7 FOURTH YEAR G DESIGN \ {} OUT OF A CONGLOMERATION OF — mbroidery panels, and curtains, screens, and bags of glaze the girl took time for a breath of air before again plunging in with all fours. But while ‘up for air’’ she very rapidly told me to go about my business. “We artists have no time for magazines. Go away!” Tackling the subject with some finesse | began to get results. Why did you come to art school? What was it like at first? A dreamy yet mischievous look crept in—’’Ah, those were the days we knew things—now we never know about anything really—we drew and we absorbed prin- ciple after principle and we loved every minute of it. With almost diabolical glee we would reduce the Moderns to ashes.” And then a pause while the girl adjusted her smock about her hips. To prod her on | said, “But Van Gogh and his colours, didn’t you—?” With a far-seeing, Sphinx-like air she said, ‘“Ah yes, sunflowers and peas- ants and colours! But you can’t appreciate colour until you paint. And that was second year. Light, light on texture with oils and canvas nearby. What capaci- ties one has for joy!. And attics with candles and budgets, and tokens in gas meters. And the time the landlady... “’! “Yes, yes?’’ | began eagerly. “You wouldn't understand,”” she said sorrowfully to me, the uninitiated one to all this madness. “But if you loved painting why this?’ | said pointing to the panels and the pottery. The girl patiently explained, ‘’You see | was young once, young enough to think | might want to teach. Long, long ago. But one has to have the physique of an amazon and the patience of a spider and who in this school has that? Besides my feet used to hurt standing up all day.” The girl made a violent lunge at a piece of material the janitor was about to dispose of. “You destroyer of genius! You murderer of the aesthetic! That is my mas- terpiece!’’ And taking the material which the janitor had relinquished helplessly she proceeded to stuff it into a desk already crammed with linoleum, paints, copper, curtains and books. Meekly | asked her what she was going to do upon graduation . . . “Why create, of course,’ she answered, puzzled at my ignorance, ‘‘start a school or sump’n. What matter?’’ And with her finger shaking under my nose she bellowed, ‘But | wouldn't trade my lot for any other in Christendom. It’s my life and | love it!’’ With that the girl disappeared into the conglomeration of screens and panels and curtains with an unmistakable air of finality. “Ah me!” | sighed, ‘The flowering of the spirit!’’ Only then, | became aware of a gentleman with bushy eyebrows standing beside me. | looked at him quizzically. He returned my look with a twinkling smile, a vague gesture of the hands—and walked away. | learned later that he was the principal of the school. PO UR-Piay — Aas DESIGN OUT OF A CONGLOMERATION OF roidery panels, and curtains, screens, and bags of glaze the girl took time for a breath of air before again plunging in with all fours. But while “up for air’ she very rapidly told me to go about my business. “We artists have no time for magazines. Go away’ Tackling the subject with some finesse | began to get results. Why did you come to art school? What was it like at first? A dreamy yet mischievous look crept in—‘‘Ah, those were the days we knew things—now we never know about anything really—we drew and we absorbed prin- ciple after principle and we loved every minute of it. With almost diabolical glee we would reduce the Moderns to ashes.”” And then a pause while the girl adjusted her smock about her hips. To prod her on | said, “But Van Gogh and his colours, didn’t you—?”” With a far-seeing, Sphinx-like air she said, “Ah yes, sunflowers and peas- ants and colours! But you can’t appreciate colour until you paint. And that was second year. Light, light on texture with oils and canvas nearby. What capaci- ties one has for joy!. And attics with candles and budgets, and tokens in gas meters. And the time the landlady. . . “! “Yes, yes?” | began eagerly. “You wouldn't understand,” she said sorrowfully to me, the uninitiated one to all this madness. “But if you loved painting why this?” | said pointing to the panels and the pottery. The girl patiently explained, “You see | was young once, young enough to think | might want to teach. Long, long ago. But one has to have the physique of an amazon and the patience of a spider and who in this school has that? Besides my feet used to hurt standing up all day.” The girl made a violent lunge at a piece of material the janitor was about to dispose of. “You destroyer of genius! You murderer of the aesthetic! That is my mas- terpiece!” And taking the material which the janitor had relinquished helplessly she proceeded to stuff it into a desk already crammed with linoleum, paints, copper, curtains and books. Meekly | asked her what she was going to do upon graduation . . . “Why create, of course,’ she answered, puzzled at my ignorance, ‘start a school or sump’n. What matter?’” And with her finger shaking under my nose she bellowed, “But | wouldn’t trade my lot for any other in Christendom. It’s my life and | love it!” With that the girl disappeared into the conglomeration of screens and panels and curtains with an unmistakable air of finality. . “Ah me!” | sighed, “The flowering of the spirit!’” Only then, | became aware of a gentleman with bushy eyebrows standing beside me. | looked at him quizzically. He returned my look with a twinkling smile, a vague gesture of the hands—and walked away. | learned later that he was the principal of the school. ek Fd 4 uw