When Mr. Ribinsky entered the classroom, Robin went silent. It wasn't shock or fear, but merely surprise. Mr. Ribinsky wasn't their regular teacher. Mr. Bibisky as Robin would come to refer to him, was nothing like Ms Amily, her earlier teacher. In class 4, the change from a name one can pronounce, to one, one can’t, can be traumatic, but Robin had to deal with the people switching along with the names! Surprise was perhaps an understatement, Robin was anxious.
Unlike the bright red and blue, and Robin's favourite yellow tee shirts that Ms. Amily, wore Mr. Bibisky wore a dark brown shirt with black pants, with no prints on them, not even stripes. He was so tall Robin had turn her face all the way up to see his face. He had oval eyes that were narrow towards the corners, and a long nose. His lips were thin, and Robin got the feeling he didn't smile too much.
"Ahem", Mr. Ribinsky said, "I am, Mr Ribinsky, your new teacher." He stressed the 'b' like it was two Bs, not one. "Good morning students."
"Good morning m..." The class only got that far, in their chorused drawl before realizing, they couldn't end it with 'Ms. Amily.' This was a problem. Most only managed to realize their mistake, their “Good Mornings” falling off somewhere during “miiii.... oh”? A few of Robin's class mates did manage to get to “Mr. ....?” The very best students got as far as R…. but Ribinsky was just too different from Amily for all of them.
Robin hadn't yet spoken. Somewhere during the mumbling that had followed the Good morning, she realized, like the rest of her class, that it was a good time to shut her mouth, which had been open since Mr. Ribinsky had first entered. The flies her mother had warned her about were too late.
"We are here to learn art? Is that right?" Mr. Ribinsky said, caught a little off guard by his own name. He'd never realized how tough it was to say. Well, he'd never had a problem, why should they? He'd been saying his full name, Vlad Ribinsky ever since he'd learnt to speak, when he was way younger than the kids in Robin's class.
“Yes sir,” said Siraj, he was always the first to answer a teacher's questions. He usually got his answers right too, somehow. Robin did like giving answers in class but never thought of them fast enough, or didn't put her hand up high enough.
"And can anyone tell me, what art is?" Mr. Ribinsky asked slowly, pronouncing the word Art deliberately like it was a 'new word' from their English reader. Robin didn't understand this, she knew what art was... but as usual she couldn't tell anyone what it meant. But then she couldn't answer questions most of the time, even when she knew the answer, and this time she wasn't sure, so she kept silent.
Siraj's hand was up in the air. Robin was glad he knew, it would look bad if the whole class couldn't say what art was.
"Yes, young man," Mr Ribinsky said, arching his bushy eyebrows as he leaned forward towards Siraj, "What is art?"
"Art is drawing”.
This confused Mr. Ribinsky. He played for time, "Can you think of anything else art is?"
Siraj wasn't used to being cross questioned, nor was he used to one thing being more than one other thing. Art was drawing, how could it be anything else? He had stood up to answer, and now was standing without an answer. His world had spun around like a backflip, but thankfully he remembered to keep his mouth shut. Robin was glad, she didn't want Siraj to eat a fly and go to the hospital. Then who would answer Mr. Ribinsky's questions?
"C'mon boy", said Mr. Ribinsky in his most encouraging voice - an enthusiastic growl that Siraj had only heard dogs make, "Think what is art?". This time Mr. Ribinsky stressed is. Siraj's mouth remained resolutely shut. "What do you do when you make art?” Mr. Ribinsky began building to a crescendo like Ms. Amily did when reading about Red Riding Hood entering her grandmother’s house. But this time Mr. Ribinsky sounded like a wolf himself. “Think boy, what is art?" He stressed art. Siraj stressed his breath.
Mr. Ribinsky gave up. "Well you're right boy", he said, sounding less like a wolf, "Art is indeed drawing. Can anyone else tell us what art is?"
This time a wave of hands went up. Mr. Ribinsky felt the cheating hope of a class room. Maybe they had something to say. He pointed to a girl in the first row with pig tails, she stood up, "Sir art is colouring", and sat down, blushing at being the first to be
picked. As hands went down, a few groans were whispered. Other arms grew a few centimeters as their owners grew even more anxious to say what they could before someone else plagiarized it.
Mr. Ribinsky pointed to a large boy at the back of the class. He looked a little surprised that his hand was up. He kept looking to his partner as though asking if this were really happening. His partner seemed to know what was up though, and warmly waved him forward. "Sir, Sir, um, art is sir, art is life." He stopped short. That was all he knew. He wasn't sure what it meant, but if art could be drawing, he assumed it could be life too. At least that's what his uncle had told his father. His father had replied with something about Jack who got turned off, but who should get on with his life.
