The professor scribbled something down in her notebook, nodding. “Very good, Lily. So how does that relate to this piece?”
“It made me think of my insecurities,” she said with a sigh. “I write those words down in my diary all the time. So I scanned the pages of my diary, sent them to the fabric store, and had them print this fabric for me.”
A few students leaned forward on their stools, myself included. I could tell that the interest of the class was piqued.
“Those are your words?” the professor asked, the hint of interest on the tip of her question.
Lily nodded, then blushed. “I redacted some of the more… private things. But I was playing with the idea that I would wear everything I’m afraid of on the outside. Not like armor, but like something I wanted to show off. Clothing. Fashion.”
There were students around me nodding, and I felt my head bob up and down in agreement.
She was brave.
“Is it all right if the class takes a closer look?” the professor asked.
“Yes,” Lily said, the single syllable sounding like a word of power.
The class rushed off of their stools and crowded around the piece. I craned my neck, trying to peer over the heads in front of me.
Her handwriting was neat and crisp, so her words were legible. There was a roundness to them like she was writing in half-cursive. It was as if the thoughts were pouring out of her head, through her hand, and then onto the paper in one unbroken line of ink.
Then the atmosphere of the room shifted — I could feel it. There was this quiet holiness to the air as if we were suddenly in a sacred space.
I read some of the sentences scrawling across the fabric. It was profoundly personal stuff that I would never have the courage to share with an audience.
By the time I returned to my stool, I felt like I’d had some sort of emotional experience, some kind of bonding with Lily. It was like I had seen her naked; like I’d seen a glimpse of her naked heart.
“Very good,” Professor King said after the class had taken a good look. She blinked a few times behind her red spectacles, then called out, “Ryan, you first.”
The older guy at the far end of the half-moon of stools sat up straight and shifted uncomfortably.
I knew he was called on to critique Lily’s piece; to rip it to shreds. But after the vulnerability she’d just shown us, it was almost impossible.
I’m sure like me, the class was reeling from the emotional openness. Suddenly we all felt connected to the piece, to Lily, like she and her work was something precious.
“I… uh,” Ryan stuttered. “It’s good.”
“Very insightful,” the professor said dryly.
A chorus of chuckles sounded throughout the classroom.
“How can Lily improve her piece?” she pressed.
“Uh… I don’t know,” Ryan admitted.
“‘I don’t know’ is not an acceptable answer, Ryan. You’re not helping Lily by merely saying it’s 'good.'”
I felt for Ryan. This was the trick of critique — at first, it seemed like the artist was the only one getting grilled, but in reality, the rest of the class was, too. We each had our turn in the hot seat, forced to give critical feedback.
Ryan said some half-baked critique about the stitching on the arms, and I watched the professor purse her lips and take note of his response. That weak feedback would inevitably pull down his grade on this like a stone tied to his G.P.A.
The feedback cycled around the room, and I was surprised that as the spotlight got closer to me, I didn’t feel my anxiety rearing its head. The monster stayed asleep.
Maybe Adam was right. Maybe that session with Dr. Brinkman squeezed out most of the pus.
“Luke,” the professor finally said.
I snapped to attention. Unlike poor Ryan, I’d had time to think of a response.
“The print is beautiful,” I started.
Lily brightened.
“It could be even better if you reduced some of the pleating that’s folding the words. In a way, it’s like the folds are hiding what you’re trying to say. There’s too much going on. Choose words or folds, not both.”
“It’s meant to be partially hidden,” Lily fired back. “Because at any given time, even if we're emotionally open with someone else, there are parts of ourselves that we’re still hiding. When the garment moves, the folds shift so you only get fragments of sentences. Just like in an open conversation, you alternate between saying what you mean and meaning what you say. It’s all a trick we all do, meant to hide the most vulnerable parts of ourselves. It’s a shield — like fashion itself — against being naked.”
Damn.
I was lost for words. There was a quiet chorus of nods around the room.
Lily… she was strong. Stronger than I first thought. Stronger than I was by a long shot.
By the time the critique ran through all of the students, Professor King had stopped taking notes. The last few critiques were as weak as the first, because nobody had anything left to refute Lily’s piece.
She’d laid herself emotionally bare in front of nine of her peers, and dared us to hit her in the heart with arrows. But I was surprised to see that none of them were strong enough to hit her.
“This is precisely what critique is for,” the professor said, looking up at the class. “The secret to art — no, the secret to life, to getting through, is vulnerability. There’s strength in vulnerability. Did you see what just happened? Lily opened her veins up here and not a single one of you could properly criticize her work. That’s exactly how the fashion world works — as long as you’re honest and open, it gets harder and
