Rhode Island School of Design

December 1971

MATT PINCK PEELED THE MASKING TAPE FROM HIS CANVAS. He stood back to admire the composition’s additional hard edge of color. "I don’t think, at this point, we need to be told blue plus yellow makes green." He rolled the spent tape into a ball and let it drop to the floor. "I don’t know why you insist on being intimidated by the guy."

          Rayann Ward sat with her tubes of paint. She worked at cleaning dried pigment from the caps. "I’m not intimidated. I just don’t want his crit going crazy cross-eyed at me. That kind of thing can traumatize me for ages."

          Matt saw her lie. But that was what he liked about her, how she turned her awkwardness into style. He said, "Ray– your lil’ biddy helpless southern girl crap is getting old. Cheer up."

          She said, "Last time, he cut you down for using Color-aid. Told you, ‘painting wasn’t for decorators.’ It was funny, though, cause you turned white as a sheet."

          "You thought he cut me down? The guy’s a pompous ignoramus. What was Galhower thinking? ‘Visiting professor,’ my ass."

          Another student entered the room. He walked to his easel and dropped his backpack there. He said, "I happen to like what the man has to say."

          "Say?" said Matt. "You’re kidding."

          "True," said Niall Noolan. "He points much and says little. Where Royce says much with little point."

          "Oh, great," said Rayann. "It’s the battle of the putdowns. Niall, you’re worse than Matt. And now Cowsey’s about to walk in here for the final crit. I think I need some novocaine."

          "You’re right, Niall," said Matt. "Since he obviously has no clue about current thinking, I’m happy that he dismisses my work with as few words as possible."

          "Who? Cowsey?" said a new arrival, Lori. Her hair was long, seeming to drag her shoulders down. She came in the studio with Steve.

          "Man!" said Steve. "Just came from Bell’s Renaissance thing. For the final he showed us a bunch of slides and wanted us to tell all the economic and political context about the paintings. And the dates. I never wrote down so much bullshit in my life." Steve, smooth faced, matured himself with wire-rimmed glasses and a ponytail.

          "I mean," said Lori, "I know he hates my paintings, and now– he didn’t even look my way at the last crit. What’s he going to do, now?"

          "What do you expect," said Steve. "Charcoal smudges on the wall?"

          "That’s easy," said Matt. "If he gives you a hard time, complain to Galhower. How were you supposed to improve if he didn’t tell you anything?"

          "Gag," said Rayann. "You guys are so insecure. We’ll soon be rid of him–"

          "I’m not insecure," said Lori. "I’m terrified." She laughed: "Oh, God– why did You make artists with so many nerves?"

          At that moment, visiting professor Carl Cowsey walked in, and Rayann dropped the tube of paint she was cleaning. It fell and hit a folding metal chair, making like a gong.

__

Cowsey lit another cigarette. "I inhale the white sky. For the sky is the substance and it must be tasted like burnt clouds. This Providence sky– not different from Button’s. A one semester stint– it’s more than enough time to prove that. In conclusion, I am no less ready to die. At the end of your course, if you don’t find your core bruised, then you haven’t attempted anything. The rainwater crawls cold into your clothes the moment you know you’re a stranger. The inverse glow of darkness, the exact reproach of a clean, white canvas– and they think their hope is virtue! Stupidity, youth, brilliance– they have it all and I have nothing to tell them. I shall say, ‘You need the final cancelation of all artistic strength. You need the final black glue for all your lies. You need to come to your day of disgust.’ Lori may be the exception. She is the only exception. Yes, I gave her too hard a blow. Maybe not? She left the white canvas and started rubbing graphite on the walls– her taste of passing shadows. She has one whole corner of the studio looking like time’s dirty footprint. Some kind of reintegration is needed here. But if she hears it from me, or anybody else, it would not be her own– could fly away. She needs to stop her ears– abandon art school now. Quick. The rest of them– all ready to astonish the art world. It doesn’t matter. They won’t last. That Niall Noolan– he’s the worst. It stood out from the first. Diligence– that’s his beginning of troubles. I told him, ‘Mr. Noolan, stop right now and take a look at your palette. Some people never take their colors out of their candy wrappers. They never even begin to taste their potential. But you have stomped them into a muddy pulp.’ and he says, ‘Mud is all we have.’ Typical Irish bastard– knows beforehand his efforts will be discounted. The black hair and gray eyes – vivid – reminds me of that scrawny hubcap boy who wished to be an American. I remember the name, Leblanc, the ruin, and some mule of his, and the sky over Ireland– now, that was a little different. Maybe I should inhale it once more. Noolan– he’s earnest, and he’ll use it to bury himself. Defiant, too. Which means he’ll stick to it, stuff the consequences, make it his life’s work. Yes, I feel pain for him."

