modest bathing suits Meredith thought of waves as hands, and everyone knows hands are erotic, so when she went out to photograph the winter storms, she went to see the waves making love to the shore. 1986 was a hard year. At least insomuch as it was her last year of high school, her last year of freedom, and her last year to get away with pissing everyone off with relatively minor repercussions. It was on one particularly dead December day in Annapolis Royal that she found herself facing one repercussion too many. She was in her art class, looking out over a grey winter sky, and thinking how it seemed far too dark to be a day. Toward to the back of the classroom, her teacher was fiddling with the slide projector. Meredith always found it difficult to look straight at him. It wasn’t just the way he dressed (ill-fitting suit, bow tie, leather shoes that clicked on the hardwood floor), or his often condescending attitude, but mainly his overworked sense of propriety in all things regarding artistic expression. She thought him better suited to overseeing the colour coordination of a corporate advertising firm than attempting to teach high school students about ‘art’. His name was Rupert Humphrey Deveau â€" and he deserved it. There was a series of clicking sounds from the back of the room. Mr. Deveau reattached the top cover of the slide projector after fifteen minutes spent convinced that some part of its inner workings required his attention. “Would you get the lights, please, Kirsten?†he said to Christina Wilkins, the girl sitting closest to the door. She smirked at him and flicked the switch with the back of her hand. There was no need to close the blinds â€" the day was plenty dim enough already. The first slide up on the projection screen was a photo by Wayne Jones. He sat near the front of the class, always upright at his desk, his clothes perfectly fitting and wrinkle-free. Meredith figured there had to be something fundamentally wrong about that. The photo was of his pet, or animal, or some other sort of wildlife she couldn’t quite identify. It looked reptilian in nature and was encircled by cigarette butts on the ground all around it. Wayne spoke up: “This photo symbolizes my feelings on the deforestation of South American jungles and the overall impact on us as human beings.†Meredith let her head fall to the desk, and cradled it in her arms as Mr. Deveau replied positively to Wayne’s attempt at meaningfulness. There were other pictures in turn â€" two more from Wayne (which she ignored altogether) â€" and several by other members of the class (which she peeked out from between her fingers to see). She jerked back from daydreaming just in time to hear Mr. Deveau say: “…and here we have the work of young Meredith Marshall.†The first photo was an experiment in bucking the system. Which is to say: she hoped that Mr. Deveau would not have had the foresight to view each of the student’s slides individually before sharing them with the entire class. The image up on the projection screen seemed to confirm that. Central to the photograph was the dead body of a raccoon, strewn across a bare dirt road. Its fur was splattered with blood, its legs were splayed, and its jaw torn in half. It was a typical image of road kill, but it didn’t end there. Lying on the road, just behind the former raccoon was something a little more provocative. It was Meredith herself, on her side, ankles crossed, arms above her head, chest dotted with blood, and completely, totally naked. Mr. Deveau squinted across the room for what seemed like a long time, holding that particular expression of one who cannot believe what he is seeing, doesn’t believe he should be seeing it, but wants to prolong looking at it for as long as possible. At last, he seemed to come back to earth. There was a harsh series of fumbling sounds as he pressed nearly every button on the projector but the on/off switch, then a satisfied sigh as he finally succeeded in removing the offending image from sight. Meredith didn’t dare look. Then, like something out of a horror movie, each student in the class slowly turned in their seats, eyes fixed, unblinking… each of the forty-six eyes of the twenty-three students staring straight through her. She felt less naked taking that photograph than she did right now. There was a voice from the back of the room. “Nudity in art should be refined, stark, Wednesday, August 10, 2011
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modest bathing suits Meredith thought of waves as hands, and everyone knows hands are erotic, so when she went out to photograph the winter storms, she went to see the waves making love to the shore. 1986 was a hard year. At least insomuch as it was her last year of high school, her last year of freedom, and her last year to get away with pissing everyone off with relatively minor repercussions. It was on one particularly dead December day in Annapolis Royal that she found herself facing one repercussion too many. She was in her art class, looking out over a grey winter sky, and thinking how it seemed far too dark to be a day. Toward to the back of the classroom, her teacher was fiddling with the slide projector. Meredith always found it difficult to look straight at him. It wasn’t just the way he dressed (ill-fitting suit, bow tie, leather shoes that clicked on the hardwood floor), or his often condescending attitude, but mainly his overworked sense of propriety in all things regarding artistic expression. She thought him better suited to overseeing the colour coordination of a corporate advertising firm than attempting to teach high school students about ‘art’. His name was Rupert Humphrey Deveau â€" and he deserved it. There was a series of clicking sounds from the back of the room. Mr. Deveau reattached the top cover of the slide projector after fifteen minutes spent convinced that some part of its inner workings required his attention. “Would you get the lights, please, Kirsten?†he said to Christina Wilkins, the girl sitting closest to the door. She smirked at him and flicked the switch with the back of her hand. There was no need to close the blinds â€" the day was plenty dim enough already. The first slide up on the projection screen was a photo by Wayne Jones. He sat near the front of the class, always upright at his desk, his clothes perfectly fitting and wrinkle-free. Meredith figured there had to be something fundamentally wrong about that. The photo was of his pet, or animal, or some other sort of wildlife she couldn’t quite identify. It looked reptilian in nature and was encircled by cigarette butts on the ground all around it. Wayne spoke up: “This photo symbolizes my feelings on the deforestation of South American jungles and the overall impact on us as human beings.