Chapter Text
—----
To create is to destroy. There’s no getting around it.
You can't have your money and spend it, too.
You can’t have your cake and eat it.
You can’t draw a portrait without losing lead. Every mark you make erodes the tool used to make it.
This is the nature of things.
So how does one go about choosing what to create? And how do we choose what to destroy in the process? And how can we find balance without betraying the nature of ourselves and our moral values?
—-
The university referred to it often as the ‘Blue School’ due to the building’s facade of bricks glazed in a deep Prussian hue. It stood in high contrast to the dingy gray and bright steel adorning the other structures on campus. Less formally and more sardonically it was referred to as the ‘House of Blues.’ Not that it had a music program, but because it was home to the student population often stereotyped as sad and tortured: the art majors. Officially, and on all the campus maps, it was the Fulton Building and home to the Schenley School for Art and American Craft.
Robby didn’t care one way or the other, to him it would always be an ivory tower.
He entered it that morning in his usual manner–through the rear stairwell by the receiving dock. He made the excuse that it was a faster path to his office, and while that was true, he mostly used it to avoid running into Gloria.
He had been gone for nearly two months and wanted his transition back to work to go as smoothly as it possibly could.
His office smelled musty. And the August morning sun illuminated a thin coating of dust across his desk and cabinets and the aging leather loveseat shoved against the far wall. He flicked on the small air purifier in the corner, the hum of its fan setting Robby at ease. Two large stacks of unopened mail sat on his desk and a third towered in his desk chair. Without haste, he tossed his knapsack down and plugged in his shredder.
He sorted the stack on his desk chair last.
Before he could set to clearing out his emails, there was a knock on his open door.
“Dana!” He sang in a happy rasp. “I didn’t expect you here.” He stood from his desk to greet her.
She shrugged and held her arms out. “Eh, I figured I had one more go around in this crazy circus.” Robby found comfort in the warm of her embrace, in the familiar scent of her vanilla perfume. “And besides, with Heather and Frank gone, somebody's gotta be here to hold the reins.”
Robby's jaw ticked sideways as he stepped away. He scratched the back of his neck. “I appreciate you, Dana,” he said with more meekness than he’d care to admit. “But I don't wanna keep you here against your will.”
“ Well look atchu ,” she drawled. “You have your Wheaties this mornin or somethin?”
Robby chuckled and shook his head. “I'm just makin sure you're here because you wanna be here. Not because you feel like you have to be.”
Dana's smile grew. Her chin tilted upward. She paused and nodded. “There’s that Dr. Robby we all know and love.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Robby groused and turned away. “You seen Jack come in, yet?”
She crossed her arms and leaned against the doorframe. “I'm pretty sure he never left. Probably spent the last two months sleepin in a hammock out back.” She threw her thumb over her shoulder. “Last I saw he was in the cold works studio shinin’ his balls.”
Robby choked into laughter.
“What? I'm serious!” Dana started laughing, too. “I walked in on him yesterday rubbin two big glass balls with a chamois.” She leaned in. “And he was sweatin, too.” She put her hands up in surrender. “I had to step out and give him a little privacy.”
“Oh, I don't know. I think Jack likes an audience.”
“I'm sure he does, but I wasn't prepared for that. I was just trying to drop off some paperwork for the new kids comin in. I wasn't ready for a show.” She shrugged with a grin. “I mean, jeez. Take a girl to dinner first.”
“I'll make sure he does next time. Don't worry.”
“Well, thanks, chief. Good to know there's still a few good men out there.”
“Im tryin. Im tryin.” Robby chuckled. “Uhh… I wanna thank you,” he said with sincerity. “For staying a little bit longer. I know, uhh… I know you're wanting a change, but I appreciate you sticking around.”
Dana's droll demeanor slid off and gave way to warmth. “You got it, boss.” She reached forward and gave his arm a light squeeze. “Don’t go anywhere yet, ‘cause I got some paperwork for you, too. Aaaand Gloria wants to see you first thing.” She winked.
Robby rolled his eyes and groaned. “Did she say why exactly?”
“I wouldn't put it past her to do a wellness check on ya.”
He huffed. “Like she’d know a goddamn thing about that,” he muttered.
“Yeah, so be prepared to bite the shit outta your tongue while she works you up, ya hear me?” she glared.
Robby tucked his head and held up his palms. “Yes, ma’am.”
He tossed Dana’s paperwork on his desk before slipping away to find Jack.
—-
Jack raced to hug Robby when he entered the studio. “Hey, brother. I am so glad to see you,” he croaked. There was dirt in the wrinkles and lines around his tired eyes. He smelled like stale sweat, ash, and listerine. Dana may have been right when she said Jack had been sleeping on campus.
