So you can see the whole progression.

“Focus people focus,” says Professor Willingham from the quiet part of the room. He is explaining, head down, eyes forward under brow reinforced by a knitted black ribbed hat. Hands wave a forward attack, like the extended aware paws protecting the belly of a cat on his back.

“None of you in here are real artists. Stop living in your glamorous inside worlds.” With steady hand movements the professor describes his first Discman. Sony. Three hundred dollars. Sold his record collection for it. Broke one year later.

Professor Willy, as some students call him, leans forward, intense and unimposing, to discuss the color wheel with a student. His nose is flushed; he wears a gray sweater and drinks from a maroon Dunkin Doughnuts travel mug. “You can say a lot with color with out using a lot of color.” He points with his pinkie, “Sometimes when you choose to apply a lot of bold primary colors, the act of using the color takes over what is actually to be conveyed. You can learn to use color to accentuate your message. You can use specific colors to impress certain things.”

As I sit in Design II listening to the interactions and disruptions of classmates I remember my projects for Drawing Composition and how dried up I feel. My drawing process is frozen and blocked up. In class Professor Willy told me that my drawings “were mushy and chaotic.” When I asked my boyfriend for some feedback and he looked at me, his eyes expectant. Wondering whether to tell it straight then shrugging away the worry of criticism he says, “They are ungrounded.” I sigh, nodding in agreement as I go back to work. I am tired of being ungrounded, tired of trying without seeing my progress toward a given goal. A barrier has been created and I am searching for a way to tear it down.

Giving directions to an event, Professor Willy positions visuals with his arms for the student, showing where to take a left turn after the virtual buildings up ahead. He looks back to check in with the student whose head is still turned, attentive, to her professor. Students around the room at white tables use various shades of primary colors, red, yellow, and blue; they share conversations and an alternate productive silence. They talk of music, concerts, cars, annoying attachments, life, teachers, and the collage projects in front of them. The list on the board notes that the series due next week must contain not only these collages but also three paintings of their study. Include a monochromatic piece. Then work with one primary, two primaries and now three. Value. Final piece is open pallet. Work with your value scheme.

So you can see the whole progression. Earrings dance, foot shuffles, slight stirring of a lisp. Professor raises his eyebrows to his forehead, wrinkles appear not unlike the isolated wrinkles of his knees in otherwise crisp jeans, as if they were hung on a paper doll. Chest level hands articulate, not grasping at but holding tangible space in the air. “How do you titillate and ocelot?” Giggles. What's and ocelot? It's in between a jaguar and a bobcat. “You oscillate his tit a lot.”

While you work he stops you in your tracks. This is really significant. Hands move as if to tussle a young boy's hay colored hair. Nods as if he is drinking wine or sake. Hand slid into a fitting pocket. Gracefully points out missing clarity. But, it is salvageable! He encourages you to continue to develop it. He appreciates this class for it's responsible neatness. Seven minutes left. Time to clean up. They gather near him, close and inquisitive. Tentatively they hover, like patient determined scavenger birds, after some piece, some glimpse of insight from a teacher who may actually have a sense of what they have been trying to tell anyone . “Lost Cause” by Beck plays on the portable CD player borrowed from Lahry who teaches illustration.

“Play with this quality,” says Professor Willy. “See you tomorrow at 11:00.”

Feeling more optimistic, the song ends. The almost unlikely professor walks over to where I have been observing his class. He unwraps a bar of chocolate by tearing off one end not unlike Charlie at the chocolate factory. After offering me some he helps to break off two little squares. He mutters to someone about all of his tacks being gone, mentioning that most of them are out in the hall. I remember that they are holding up a series done by a girl in my class. Nine self-portraits. About fifteen smudgings of hand prints ground into leftover charcoal and eraser on a work surface and a number of palpable bird studies.

I've spent time in the hall lately looking at the series. I am inspired and intimidated by how willing and open one has to be in order to do and accomplish something like sitting through nine self-portraits. I am in awe of her techniques and level of comfort with our charcoal medium. Also I try to distinguish what it is that is stopping me from being able to define aspects of my drawings. What am I shying away from?

Amy, the director of the college art gallery, walks in to talk to Chris. She hurries through the door and slows down when she nears him, face rushed with well-fed color. When I met her last fall I remember her seeming hesitant and pale, now she is playful. “I found your keys,” she tells him.

“Where were they?” He smiles openly with her, perched on the edge of the table, his legs are swinging.

“They were in my bed,” handing the keys over, Amy glows and he grasps the keys in both hands. Students remain unaware, immersed in their classmates and the packing up of paint. I witness my professor almost overwhelmed by a moment of perfect contentedness, but he is instead basking in it. Energy is evident by the light in his eyes. He licks his lips and swallows as though he is hungry. Lines linger around the outer corners of his eyes. He stares after her as she walks away, heels audible down the corridor of the Art and Music building.

Scattered cleanup activities come to a close with the zipping of portfolios and jackets. I conclude my observational notes knowing that if I manage to scratch the surface of something even remotely tangible I will have done my part. But, my part of what? How can one know if there is progress when there is no relevant immediate end? What kind of idea can be developed through charred wood imprints on tree pulp, other than an illustrative picturesque glimpse of a glamorous inside world?