Mr. Ribinsky was pleased, "Art is indeed life", he beamed a low belly growl that sounded like a purr adding sonority to his expansive voice. "What is your name boy?"
"Atul sir", he said,
Mr. Ribinsky said, "Very Good Atul". This caught Atul so much by surprise his jaw dropped. He didn't even manage to enjoy the compliment. His partner pulled him back into his seat, and giggled at him under his desk. Atul just glowed.
Mr. Ribinsky pointed enthusiastically at another boy, in the middle of the room. He stood up, a little slowly. "Sir, Art is shading." He knew this was a correct answer, and it kind of fit into the colouring, drawing model of answers. The only problem being, he wasn't sure what shading was. He'd got the word from his elder brother who did shading in his BIG Art Book.
Mr. Ribinsky pointed to another girl, Robin's partner. "Sir, art is painting." And it finally dawned on Mr. Ribinsky that he had begun a game of synonyms. His shoulders slumped as he considered strategies to introduce this class of grammarians to grammarless, majestic art, even if they didn't know the meaning of grammar or majestic.
Mr. Ribinsky believed art was something natural, part of life, inherent to the human spirit. He was sure this class knew what art was. Everyone knew. But everyone, and especially Robin didn't know how to say what they knew, or what grammar and majesty was. The class read his body language. He was going to stop the game. This made many of them stretch their arms even higher, and rise in their seats, the kids at the back just stood up.
The entire class was looking at the philosopher with its best puppy faces, begging him to ask them, just once more what art was, they knew. For once they could stand up and say something...why did he look like he wasn't going to ask anyone anymore? This was unfair. The anxiety in the classroom grew. A few boys from the back said, "Sir, Sir!" in a damning breach of class room etiquette. A girl from the front realizing that the boys might just be asked to answer, burst out with her answer, "Art is scenery sir", she said, though no one had really asked.
And with that one little crack, the dam broke. The entire class suddenly had to be heard, in a way that only a desperate kid who knows the right answer can understand, or a girl who discovers her father’s credit card in a mall knows, or a gangly teenager discovers when the prettiest girl in class asks him for his notes. They HAD to tell Mr. Ribinsky about art!
Mr. Ribinsky wasn't so interested in listening though.
"Quiet", he said, more concerned about his own sanity than the children's enthusiasm, which that one word returned to its resting place 6 feet under terra firma.
Robin knew there was no way she would be picked to answer. And sitting with one arm raised is a stupid way to spend art class, which was her favourite. She had begun to draw, somewhere between Siraj keeping his mouth shut and Mr. Ribinsky questioning his own sanity.
As he came to terms with the demonstration of the second principle of thermodynamics, which his classroom provided him... Well, you don't come to terms with a classroom, you sort of survive it. (Also, the second principle of thermodynamics says everything devolves to chaos).
Mr. Ribinsky noticed Robin. "Show me what you draw, little girl", he said, as the class grew into an expectant silence. Robin handed him her book. She had been drawing mountains. She loved drawing mountains and colouring them greenish blue. They looked so pretty. But so far she had only drawn the lines.
Mr. Ribinsky looked at the book. "Aah yes, you see", he told the class, "this is art... Art is life, drawing, colouring, painting, shading, (Atul beamed again) and many other things, but most importantly art is ... Little girl why do you draw these mountains?"
Robin stared. She had just started drawing mountains. No one had told her why she drew them. Ms. Amily had only said that they were nice. Robin said what she could, "Because mountains are nice", she said.
Mr. Rabinsky was elated, this girl, barely waste high had already distilled the meaning and purpose of art - it was nice, it pleased the mind and soothed the soul, and delighted the eye.
"Yes indeed, Art is nice. That is the goal of art, to be nice. To whom must art be nice?" He asked, but only rhetorically, he'd learnt his lesson. "Art must be nice to those who see it, yes?" The class nodded, "But most of all, art has to be nice for those who make it. If you can make something that you enjoy making that is perfect. Who wants to learn to draw something perfect?"
"I" replied the class, Ms. Amily had taught them that much.
"Well you know how to read, yes? You use letters to read? Well, drawing is sort of the same. It has some basic skills, you know, it has its own alphabet." Someone pinched someone in the back of the class, a stifled yelp however didn't elicit a reaction from the intrepid educator. Now that he was talking about the alphabet of art, a favourite subject obviously, how did a mere pinch matter? "And once you learn the alphabet of art, you'll be able to draw anything. You would like that?" he asked the class. The growl-purr was back in his voice and the class knew pretty well it was a cue to say ‘Yes sir’. They did. It worked. “They get it”, he thought. Just him.