“Good to see you, too, brother. What's up, man? What's going on?” His eyes scanned the room. Seven cast glass orbs of various sizes sat in wooden holders on two separate work tables. The orbs were solid and clear and suspended within them were small bronze figures and tokens.
Jack moved his safety glasses to rest atop the damp gray curls on his head. “This kiln’s been feeling like Satan's asshole and I'm just walking through every turgid ring of hell, man.”
Robby laughed, patting Jack on the back. “Looks like you're making a lot of progress, though.” Last year, this project was a series of sketches in Jack’s notebook. He had made marbles, too, to help him visualize it. And now it was coming to fruition.
“I guess.” Jack shrugged. “I been at it for so long.” He leaned one arm on the table–hypnotized by the swirling thoughts in his head.
“Keep it up, man. You got this.” Robby tapped him on the arm with his fist.
Jack just shrugged again. “Man, I was in the service for how many years?” He squinted at Robby. “And this is what comes out the other end.” He scoffed. “But it's like… I can't do anything else, man. This is all I can fucking think about.” He splayed his fingertips on the table, dirt beneath each nail. “And if I get it out, then I'm free, you know?” He pushed his weight into his palm. “But I gotta get it out right , otherwise I'm just fucking trapped.”
“Oh I hear ya, brother,” Robby sucked his teeth with a nod.
“It's all I been thinking about.” He stood upright again and crossed his arms, muscles tensing beneath his t-shirt. “I got these ones here–” He pointed to the array on the tables. “And down the hall, I got ones that I’m making outta melted down liquor bottles, you know? Like those old Japanese fishing floats made outta sake bottles.”
Robby pushed his sleeves to his elbows and nodded–not that Jack was looking. This was the Jack Abbot that Robby knew well–lost in the midst of it. Obsessed. Haunted. It translated well to his teaching style.
“So these ones are solid and those ones are gonna be hollow on the inside ‘cause it’s anchors and floats. Anchors and floats. And-and-and what part of myself do I let sink and what part of myself gets to swim and-and who do I let people see and why? Why, you know?” Jack turned back to Robby, with a shrug. “I don’t know, man. It’s startin to feel a little pointless.” He crossed his arms, staring at the globes as they rested in their cradles.
Robby grunted and shook his head. “Don’t start giving into that feeling, brother. Don’t go down that road. You are just following your nature.”
Jack scoffed. “Yeah, well I’d rather my nature be a little more profitable.”
Robby chuckled. “Yeah, you and me both, brother.”
Jack tutted. “Gloria’s been on my ass about applying for grants.” He grimaced. “I can barely convince myself why doing this shit is worth it and I gotta go begging for money, convincing some rich asshole to fund my sad little craft program?”
Robby scratched the back of his neck. “The-the shit we do … helps change people.”
Jack scoffed. “People only change if they wanna change.”
“Yeah, but uhh… the only way to get people to wanna change is to show ‘em that they can, you know? That they can think and do different.”
Jack shook his head and patted Robby on the shoulder. “Nice try, but that ain't working on me today.”
Robby hummed. “I get points for effort though, right?”
Jack rolled his eyes, unamused. “Yeah, sure. Why not?”
Robby had isolated himself from everyone for weeks which meant Jack had been isolated, too. Isolated and wrapped up in his art, desperately seeking precision: How do I wanna define my thoughts? Is this the best translation I can do? How do I defend this tender, vulnerable expression of myself to the shitty, vapid masses?
Robby and Jack were a pair. Two bitter cynics clawing their way toward any sense of relief. And some of that relief had been found in each other as their lives ran in parallel. But there were times when the safest option was retreat. Solitude. And they would never fault one another for that.
“Samira ever finish that chair?” Robby asked once the silence felt uncomfortable.
Jack released a throaty chuckle. He smirked. “Come on, man. You're just jealous.”
“Oh, I'm very jealous,” Robby nodded shamelessly.
Jack threw his hand up, exasperated. “This brilliant woman is building a whole dining set plank by plank in cast glass and here I am playing with my fucking balls.”
Robby laughed. “Yeah, but you've got really beautiful balls, brother.”
Jack threw his head back laughing, then nodded meekly with a shrug. “Thanks, man.”
Robby tapped the flat of his fingers on the wooden worktable. “So… the Catskills were nice.” He crossed his arms and kept his eyes on the ground. “And I uh… sent Heather some flowers.”
Jack turned with surprise, a small smile growing on his lips. “Yeah?”
“Well, you know, to congratulate her and everything.” He scratched the back of his neck. “I mean, I-I-I knew she wasn’t gonna stay here.” He shook his arms out, forcing the sleeves of his shirt to fall back down to his wrists. “I mean, she asked me for a reference letter and everything and I just… hoped Tufts wasn’t gonna hire her, you know?” He forced a smile, his eyes on the floor.
