The Box

I've always wanted to live life outside of the box. Sure, being in the box is the only way to climb the social ladder, but (and I know this from personal experience) spending every waking moment trying to conform to the standards of the A crowd is dull. In fact, I'd say that going so far as to follow in their footsteps effectively dumps a bucket of water on the proverbial ‘creative fire within us'. Hm. Creative fire within us . . . that was pretty good. I'll have to write it down later. Forget being an artist; I should become an inspirational speaker.

Where was I? Oh yes. When I said I wanted to live life outside of the box, I didn't want whatever powers that be to favor the literal interpretation of my words. You see, the kids at my art studio refer to the painting and sculpture building as ‘The Box' (affectionately, of course) due to it's size, shape, and location. The building itself is a mass of blueish purple cinder block situated a stone's throw from the wharf. Inside it looks like a trendy Greenwich Village style loft apartment-turned-art-gallery. From the outside, it resembles a closed jack-in-the-box floating out somewhere in the harbor. Why was it painted blueish-purple? Why did the architect make it a perfect cube? Sorry, can't help you with that one. Ask me something easier . . . like why I look so much like my uncle, or what cafeteria hot dogs are made out of.

At any rate, The Box is where I spend an unhealthy amount of time after school every day. We (and by ‘we' I mean ‘the students') always found great pleasure in the irony that came from creating avant-garde artwork inside The Box. Though each of us has his or her own distinct style and taste where artwork is concerned, we have two things in common: we're all about the same age, and we all spend more time in The Box than we do in our own houses. After all, there's something about the upcoming deadline regarding college portfolios that facilitates obsessively perfect attendance records.

My mood ring is a filthy liar. It's blue, but as of the moment, I am anything but content. After all, it's never pleasant to be standing outside in paint-smeared clothes, covered in snow, and clutching a teddy bear. It's dark, it's cold, I'm wet, and I'm being honked at. To be honest, I'm not really sure what aspect of my current situation is the worst. I think in the end, I'll have it down between the snow and the teddy bear. You might wonder how I got myself into this predicament . . . or you might not. Either way, you're going to find out.

There's an ongoing "prank-war" between the sculptors and the painters at my art studio. It's a good-natured, easygoing, fun-loving prank war, but a war nonetheless. Being the oldest and (by far) the most outspoken in the painter camp, I have been delegated as a sort of leader. When we (and by we, I'm referring to the painters) huddle together during breaks, it's usually I who comes up with ideas, gathers supplies, and has the biggest hand in carrying out our plan of action. We're immensely proud of what we've managed to pull over on our near-and-dear sculpting friends; between super-glueing pottery wheels into place, dropping their required tools into a jar of dektol (everyone's favorite nasty smelling photo chemical), and shifting the position of the model stand an agonizing three inches, we've "gotten them" on a number of occasions. That's not to say they don't give it right back – last week my odorless turpentine wasn't odorless by any stretch of the imagination, and the week before my cadmium red was most certainly not red. I always thought that the painters and I would wind up winning in the end, as we were far more imaginative in our antics. Evidently, I was wrong.

On Sunday I received an e-mail from one of the teachers at the studio saying that painting classes were starting a half of an hour late. I made the change on my calendar and thought nothing of it. Why should I be suspicious when the e-mail came from my teacher's own account? Though the thought of class being postponed was fishy, Kevin had no reason to participate in our "prank wars". Indeed, it had been agreed by the staff that they would overlook our indiscretion where this mischief was concerned so long as the faculty was never targeted. Fair enough. Either way, I found myself coming to class a half of an hour late Monday evening.

The door was shut and bolted as it usually is when class has been in session. Nude models pose for most of the classes, so The Box is closed off from prying eyes for obvious reasons. So, as I had done on previous occasions when I've been disgracefully late for class, I pulled at the brass knocker to give the door a solid rap. It was then that a can of pink tempera paint that I had neglected to see hanging from the second floor window tipped over, covering me from head-to-toe in the only color that I really, truly hate. To make matters worse, it was neon pink. So bright, in fact, that despite the approaching sunset, cars could still see me from down the road. Evidently, the drivers wanted to alert me of the joy that my ridiculous appearance brought them – in fifteen minutes, I've been honked at twenty-three times.