          The praise surprised Niall. He said, "Thank–"

          Cowsey said, "But what is this? Some juvenile attempt at bravura?" Cowsey popped a different area of the painting with Niall’s brush. "Noolan! You got ears? You half-awake? Your canvas is only half-awake. I’m not fooled by this slop here." Cowsey poked. "And here and here. I don’t care how long it takes or what it costs you. You got to nail it!" Cowsey pointed at Niall with the #12 bristle. "You want to dash it off, don’t you? You think boldness will carry the day? You think we’ll all stand back and admire your fancy conclusions? Glorified fudging, Noolan. Tripe."

          Niall watched Cowsey’s ire develop, and expected to be struck with that brush, just as the canvas. But Cowsey spoke low: "Noolan: all that is granted to painters is to continue to make strict observations. Make strict observations and you’ll learn."

          Niall Noolan stomached the words. He would think on them later.

          "Alright." Cowsey strolled to a different easel and aimed the pointer at a work by Rayann Ward. He sighed and said, "Now tell me, dear, what you were thinking."

          Rayann didn’t want to reveal anything to Cowsey. If he couldn’t get it by looking, what good would it do to try to explain? She said, "I wasn’t thinking at all– I paint whatever I can’t get out of my head."

          "So, you got it unstuck from your head. Now– what are we given the pleasure of gazing at?"

          "A gesture of my imagination?"

          "Monkeys have gestures. What are you trying to signify here?"

          "Well, I thought, you know, don’t pin yourself down–"

          "Well, you succeeded. I’m not pinned down at all. And I’m going to walk right past your doodle and go on to a more decisive student, unless you can pin me with something. So what is it?"

          Rayann dreaded this man, but also wanted help, and he really did ask the question that mystified her. She could act confused; it was always the best way to put people off. She could easily make his words seem unintelligible, and they wouldn’t hurt as much. The problem was, she did want to draw people to her paintings, like she herself had been drawn. But what was the purple sky and the blue trees all about? Was her intuition random, or was she trying to say something specific? If she couldn’t tell what that was, how could anybody else get it?

          A spasm of mirth ensued, the final product of the sneers about Cowsey from the whole semester. Matt Pinck, having put himself out on a limb, felt that limb begin to crack; not that he didn’t welcome the added weight of his mates snickers, but Cowsey glared at him with the ferocious stare of one who’d fought too many battles to be trifled with now.

          Steve took his chance and said, "Yeah, ha ha. I don’t need your crap, man."

__

"He saw through me. The only odd thing is neither of us really cared. I saw the catalogue for the Boston show; and there was that short review in Art News. I invited him; he came. We had cocktails at the house. He saw my studio. My paint ‘looked dry,’ he said. We knew what he meant by that and neither of us cared. For I’ve painted and repainted my tiny ‘thought figurines’ on black fields and re-arranged them for so long, I can no longer tell the difference. And really, when the film department came out with the stop-action piece about my process, that was the art. A ten minute film. Long enough. He asked about student development. I told him the seniors were self-directed at this point and only needed articulation. He said, ‘What the hell is that?’ and I laughed. I did tell him that I had been keeping my eye on one student, here on scholarship. Interesting young man, except for one unfortunate Wintersession project. I didn’t tell our visiting professor why, but I wanted to compare notes: would this young man capitulate to expressionism and echo my own betrayals, or if not, would I feel any remorse? But I can’t compare notes. He never regained consciousness...

          "Where things stand. At the request of the Dean, I sent a personal note to each post box of the five dangerously traumatized and vulnerable painting students. The message extended my sympathy and offered a mandatory counseling session squeezed in for today– we had to get it in before winter break. We’ll convene here comfortably in my office. I shall preside, along with a psychiatrist. The Dean thought so, for RISD’s protection, that an attorney should be here, but at least she will be female. A ruptured brain aneurism. I don’t think Carl Cowsey lasted the night."

          Galhower waited at his office window. He watched Benefit Street three stories below him. As the students walked by, he could easily distinguish the painters from the photographers, the architects, and the graphic designers, for his students’ clothes had the trademark smears of paint. On his own attire, no– it had been a very long time.

__

They came in. There was coffee for them. After introductions, Galhower began: "This certainly has been a surprise, and a sad event. I suppose all of you are having very strong feelings and I’m told this is perfectly normal. It is suggested that what we want to do is take a deep breath, and to talk things out as we need to. We are here to support you."