“It’s good for her, though–”
“No, I know. I know. And I’m happy for her. Really. I-I-I’m just mad at myself for thinking I could change her mind. For thinking… I don’t know.” Robby shrugged, shifted his weight from foot to foot. “It’s-It’s done. And I’m… moving on. I got…” He sighed. “I got too much of my own shit to worry about right now.”
Jack nodded slowly, then pursed his lips. “...You reach out to Frank?”
“ No. ” Robby huffed and shook his head, a new energy funneling through his muscles. “No.” He laughed humorlessly. “I don't have shit to say to him.” He crossed his arms. “I-I-I'm still too fucking angry, man. I don’t know what I’m gonna do when he comes back in January. I-I-I don't even wanna fucking think about it right now.”
“Addiction’s a disease–”
“I am well aware of that fact, Jack, and you are obviously missing the point here.” Robby dug in his heels and Jack sank into his shoulders, looking away. “It is not about the addiction. It is about the fact that he started using in the first place. He knew my policy. He knew my whole philosophy around it and he made the conscious decision to do it. Not only to do it, but to do it on campus and get caught by a fucking grad student.” Robby huffed again. “I-I-I don’t understand why we don’t have a stricter drug policy.”
“What people do in their spare time is their business, Robby.”
He threw his hands up. “I know. I know.” He rubbed the back of his neck. He always lost this argument and part of him understood why and another part of him thought it was bullshit. He sighed heavy and rubbed his eyes with his palms. “Look, I gotta go… deal with Gloria and get this wellness check bullshit over with. I’ve got a thousand fuckin e-mails to answer and two different committee meetings this afternoon.”
“Yeah, I’ll see you in the one that starts at four. Whatever fuckin one that is.”
Robby turned back before heading out the door. “Hey, what are you doing for lunch?”
“Eh, fuck if I know.”
“I’ll come find you.”
“Heard.”
—--
Gloria’s office loomed at the end of the main hallway on the ground floor–glass door glowing pale blue like some aseptic examination room. It wasn’t just her garish decorative choices, but also the shrewd way she dealt with Robby and nearly all the school’s personnel.
Dana was right. Robby needed to bite his tongue til it bled for this conversation with Gloria. There was far too much at stake for himself and his future at the school. He took a deep breath, swallowed his pride, and rapped his knuckle on the glass.
“Enter!” she called.
Robby did thusly. His eyes stung with tears as he became enveloped in the cold, white, sterilizing light.
“Dr. Robinavitch,” she spoke evenly and pointed with her open palm at the seat opposing her burnished steel desk. She didn’t stand. She sat upright, but relaxed wearing a burgundy blazer with sharp shoulders. She didn’t speak again until Robby had sat awkwardly on the hard, plastic black chair awaiting him.
“I trust that your extended vacation was sufficiently rejuvenating?”
“I–” he hummed and nodded with his eyes closed—already Gloria was getting under his skin. His words tumbled into one another. “Yes. Yes, it was quite rejuvenating, Gloria. I have been replenished and some might even say ‘reborn.’ How can I help you on this beautiful and sunny August morning?” He said while staring at the sharp lines of the tall, thick white curtains barricading the windows.
“Good to hear.” She smiled with routine courtesy. She crossed her fingertips and rested her hands atop her desk. “This spring, The Frick Museum here in Pittsburgh is holding an exhibition of work from higher education professionals in the area. And in the following autumn, the show will be moving to the Frick Collection in New York. They’re calling it–” she raised her palm. “‘Guiding Hands: From the Steel City to the Melting Pot.’” She grinned with pride, her fingers interlocking once more. “And I have arranged for you, Parker Ellis, and John Shen to exhibit three of your most recent works.”
Robby blinked.
Gloria continued. “You’ll want to pick your best pieces, too. You’ll be showing alongside other notable faculty from Carnegie Mellon, the University of Pittsburgh, Allegheny–”
“ I’m sorry–I’m sorry–I’m sorry ,” Robby held his hand up, fingers splayed in Gloria’s direction. Twisted expression on his face. “... What? ”
“It’s part of a larger trend to reignite public interest in the arts and solidify Pittsburgh as a wellspring of creative visionaries and educational leaders.” She almost looked smug. “The Frick Estate has been trying to maintain its relevance in the art world for many years now and I believe this to be another admirable endeavor.”
He threw his thumb over his shoulder. “But I just spent all summer working on proposals and–”
“Good. We need those, too. I'm sure you read the news. Funding for the arts has always been a beggar’s job in this country and now we’re in full-blown crisis mode. And you can’t earn tenure if this school no longer exists.”