The fact that I'm covered in snow was no one's fault but my own. When put in a situation like mine – that is, when you're covered in neon pink paint and locked outside in the middle of the winter – it's hard to do anything but contribute to your own misery. Seeing as how the front yard of the art school is covered in knee-deep snow, I couldn't see (and completely forgot about) the tree stump next to the door, tripped over it, and flew head over heels into a snowy bush. At least a hypothesis of mine has been validated; when you're a teenager falling head over heels into anything, it means nothing but trouble. As I was lying face-down in the said bush bemoaning my fate, something soggy fell seemingly from the sky and landed square in the center of my back. As it turns out, this object was Pierre, the painting mascot. Pierre is (or rather, was) a white teddy bear someone had picked up at K-mart and brought to the studio one day last year. Judging by the light-brown color he has become and the suspicious odor emanating from his matted fur, I can only assume he's been soaked in dektol. Dektol is photograph developer, and smells (for those of you who are wondering) like week old, moldy Chinese food after being stuffed in a dirty gym sock and put in the microwave. Based on the color and smell, I'm guessing that this is old, undiluted developer. My hands are going to smell for days.

Headlights illuminate the trees down at the end of the road, and the roar of an engine alerts me to the approach of yet another car. I can tell the exact moment when the driver catches sight of me. Why? Because a high F-sharp assails my ears as they pound the horn. Thank you my conscientious, car-driving friend! I honestly had no idea I had paint all over me. I am ever indebted to you for bringing that to my attention. Add another tally to the list. The total is now up to twenty-four.

I recall my friend Liz's words from last week as I see her curly red head peep out of the second story window. Liz is a proud sculptor, and she waved her paint-splattered tools at me indignantly as soon as she discovered them Friday evening. "You're going to regret this, painter!" she spat playfully, wagging a finger at me while using her best no-nonsense voice. It didn't do much to stifle my giggles then, but as of now, I'm most decidedly as far from laughter as I've been at any given point this whole year. Seeing Liz gloat doesn't improve my mood any, and I try ardently to ignore her Cheshire-cat grin. I realize that I will have no such luck when she calls down tauntingly,

"I told you so!"

I grab a handful of snow and attempt to show her exactly what I think about their little prank, but fail rather miserably. I've never had great aim where sports and throwing things were concerned, and so (aside from the fact that most of the snow fell out of my hand before I'd let go of it) my missile splatters against a shutter about ten feet wide of it's mark. Liz's laughter drifts down from above, and I watch in horror as she pushes nearly a foot of snow off of the windowsill she had previously been leaning against. Where did it land? On my head. Of course.

After spluttering and flailing my arms about like a drowning two year old, I regain my composure and level a glare at Liz that could turn the burning lake into an ice skating rink. However, much to my consternation, she has already withdrawn from the window, and I am glaring at a pair of jolly green shutters.

Evidently, my thoughts and words from times past have come back to bite me in the worst sort of way. As of right now, I'd do just about anything to get back inside The Box. Being outside of The Box has gotten me covered in pink tempera paint, lacquered with dektol, buried in snow, honked at, laughed at, and generally humiliated. Maybe I should reconsider my aims in life. After all, I've been in the worst sort of mood since coming out here, and will probably get sick due to complications with a tree stump, snow, and a general lack of warmth. How bad could being in that proverbial box be? Sure it's a little more work for a little less gain, but people in the box are warm and clean and dry . . . right?

If this is what being outside of the box is really like, tomorrow morning I'm smearing makeup on my face, donning a miniskirt, and saying "what up, girlfriend?!" to the first elitist airhead I see.