          Rayann, the one who had knelt by Cowsey and asked if he was alright, began. "I don’t know, it just seems like it was our fault. We were giving him a hard time, and you know..."

          Yeah," said Lori, "I can’t get it out of my mind. God, I’m having nightmares." Lori felt guilty over her relief that Cowsey had died before he could review her wall smudges.

          Steve whispered to Matt, "Whoa, what’s a lawyer doing here?"

          "First of all," said psychiatrist, Dr. Winnie, "you need to understand that Mr. Cowsey’s condition, was medical and pre-existing. You did not cause his death. The physiological weakness he suffered could have affected him at any time. Everyone needs to completely understand this. Now: are we experiencing trauma? Of course. We can deal with that. But do not blame yourself for this man’s death. Unfortunately, it was waiting to happen."

          "That’s a relief," said Steve with an attempt at irony: "So we’re not going to be sued."

          Royce said, "You are not going to be sued."

          Dr. Winnie offered: "Would anyone like to tell me about Mr. Cowsey, as a person?"

          After a silence, Royce suggested, "He was... a good man."

          "He was a fascist," said Steve, "but it’s not like we were going to kill him for it. Peace!"

          Matt leaned in towards Steve and muttered, "Brave talk now that Cowsey’s out of the way?"

          "You did not kill him," said Dr. Winnie. "But we can deal with your feelings of having felt as if you killed him. The first step to healing is to say how you feel. Do any of you have feelings of anger?"

          "I’m not angry," said Matt. "I’m bored."

          "God, Matt," said Lori, "can’t you just be normal?"

          "Who’s angry?" asked Rayann. "Why should we be angry?"

          Dr. Winnie explained, "Though we all confirm you did nothing to precipitate Mr. Cowsey’s death, you may feel you were exposed to a certain level of stress. And possibly you may feel a little frustrated about that."

          Niall winced, scratched his head, and shifted in his chair. "Well, I’m bloody well angry," he said. "You say we didn’t kill him. You say, ‘twas bound to happen. There’s a little problem with that. The problem is, it happened in our studio, at that precise moment. What we did caused that aneurism to burst right then. His life ended right there, not next week, next year– whatever. It was us who stopped his life. If you want us to feel better, if you want us to heal, then you’d better speak sanity first, because what you’re saying now is a lot of bloody nonsense."

          Galhouer cleared his voice and mused, "One cannot treat a tragedy with insanity and expect good results. Niall has a point. Maybe we should begin this discussion a different   way?"

          "Okay," said Dr. Winnie, "Perhaps we should begin again. So Niall, you feel you should have done something to prevent it?"

          "Me? We couldn’t tolerate the man for just a couple of months. But I guess no one wants their glorious canvasses called ‘puny,’ no matter how much they deserve it."

          "Niall," said Matt, "The man was at best, a distraction. Sorry, but that’s the way I see it."

          "Hey Roy," said Steve, "How do you select these visiting professors, anyway? Seems sort of hit or miss–"

          Niall said, "Matt, Steve, and the rest of you– did you consider for one second that you could have just shut your gobs and listened? Would it have deflated your balloons that much?"           "Listened!" said Matt. "You’ve got to be kidding. All he ever did was use some kind of a poker, whacking anything within reach, shouting, ‘Structure! Bones!’ You’re completely deluded, Niall."

          "Niall is fine," said Rayann.

          Niall grew calm. "I thought it was famous. He certainly wasn’t one to tweedle. The harder he poked the more he thought we’d get it. No moping and dabbing allowed. But we wouldn’t have any of it. So–" He got up. "I think I’m done here now. If everything is smoothed over to everyone’s satisfaction?"

__

The counseling session done, Matt suggested everybody meet later at the Tap Room, to mellow out. Niall knew the real reason: Matt would not be delivered of Cowsey so easily. Niall decided to go anyway, but really for the same reason. He shamed himself by being the first to arrive, so he made excellent work toward demolishing a pitcher of dark.

          "This stuff bears a tormenting resemblance to Murphy’s and’s hardly worth a proper binge."

          "What are you talking about now?" Matt said. He came with Rayann. They pulled out chairs, legs thumping the floor. They set out a fresh pitcher, two glasses, a basket of peanuts.

          "Here you are to the rare comfort of existence." Niall leaned back, chin on his chest. "There’s not much of a crowd, and I pass the time examining the cavity of my peanut shell..."

          Rayann hung her Indian beaded shoulder bag on the back of her chair. "Don’t you love it, Niall, being the only soul in the universe? But don’t worry, we’re coming to sit with you."

          "...and this dingy, windowless hovel, set upon a hill, thrives as an escape for only souls in the universe by its disengagement from all things visual."