“Gloria, I don’t have anything–”
“What do you mean you don’t have anything?” Her eyes wide with shock. “How can you teach a craft you don’t practice?”
“I-I do practice my craft.” He raised his palm once again in an attempt to quell her. “What I mean is that I don’t have anything finished .”
“Then finish,” she said with a hint of disgust. “You have until March.”
Robby laughed dryly, pushing his shirt sleeves up to his elbows. “That-that’s not how that works.”
“Sure it is. It’s called a deadline. The whole world is run on them. Or did Adamson not teach you that?”
“Really, Gloria?” he asked with contempt.
“ Yes ,” she stressed. “I don’t understand the issue here, Robinavitch. This opportunity is a gift .”
“ Gloria . This is far from a gift.” Robby crossed his arms, and shook his head.
She leaned forward. “This exhibition will put fruitful eyes on our school. It will further establish you as an educational leader among your peers and after what happened at the end of last year, I think you could use the win.”
Robby’s shoulders rose high. He gritted his teeth. “ Thiiiis is not the win you think it is.” His face turned red. “I-I don’t know—”
“Well, that doesn’t matter.” She shrugged. “This isn’t optional. You either meet the requirements to maintain your tenure or you can step aside.”
Robby jolted. “Whoa, whoa, whoa! You can't do that! You can't threaten me like that, Gloria. Come on, now.”
“I'm not threatening you, Robby. I am reminding you of your upcoming post-tenure evaluation.”
He sucked his teeth. His leg bounced in place. “But-but-but what about Jack? He’s working in the studio right now. Or-or-or Cassie–”
She shrugged again. “They don’t need the representation.”
Robby stilled. “Oh.” He rolled his jaw. “This is because I’m Jewish.”
“Yes,” she said. “Is that a problem?”
“Maybe!” He balked, crossing his arms again. “Maybe I don’t want that to be a selling point. Maybe I want my work to stand on its own!”
“Is that what you told the American Jewish Museum?”
Robby rolled his eyes, head, and neck. “I haven’t shown there in years .”
“Which is the entire point of this contention, Dr. Robinavitch. You haven’t exhibited new work in almost five years .”
Robby's chest stung for a reason he couldn't discern. But he knew he didn't like it. “That's because I-I don’t have time to finish anything.” He avoided her gaze. “I’ve got classes to teach–”
“That’s what T.A.’s are for.”
He scoffed and continued to avoid her gaze. “Not for all of them.”
“No, but you’ve got at least one undergraduate class you can pawn off on a grad student.”
Robby groaned. “Gloria, please . I really cannot do this right now–”
“Yes.” She nodded resolutely. “You can. You may not see it right now but this is going to be excellent for you and most importantly this school . Now I’ll put the submission details in your inbox. They want the pieces ready for showing by March first.” She sighed. “I also want copies of your grant proposals before the end of the week. I have a meeting with the board next Tuesday.”
Robby glared. “Is there anything else you need from me, Dr. Underwood?”
“No. That’s all for the moment,” Gloria answered, remaining stoic at her desk.
Robby stood, exhausted already and the students had yet to arrive on campus.
“You’re welcome, Dr. Robinavitch.”
He bit his tongue like Dana told him to and strode out the door.
—------------
“Some fucking wellness check,” Robby grumbled to himself as he made his way back to his own office. He would never admit Gloria was right, but she did have a point.
Robby’s studio on the fifth floor had been all but abandoned since Adamson's death. Losing his mentor took the wind out of his sails. He continued to teach and guide both students and newer faculty members. But continuing his own studio practice felt pointless–as if he had pushed himself as far as he could go and there was no higher summit. Or if there was, he didn't see any reason to pursue it. He claimed to be satisfied, whether it was true or not.
The post-tenure review had been lingering in the back of his mind and he had been successful in avoiding it. But if anyone could convince a group of people that Robby wasn't meeting expectations, it was Gloria.
(Gloria was an art historian of three decades and a critic for two. Her work was thorough, well-researched, scathing. The height of her career was in the 90s when she published an article that brutally eviscerated Damien Hirst and his “shock art groupies.” It was enough to cause a brief, but measurable, dip in the man’s career while putting several other prominent artists on notice.
If she could do that to Damien Hirst, Robby doesn't wanna know what she could do to him.)
He was only teaching two undergraduate classes for the Fall semester and one of them was advanced anatomy–a class there was no way in hell he would give to a grad student. The other class was one he picked up after Frank got suspended. And if he remembered correctly, the teaching assistant assigned to that was an incoming student. He didn’t want to have to throw someone to the wolves that quickly, but scheduling was a nightmare and he knew it would be futile to search for a replacement. He would have to work with what he had and pray for the best.
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