I looked out the window in uncertainty. Today was the first and only jury of studio, and I was scared out of my right mind. Crits had become unbearably painful for this last project, and I truly came to dread them. Today we were presenting our projects to a jury, a combination of 8 grad students hand picked by our very own Larry.

Larry entered the view and Mitch turned away.

“They going to be nice to us, Larry?” He inquired.

“Are you kidding me?” He grinned. “I picked them. They're going to make you cry.”

I refolded my scarf for the fifth time. That comment couldn't have been less necessary.

The actual jury wasn't too bad. They understood that this was our first jury, and treated us accordingly. I introduced myself and my concept, and stood back as they began to gently critique my work. It wasn't until Larry stepped forward that my fears were completely justified.

“Sorry, “ he said. “I said I wasn't going to say anything, and I haven't, but the jurors are being too nice. Your project is sculptural, not spacial. Your faulty concept fails to hide that you have yet to address the issues in the problem. This, this isn't doing anything. It's not working. It's much too linear; it fills space but doesn't activate it. Were you even listening during our last crit? I mean, we showed you the few things that were working, and I can't see anything in this piece that reflects that. It's not working.”

I glared back at him and nodded. The jurors promptly agreed.

After the crit I went to prof. Adams to get my grade for the preliminary. I scored a 1.4 out of 4.0, exactly half the points of the worst grade I had ever received. I nodded as the professor told me exactly why my project was rubbish and barely germane to the problem. I nodded back in complete agreement and returned to my stool.

I glared at Larry again. I don't care about Professor Adams and what he said. Respect is required for hate or anger or a sincere wound of some kind, and there isn't an ounce of respect in me for that man. But I respect Larry. In a sense his presence has always been a consolation; he does a spectacular job of trying to be a complete dick, but after all has been said and done his intentions aren't, well, completely cunt-master-bastard-ish (do excuse the language. Bad day.) Every hateful word that's ever been said to me and every one that has yet to fly my way ran through my head as I scrambled to find an expression, an action, anything offensive enough to portray my disgust.

I sat in that stool, listening to the rest of the critiques, completely down trodden. I shook a bit as I squinted my eyes and trying to calm myself. I barely noticed the soft nudge on my arm.

It was Larry, standing next to me, his eyes still lingering on the project that was currently being critiqued.

“Did you get good advice?” He asked.

I nodded, motioning down to the full page of notes written in my sketchbook.

“Good. Don't crap up your project because you have yet to make minimalism work. Just sit down and make it work.”

He stepped forward to talk with the jurors. I sat on my stool, my fingers clutching my mouth in mock contemplation, my crossed legs resting on the bars of the stool. I glanced down at my sketchbook to see a sheet of light pierce the window to my left and fall on the floor in front of me.