          Matt said, "Anyway, now the hierarchy can feel consoled about letting us go; we can all proceed along our separate paths and enjoy our winter breaks with clean consciences."

          "Incredible." Niall looked up. "Matt, that’s just what I’ve been thinking. I’ve actually been sitting here thinking about it. This ‘proceed along our separate’ thing of yours. So, give me one good reason to hang about. Earn my degree? Well, that would please Aunt Claire. ‘But Aunt Claire,’ I’ll say, ‘we’ve gone and killed our only decent professor, and they haven’t a spare.’ He’d show us our crimes like a true foe, and punish us till we got it right. By comparison, a friend’s but foolish company. But did he really have to go and utter his last words to me? ‘You have something to contribute, Mr. Noolan?’ Am I cursed, then? For the ruin of my life? Should I have listened to the man at all? If he thought I was catching on, he never showed it. ‘Mr. Noolan– you’re half-awake today..."

          Rayann said, "Niall? Are you okay?"

          Niall raised his glass. "Fad saol agat."

          Matt said, "Niall’s flaking out on us."

          "Didn’t you know I’d be happier with liquid company?"

          "That’s gloomy," she said.

          Niall kept his chin low. "Yes, well, there it is."

          Matt said, "Niall has never been gloomy a day in his life. He’s all sunshine behind those clouds. Come on, Niall, we all loved to hate him. And now, that’s it."

          "No," said Niall. "Basically, I learned some things. Too bad–"

          "Granted. You learned some things."

          "No," said Rayann. "I changed my mind. You don’t look gloomy. A goofy dog lost in the city, maybe. Or a fisherman who hasn’t caught anything. You’ve got to be a fisherman cause you’re wearing your Aran sweater!"

          Rayann felt glad for Niall’s smile, but the way he dragged his hand for the pitcher made her less sure of his mood. It was hard to see his eyes in the Tap Room’s dimness. She said, "Matt, I really think he’s an escaped prisoner. I think we should help him get away."

          "Absolutely," said Matt. "Niall, in fact, thinks we’re all murderers– you know, cutting Cowsey’s life short. That’s dynamite, Niall– really dynamite."

          Niall kept his smile on her: "You, Rayann, should be more glamorous. Not this pretense of plain and ordinary. I know who you are– the ink woman of Dún Coimthioch."

          "What?"

          Matt said, "If blaming everybody makes you feel better, Niall, then you won’t have much company."

          "Can’t we drop it?" she said. "We’re cheering Niall up. By the way. Niall, you’re not staying stuck in Providence over winter break this time. You’re coming with us. Amy’s found a loft in SoHo and says its really great. It’s not fixy but she says come on."

          "He’s coming with us?"

          Niall said, "So it’s a lark about SoHo. Surely rewarding."

          "You can ride down with us in the van," she said.

          "The exile... on the move..." said Niall. "Who’s Amy?"

          "Amy! From photography." said Rayann. "She does the nudes in the snow stuff?"

          "Right–"

          "No. You should come," said Matt. "We’re going to scope out the gallery scene. I want to be absolutely sure my degree project is relevant."

          "Well," said Niall, "if you need SoHo to take the measure of your degree project, then by all means, scope it out to your heart’s content–"

          Matt said, "RISD is an artificial environment, Niall. You can’t just paint for art teachers."

          Rayann said, "Don’t be a lecture, Matt! That doesn’t count right now. But yeah, RISD will be over in just five months. What are you going to do then? What’s back in Ireland? Pots o’ gold? So you’re coming with us to Amy’s."

          "I’m not going back anywhere. Ireland’s got nothing to do with it. But SoHo? You surprise me. Don’t I know you all think I’m a plodder."

          Matt said, "Plodder as you are, Ray and I are going to give you a dose of reality."

          "Hush up, Matt. Niall, you’re not a plodder– you’re our anchor."

          "I thought," said Matt, "he was our fisherman. Fine. Niall can stay here and grow potatoes, if he wants to. Give him a break."

          "Niall isn’t doing potatoes– he’s coming to New York, with us. Come on Niall– they’ll be a zillion things to do."

          "Actually, I’m headed farther south," said Niall. He said the words impulsively. He wanted to derail this prodding. But as he heard himself speak, he wondered if his declaration made sense.

          Matt said, "South."

          "I’m going to scope out the Southern scene. I’m returning from exile. On the Greyhound bus."

          Rayann flipped a peanut in Niall’s direction. "What are you talking about?"

          "My Da’s name was Louis Leblanc. I was born in Mobile, Alabama. I am an exile."

          "No way!" Rayann clapped her hand on the table.

