His solid gold hat wavers in the warm breeze of a lazy afternoon.

Soft curls tumble out from underneath it, 

Lightly brushing a face which scoffs; 

He sneers, his haughty chin held high

As he looks down his nose at whoever has chosen to stand before him. 

He poses, shoulders squared in princely stature,

A hand to his collarbone in (mock?) offense, as if to say,

“Me? Are you trying to talk to… me?”

How could you even dream to address him? To think yourself worthy?

Perhaps he is reaching for the clasp to his cape, heavy enough to oppress

But light enough to flutter in the summer wind.

It brushes a pedestal behind him, very lightly, very faintly,

Barely even making a whisper of a sound. 

Flowers bloom on his shirt, his pants,

His socks, his boots,

An entire garden of golden delicacy adorning his suit of porcelain.

Some of the blossoms seem to have fallen from him, 

Resting on coils of ivy that wind around his ankles,

Yet his body is still covered in petals. 

Just as his cape is clasped around his neck,

His other hand grasps a petite bow and arrows of shining gold.

No need for a quiver here, 

Nothing that could be used to contain.

He belongs to no one. 

His heels click on the tile of the courtyard that lies underneath the ivy

As he

Struts.

Judges.

Asserts.

Commands.

Conquers.

(The Tang Winter Gallery: “The Shelf”; Artist unknown, Figure in 18th-century garment, 19th century)

            It’s the day before his senior capstone model is due and it’s finally time to put ideas into action. He’s standing at a design table, rulers and pencils and glue scattered around. To his left is a large sheet of black matte board. The table comes up to about his waist, so the way that he bends over to write doesn’t seem too awkward. The only piece of clothing I can see is his hoodie, which has a soft blue and grey camo pattern and the word “WARHOL” on the chest. He’s only wearing it because it’s the weekend; usually he prefers to look a little more dapper. The sides and back of his head are shaved (because it’s ~trendy~) and the hair on top is bleached blonde, lying mostly flat. He wears round tortoiseshell glasses that he routinely has to push up as they slide down his nose. Everyone thinks that he only wears them to be cool, but he’s actually legally blind without corrective lenses. 

            Right now, he’s going back and forth between his computer and a graph paper notebook. He’ll stare at his screen, click around on the mousepad, get frustrated, and measure something in his notebook with his ruler. He’s a seasoned designer; it shouldn’t be this hard. He blames his computer, going into the program settings to identify the problem. Could it be the scale? Has nothing snapped into the right place? As a last resort, he pulls out his calculator. His parents told him he’d never use a TI-84 graphing calculator after high school if he went into theater, but look at him go now! He mutters various numbers as he types them in and writes them down. Finally, something clicks, and he gets to start outlining the matte board. 

(JKB Design Studio, 2/23/19)

The sounds of chewing, talking, and clinking cutlery echo all around me. If I focus hard enough, I can listen to individual conversations. People talk about art classes, work, their weekend plans. They laugh, they sneeze LOUDLY. RIGHT over my shoulder. Thanks. Footsteps squeak on the linoleum, a testament to the dangers of winter weather. Chairs scrape on carpet as people get up and come back, bringing with them the smells of chicken fingers and grilled cheese and French fries. I can tell who dips their fries in ketchup; the salty, tangy smell comes very clearly from one side of the table. Heathen. Milkshakes or bust when it comes to French fries. 

            Someone is reading aloud the description of a book that sounds incredibly problematic. The lightness of a laugh carries under their voice as they reach a particularly ridiculous plot point. 

            The chair I’m sitting in is starting to get uncomfortable. The cushion on the seat only helps for so long and the lumps of my winter jacket and scarf dig into my bag. Lately this room has been colder than average, almost on par with the library. It’s not too noticeable at first but as I sit, I’m gradually losing body heat and wondering whether the risk of getting food on my scarf is worth the warmth. 

            My computer moves underneath my hands as someone bumps the table sitting down. I’m pretty sure they’ve brought a salad; the sharpness of dressing manages to drown out the overpowering smell of ketchup.  The smells make me hungry. I’m going to go get food. 

(Dhall Red Side, 2/1/19)

Thanks for joining me!

Good company in a journey makes the way seem shorter. — Izaak Walton