†Meredith let her head fall to the desk, and cradled it in her arms as Mr. Deveau replied positively to Wayne’s attempt at meaningfulness. There were other pictures in turn â€" two more from Wayne (which she ignored altogether) â€" and several by other members of the class (which she peeked out from between her fingers to see). She jerked back from daydreaming just in time to hear Mr. Deveau say: “…and here we have the work of young Meredith Marshall.†The first photo was an experiment in bucking the system. Which is to say: she hoped that Mr. Deveau would not have had the foresight to view each of the student’s slides individually before sharing them with the entire class. The image up on the projection screen seemed to confirm that. Central to the photograph was the dead body of a raccoon, strewn across a bare dirt road. Its fur was splattered with blood, its legs were splayed, and its jaw torn in half. It was a typical image of road kill, but it didn’t end there. Lying on the road, just behind the former raccoon was something a little more provocative. It was Meredith herself, on her side, ankles crossed, arms above her head, chest dotted with blood, and completely, totally naked. Mr. Deveau squinted across the room for what seemed like a long time, holding that particular expression of one who cannot believe what he is seeing, doesn’t believe he should be seeing it, but wants to prolong looking at it for as long as possible. At last, he seemed to come back to earth. There was a harsh series of fumbling sounds as he pressed nearly every button on the projector but the on/off switch, then a satisfied sigh as he finally succeeded in removing the offending image from sight. Meredith didn’t dare look. Then, like something out of a horror movie, each student in the class slowly turned in their seats, eyes fixed, unblinking… each of the forty-six eyes of the twenty-three students staring straight through her. She felt less naked taking that photograph than she did right now. There was a voice from the back of the room. “Nudity in art should be refined, stark,
modest bathing suits Meredith thought of waves as hands, and everyone knows hands are erotic, so when she went out to photograph the winter storms, she went to see the waves making love to the shore. 1986 was a hard year. At least insomuch as it was her last year of high school, her last year of freedom, and her last year to get away with pissing everyone off with relatively minor repercussions. It was on one particularly dead December day in Annapolis Royal that she found herself facing one repercussion too many. She was in her art class, looking out over a grey winter sky, and thinking how it seemed far too dark to be a day. Toward to the back of the classroom, her teacher was fiddling with the slide projector. Meredith always found it difficult to look straight at him. It wasn’t just the way he dressed (ill-fitting suit, bow tie, leather shoes that clicked on the hardwood floor), or his often condescending attitude, but mainly his overworked sense of propriety in all things regarding artistic expression. She thought him better suited to overseeing the colour coordination of a corporate advertising firm than attempting to teach high school students about ‘art’. His name was Rupert Humphrey Deveau â€" and he deserved it. There was a series of clicking sounds from the back of the room. Mr. Deveau reattached the top cover of the slide projector after fifteen minutes spent convinced that some part of its inner workings required his attention. “Would you get the lights, please, Kirsten?†he said to Christina Wilkins, the girl sitting closest to the door. She smirked at him and flicked the switch with the back of her hand. There was no need to close the blinds â€" the day was plenty dim enough already. The first slide up on the projection screen was a photo by Wayne Jones. He sat near the front of the class, always upright at his desk, his clothes perfectly fitting and wrinkle-free. Meredith figured there had to be something fundamentally wrong about that. The photo was of his pet, or animal, or some other sort of wildlife she couldn’t quite identify. It looked reptilian in nature and was encircled by cigarette butts on the ground all around it. Wayne spoke up: “This photo symbolizes my feelings on the deforestation of South American jungles and the overall impact on us as human beings.†Meredith let her head fall to the desk, and cradled it in her arms as Mr. Deveau replied positively to Wayne’s attempt at meaningfulness. There were other pictures in turn â€" two more from Wayne (which she ignored altogether) â€" and several by other members of the class (which she peeked out from between her fingers to see). She jerked back from daydreaming just in time to hear Mr. Deveau say: “…and here we have the work of young Meredith Marshall.†The first photo was an experiment in bucking the system. Which is to say: she hoped that Mr. Deveau would not have had the foresight to view each of the student’s slides individually before sharing them with the entire class. The image up on the projection screen seemed to confirm that. Central to the photograph was the dead body of a raccoon, strewn across a bare dirt road. Its fur was splattered with blood, its legs were splayed, and its jaw torn in half. It was a typical image of road kill, but it didn’t end there. Lying on the road, just behind the former raccoon was something a little more provocative. It was Meredith herself, on her side, ankles crossed, arms above her head, chest dotted with blood, and completely, totally naked. Mr. Deveau squinted across the room for what seemed like a long time, holding that particular expression of one who cannot believe what he is seeing, doesn’t believe he should be seeing it, but wants to prolong looking at it for as long as possible. At last, he seemed to come back to earth. There was a harsh series of fumbling sounds as he pressed nearly every button on the projector but the on/off switch, then a satisfied sigh as he finally succeeded in removing the offending image from sight. Meredith didn’t dare look. Then, like something out of a horror movie, each student in the class slowly turned in their seats, eyes fixed, unblinking… each of the forty-six eyes of the twenty-three students staring straight through her. She felt less naked taking that photograph than she did right now. There was a voice from the back of the room. “Nudity in art should be refined, stark, 