"But the alphabet is both easy and hard, it takes work, but the rewards are many. Art can make you happy, it can make your mummy-daddy happy, your teacher happy, (he did crack a smile, though you'd have suspected it was ironic), your friends happy. You can draw anything you want. Do you want to draw anything you see?"
The class nodded in programmed unison.
"Good" Mr. Ribinsky said. "The first thing we need to draw are straight lines." He turned to the board, and with a piece of chalk, and a flick of his wrist and arm drew a straight unwavering line right across it. The class looked on. This was the first time his line hadn't drawn ‘Oooohs’ from those watching. "You see how long and straight this line is?"
"If you can draw straight lines, you can draw anything. So today let’s learn to draw straight lines. You must hold your wrist like this, and grip the chalk firmly but gently, as though it were another finger, and make sure the distance of your line remains the same from the top of the page, that’s the only way to get a straight line."
With a flourish, he drew another one. "Did you see how I did that? You can too, just leave your wrist loose but tighten the rest of your arm. And then look at the top of the page, see where you want to draw till, and the distance from the top. Don’t forget to make sure it’s the same all the time, or your line will be crooked, okay?"
He quickly drew another half dozen lines, and as an afterthought he added 3 more. "See little children", he said turning around again, “This is simple. You try. Try to draw three straight lines..."
Though none of his instructions had really sunk in, mirror neurons kicked into place, yes the same ones that allow Anu Malik to claim to compose, and all the kids started drawing lines with gay abandon across the page. Why should they care if they were straight?
The enthusiasm once more caught Mr. Ribinsky off guard but he congratulated himself on solving what had been a classroom emergency. Only one hand was up now, and surprisingly it was Robin's.
"Yes little girl", he said leaning towards her, in what he thought was a kind old gentleman's way.
"Sir which copy do we do this in?"
"Your art book little girl."
"But you asked for it."
"Oh here you go, take it back. I'm so sorry. I am sure you'll be able to draw straight lines better than anyone", he said as he handed it back.
Robin looked one last time at her incomplete mountains as she turned to a new page. As much as she liked the compliment, now what was she going to colour that nice blue green mountain colour?
Unlike the bright red and blue, and Robin's favourite yellow tee shirts that Ms. Amily, wore Mr. Bibisky wore a dark brown shirt with black pants, with no prints on them, not even stripes. He was so tall Robin had turn her face all the way up to see his face. He had oval eyes that were narrow towards the corners, and a long nose. His lips were thin, and Robin got the feeling he didn't smile too much.
"Ahem", Mr. Ribinsky said, "I am, Mr Ribinsky, your new teacher." He stressed the 'b' like it was two Bs, not one. "Good morning students."
"Good morning m..." The class only got that far, in their chorused drawl before realizing, they couldn't end it with 'Ms. Amily.' This was a problem. Most only managed to realize their mistake, their “Good Mornings” falling off somewhere during “miiii.... oh”? A few of Robin's class mates did manage to get to “Mr. ....?” The very best students got as far as R…. but Ribinsky was just too different from Amily for all of them.
Robin hadn't yet spoken. Somewhere during the mumbling that had followed the Good morning, she realized, like the rest of her class, that it was a good time to shut her mouth, which had been open since Mr. Ribinsky had first entered. The flies her mother had warned her about were too late.
"We are here to learn art? Is that right?" Mr. Ribinsky said, caught a little off guard by his own name. He'd never realized how tough it was to say. Well, he'd never had a problem, why should they? He'd been saying his full name, Vlad Ribinsky ever since he'd learnt to speak, when he was way younger than the kids in Robin's class.
“Yes sir,” said Siraj, he was always the first to answer a teacher's questions. He usually got his answers right too, somehow. Robin did like giving answers in class but never thought of them fast enough, or didn't put her hand up high enough.
"And can anyone tell me, what art is?" Mr. Ribinsky asked slowly, pronouncing the word Art deliberately like it was a 'new word' from their English reader. Robin didn't understand this, she knew what art was... but as usual she couldn't tell anyone what it meant. But then she couldn't answer questions most of the time, even when she knew the answer, and this time she wasn't sure, so she kept silent.
Siraj's hand was up in the air. Robin was glad he knew, it would look bad if the whole class couldn't say what art was.
"Yes, young man," Mr Ribinsky said, arching his bushy eyebrows as he leaned forward towards Siraj, "What is art?"
"Art is drawing”.
This confused Mr. Ribinsky. He played for time, "Can you think of anything else art is?"
