never forget Mr. Ball. I left it there on purpose. It’s a present.” With furrowed brows and a half-open jaw trying to articulate, he failed to get the words out. “You have far more use for it than I do,” I continued. I pushed open the door, his expression slacked to that of disappointment and gratitude. I turned, and without looking, I wished him the best, and ordered him to take care. I’ve never gone back to visit, and unless a holy wind is to sweep through me to soften my heart, I doubt I ever will.
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