          Lori and Steve came in, completely stoned, and added their number to the table. They eased down their pitcher and dragged over chairs.

          "Now that our fiery trial is over–" said Steve. "Cheers."

          Lori said, "God, that lawyer taking notes and not saying anything. Now I feel illegal about everything. Are we even allowed to do this?"

          Steve said, "Could you dig that note, ‘offering mandatory counseling?’ So what does that mean? Can you believe they brought in a lawyer lady? What a trip."

          "Y’all want to come to SoHo with us?" asked Rayann. "Amy says, ‘Come on.’"

          "It’s family duty for me," said Steve. "Christmas in my family is– ‘offered mandatorily.’"

          "Oh, SoHo would be incredible," said Lori. "But, you know, the holiday thing."

          Rayann said, "Come on, guys. Niall won’t go with us either. Ask him where he’s going. He says he’s going to Alabama! But I think he’s teasing."

          "So Niall, explain yourself," said Steve. "If that’s possible."

          Lori burst a laugh. "How swamped in explanations can we get? ‘Explain yourself?’ Wow. I’m wiped out."

          Niall said, "I come from Alabama with a banjo on my knee."

          Steve said, "You play banjo, too?"

          "Yeah, Niall," said Matt, "Go play something on the piano. It’ll clear your head."

          Niall poured his glass thoughtfully. "It will be a tour. Alabama, Mississippi, Florida–"

          "Florida’s full of Yankees," said Rayann. "Niall, you’re being a blockhead."

          "Now, Georgia– very much worth considering. Rayann’s state. Cowsey’s too. Isn’t it the place where convicts go to make a new life? Like Australia. I read it in my lessons."

          "Convicts," said Matt. "And don’t forget murderers."

          "They were debtors," said Rayann.

          Matt said, "Didn’t he say we were all murderers? And you said he was an escaped prisoner– I’m only agreeing with you, Ray."

          "We’re going to SoHo!" she said.

          "Thanks very much," said Niall. "But I’m not the tag along type."

          "I knew it," said Lori, laughing. "Niall is an escaped prisoner! What did you do?"

          "It’s not the first time I killed a man with my paintbrush," he said.

          "Oh yawn, that’s so hilarious," said Rayann. "You’re warped."

          "You’re right."

          Lori said, "You what?"

          "They said I was too young for attempted murder, being only five years of age, though it was hard for me to understand the different kinds of killing then. But they shipped me off to Ireland, anyway. I did kill a man there. I suppose I still don’t understand it all. Dr. Winnie– now doesn’t she have it all straightened out? ‘Tis a marvel."

          Rayann asked Matt, "Is he teasing?"

          Matt shrugged.

          "Not at all," said Niall. "I’m only trying to say, that should not be enough reason to lock your mother away."

          "Sorry, Niall," said Lori. "Don’t talk any more about it– if you don’t want to. This is all just so far out."

          "Yeah, man. Sorry," said Steve. And to Matt: "What’s he talking about?"

          "No, no," said Niall. "I’m really grateful to all of you. I’m going to see how Carl Cowsey got on in the motherland. It’s brilliant. But have a happy Christmas. And your trip to New York– come back full of inspiration."

__

With winter break there, he must clear out his stuff. No hesitation. Late next afternoon, Niall returned to their top floor studio in College Building.

          He didn’t hit the wall switch. Cold light from the windows gave a vague sheen to the room. Niall stared at the spot where Cowsey fell. The memory had no feeling to it, how Cowsey had lain there, his bladder collapsed, the wet stain in his crotch.

          Niall said, "I’ll have to get out. No matter what it costs. That’s the only way I’ll ever find out."

          "Why is it so easy for you?"

          Niall wondered that he didn’t feel startled. He turned to see Rayann sitting at a work table. She leaned on her elbows, her chin on her fists.

          She said, "Here I am, sitting like a lump, and you’ve got it all figured out already."

          "I suppose there are worse places to sit."

          "I came for my things," she said. "I wanted to sit down."

          "But you aren’t alright."

          "And you don’t know diddly. I’m fine. I don’t think I can paint anymore. So what."

          "Right," he said. "Well, don’t we always feel like that? Isn’t the white, blank canvas such a nuisance?"

          "But you can overcome the nuisance, cause you’ve got something to say. I’ve just been going along."

          "Don’t pretend to be stupid," he said.

          Her painting with the blue trees and purple sky lay off to the side. Niall put it on an easel. He grabbed Matt’s roll of masking tape, began to tear off short strips, and to stick them down on her canvas. Bit by bit, he masked out the red chimney and the brown horse, the passages Cowsey had condemned.