Siraj wasn't used to being cross questioned, nor was he used to one thing being more than one other thing. Art was drawing, how could it be anything else? He had stood up to answer, and now was standing without an answer. His world had spun around like a backflip, but thankfully he remembered to keep his mouth shut. Robin was glad, she didn't want Siraj to eat a fly and go to the hospital. Then who would answer Mr. Ribinsky's questions?
"C'mon boy", said Mr. Ribinsky in his most encouraging voice - an enthusiastic growl that Siraj had only heard dogs make, "Think what is art?". This time Mr. Ribinsky stressed is. Siraj's mouth remained resolutely shut. "What do you do when you make art?” Mr. Ribinsky began building to a crescendo like Ms. Amily did when reading about Red Riding Hood entering her grandmother’s house. But this time Mr. Ribinsky sounded like a wolf himself. “Think boy, what is art?" He stressed art. Siraj stressed his breath.
Mr. Ribinsky gave up. "Well you're right boy", he said, sounding less like a wolf, "Art is indeed drawing. Can anyone else tell us what art is?"
This time a wave of hands went up. Mr. Ribinsky felt the cheating hope of a class room. Maybe they had something to say. He pointed to a girl in the first row with pig tails, she stood up, "Sir art is colouring", and sat down, blushing at being the first to be
picked. As hands went down, a few groans were whispered. Other arms grew a few centimeters as their owners grew even more anxious to say what they could before someone else plagiarized it.
Mr. Ribinsky pointed to a large boy at the back of the class. He looked a little surprised that his hand was up. He kept looking to his partner as though asking if this were really happening. His partner seemed to know what was up though, and warmly waved him forward. "Sir, Sir, um, art is sir, art is life." He stopped short. That was all he knew. He wasn't sure what it meant, but if art could be drawing, he assumed it could be life too. At least that's what his uncle had told his father. His father had replied with something about Jack who got turned off, but who should get on with his life.
Mr. Ribinsky was pleased, "Art is indeed life", he beamed a low belly growl that sounded like a purr adding sonority to his expansive voice. "What is your name boy?"
"Atul sir", he said,
Mr. Ribinsky said, "Very Good Atul". This caught Atul so much by surprise his jaw dropped. He didn't even manage to enjoy the compliment. His partner pulled him back into his seat, and giggled at him under his desk. Atul just glowed.
Mr. Ribinsky pointed enthusiastically at another boy, in the middle of the room. He stood up, a little slowly. "Sir, Art is shading." He knew this was a correct answer, and it kind of fit into the colouring, drawing model of answers. The only problem being, he wasn't sure what shading was. He'd got the word from his elder brother who did shading in his BIG Art Book.
Mr. Ribinsky pointed to another girl, Robin's partner. "Sir, art is painting." And it finally dawned on Mr. Ribinsky that he had begun a game of synonyms. His shoulders slumped as he considered strategies to introduce this class of grammarians to grammarless, majestic art, even if they didn't know the meaning of grammar or majestic.
Mr. Ribinsky believed art was something natural, part of life, inherent to the human spirit. He was sure this class knew what art was. Everyone knew. But everyone, and especially Robin didn't know how to say what they knew, or what grammar and majesty was. The class read his body language. He was going to stop the game. This made many of them stretch their arms even higher, and rise in their seats, the kids at the back just stood up.
The entire class was looking at the philosopher with its best puppy faces, begging him to ask them, just once more what art was, they knew. For once they could stand up and say something...why did he look like he wasn't going to ask anyone anymore? This was unfair. The anxiety in the classroom grew. A few boys from the back said, "Sir, Sir!" in a damning breach of class room etiquette. A girl from the front realizing that the boys might just be asked to answer, burst out with her answer, "Art is scenery sir", she said, though no one had really asked.
And with that one little crack, the dam broke. The entire class suddenly had to be heard, in a way that only a desperate kid who knows the right answer can understand, or a girl who discovers her father’s credit card in a mall knows, or a gangly teenager discovers when the prettiest girl in class asks him for his notes. They HAD to tell Mr. Ribinsky about art!
Mr. Ribinsky wasn't so interested in listening though.
"Quiet", he said, more concerned about his own sanity than the children's enthusiasm, which that one word returned to its resting place 6 feet under terra firma.
Robin knew there was no way she would be picked to answer. And sitting with one arm raised is a stupid way to spend art class, which was her favourite. She had begun to draw, somewhere between Siraj keeping his mouth shut and Mr. Ribinsky questioning his own sanity.
As he came to terms with the demonstration of the second principle of thermodynamics, which his classroom provided him... Well, you don't come to terms with a classroom, you sort of survive it. (Also, the second principle of thermodynamics says everything devolves to chaos).
Mr. Ribinsky noticed Robin. "Show me what you draw, little girl", he said, as the class grew into an expectant silence. Robin handed him her book. She had been drawing mountains. She loved drawing mountains and colouring them greenish blue. They looked so pretty. But so far she had only drawn the lines.
Mr. Ribinsky looked at the book. "Aah yes, you see", he told the class, "this is art... Art is life, drawing, colouring, painting, shading, (Atul beamed again) and many other things, but most importantly art is ... Little girl why do you draw these mountains?"
Robin stared. She had just started drawing mountains. No one had told her why she drew them. Ms. Amily had only said that they were nice. Robin said what she could, "Because mountains are nice", she said.
Mr. Rabinsky was elated, this girl, barely waste high had already distilled the meaning and purpose of art - it was nice, it pleased the mind and soothed the soul, and delighted the eye.
"Yes indeed, Art is nice. That is the goal of art, to be nice. To whom must art be nice?" He asked, but only rhetorically, he'd learnt his lesson. "Art must be nice to those who see it, yes?" The class nodded, "But most of all, art has to be nice for those who make it. If you can make something that you enjoy making that is perfect. Who wants to learn to draw something perfect?"
"I" replied the class, Ms. Amily had taught them that much.
"Well you know how to read, yes? You use letters to read? Well, drawing is sort of the same. It has some basic skills, you know, it has its own alphabet." Someone pinched someone in the back of the class, a stifled yelp however didn't elicit a reaction from the intrepid educator. Now that he was talking about the alphabet of art, a favourite subject obviously, how did a mere pinch matter? "And once you learn the alphabet of art, you'll be able to draw anything. You would like that?" he asked the class. The growl-purr was back in his voice and the class knew pretty well it was a cue to say ‘Yes sir’. They did. It worked. “They get it”, he thought. Just him.
"But the alphabet is both easy and hard, it takes work, but the rewards are many. Art can make you happy, it can make your mummy-daddy happy, your teacher happy, (he did crack a smile, though you'd have suspected it was ironic), your friends happy. You can draw anything you want. Do you want to draw anything you see?"
The class nodded in programmed unison.
"Good" Mr. Ribinsky said. "The first thing we need to draw are straight lines." He turned to the board, and with a piece of chalk, and a flick of his wrist and arm drew a straight unwavering line right across it. The class looked on. This was the first time his line hadn't drawn ‘Oooohs’ from those watching. "You see how long and straight this line is?"
"If you can draw straight lines, you can draw anything. So today let’s learn to draw straight lines. You must hold your wrist like this, and grip the chalk firmly but gently, as though it were another finger, and make sure the distance of your line remains the same from the top of the page, that’s the only way to get a straight line."
With a flourish, he drew another one. "Did you see how I did that? You can too, just leave your wrist loose but tighten the rest of your arm. And then look at the top of the page, see where you want to draw till, and the distance from the top. Don’t forget to make sure it’s the same all the time, or your line will be crooked, okay?"
He quickly drew another half dozen lines, and as an afterthought he added 3 more. "See little children", he said turning around again, “This is simple. You try. Try to draw three straight lines..."
Though none of his instructions had really sunk in, mirror neurons kicked into place, yes the same ones that allow Anu Malik to claim to compose, and all the kids started drawing lines with gay abandon across the page. Why should they care if they were straight?
The enthusiasm once more caught Mr. Ribinsky off guard but he congratulated himself on solving what had been a classroom emergency. Only one hand was up now, and surprisingly it was Robin's.
"Yes little girl", he said leaning towards her, in what he thought was a kind old gentleman's way.
"Sir which copy do we do this in?"
"Your art book little girl."
"But you asked for it."
"Oh here you go, take it back. I'm so sorry. I am sure you'll be able to draw straight lines better than anyone", he said as he handed it back.
Robin looked one last time at her incomplete mountains as she turned to a new page. As much as she liked the compliment, now what was she going to colour that nice blue green mountain colour?
Loved the story. Really realistic, the way the children respond, Robin's thoughts. Reminded me of my classes in school, and the art teacher's emphasis on correct forms.. a very tongue-in-cheek way to make your point. Really enjoyed it.
ReplyDeleteI really liked the minute changes of feeling in the classroom. And how the perspective between teacher and student was so balanced. And the absence of any moral in the narratorial voice. Mr. Ribinsky seemed almost to emerge through his interaction with the children. There was no stress, on showing who he was. I remained engrossed through the story.
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