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Authors: Katie Kacvinsky
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an old, disjointed, disfigured woman looking back. I stared at the girl and felt some of the disturbing emotions in the piece flood through me. Maybe she was ashamed. Or maybe she didn’t like the person she saw in the reflection. Maybe she was unhappy, strong on the outside but crumbling under the surface.
I shrugged off the unsettling feeling radiating from the painting and moved on to the next print, Picasso’s famous piece, The Old Guitarist . I studied an old man, painted in tones of blue, sunken to the ground and clutching a guitar. It made me think about loss. His body looked broken. His angles were off; his back and neck seemed detached. The only other color in the print was the brown guitar he embraced as if he was holding his exposed heart and the instrument was helping to pump blood through his body.
I looked over at the chat forums running across the bottom of my screen like flowing traffic. My classmates argued over Picasso’s best style: Modernism, Symbolism, Realism, Surrealism, or the Cuban movement. I was the only student who wasn’t participating in the discussion. I was already an outsider.
I examined a painting by Dali, called Scream. The colors and ghostly portrayal of a nightmare was so loud, I could almost hear a scream wailing out of the canvas. I could feel the heat of the fiery red sky and the unstable ground rolling under my feet.
I backed my icon away from the haunting prints and headed into the lobby as if I needed fresh air. I roamed toward the front entrance where there was an online souvenir shop. The shop displayed gifts you could order: digital prints for phones and flipsreens, t-shirts, bags, even bedspreads and curtains featuring your favorite paintings. I laughed at the idea of having Scream as my window curtains. That would be a pleasant image to wake up to.
I moved inside the international café, across from the souvenir shop. The white chairs next to the tables were shaped like flat cup saucers and looked about as comfortable to sit on. Everything in the room was straight and angular, as if I was inside a modern painting of different shades of white. I was the only color. Even the French, Spanish and Italian entrees were written in a grayish-white colored font.
The rain, the wind, the depressing images, a nd a café we couldn’t use. It didn’t make sense. It was as if Digital School didn’t want us to enjoy this experience. They wanted this history lesson to be one more reason why the world we lived in today was so superior to the past.
I hear the Soupe à l'Oignon is good , an icon bounced up to me. You know, if you like eating air.
I glanced at the yellow icon, an image shaped like a chameleon’s head. It stood next to my icon, a green, smudged handprint as if someone dipped their hand in bowl of paint and pressed it on the screen.
“ Thanks, I’ll try it , ” I mocked, and my words were translated into a digital message that showed up in the chat space. “What’s the point of this cafe?” I asked.
I t’s part of the art history lesson , the icon answered.
The café that surrounded me summed up DS. I was there, but I wasn’t it. You could see anything but you experienced nothing. You could order anything, but you never tasted it. A critical sensory was blocked. I didn’t share this opinion in the open chat space.
Did Picasso scare you off? the chameleon asked. A warning censor turned on inside of me. This person had been watching me during the tour. I clicked on the icon and it gave me a brief description: Male, DS-4 student, two grades higher than me. He lived in Corvallis, Oregon, the same town as me. Usually students offered main courses of interest, social groups or additional profile links, but his information was scarce.
“ Do you like Picasso?” I asked, and threw the question back to him, like passing a ball.
Yeah, I do, he said. Not that I want to order his prints as my bedspread anytime soon.
I smiled. “He’s messed up,” I said.
He
I shrugged off the unsettling feeling radiating from the painting and moved on to the next print, Picasso’s famous piece, The Old Guitarist . I studied an old man, painted in tones of blue, sunken to the ground and clutching a guitar. It made me think about loss. His body looked broken. His angles were off; his back and neck seemed detached. The only other color in the print was the brown guitar he embraced as if he was holding his exposed heart and the instrument was helping to pump blood through his body.
I looked over at the chat forums running across the bottom of my screen like flowing traffic. My classmates argued over Picasso’s best style: Modernism, Symbolism, Realism, Surrealism, or the Cuban movement. I was the only student who wasn’t participating in the discussion. I was already an outsider.
I examined a painting by Dali, called Scream. The colors and ghostly portrayal of a nightmare was so loud, I could almost hear a scream wailing out of the canvas. I could feel the heat of the fiery red sky and the unstable ground rolling under my feet.
I backed my icon away from the haunting prints and headed into the lobby as if I needed fresh air. I roamed toward the front entrance where there was an online souvenir shop. The shop displayed gifts you could order: digital prints for phones and flipsreens, t-shirts, bags, even bedspreads and curtains featuring your favorite paintings. I laughed at the idea of having Scream as my window curtains. That would be a pleasant image to wake up to.
I moved inside the international café, across from the souvenir shop. The white chairs next to the tables were shaped like flat cup saucers and looked about as comfortable to sit on. Everything in the room was straight and angular, as if I was inside a modern painting of different shades of white. I was the only color. Even the French, Spanish and Italian entrees were written in a grayish-white colored font.
The rain, the wind, the depressing images, a nd a café we couldn’t use. It didn’t make sense. It was as if Digital School didn’t want us to enjoy this experience. They wanted this history lesson to be one more reason why the world we lived in today was so superior to the past.
I hear the Soupe à l'Oignon is good , an icon bounced up to me. You know, if you like eating air.
I glanced at the yellow icon, an image shaped like a chameleon’s head. It stood next to my icon, a green, smudged handprint as if someone dipped their hand in bowl of paint and pressed it on the screen.
“ Thanks, I’ll try it , ” I mocked, and my words were translated into a digital message that showed up in the chat space. “What’s the point of this cafe?” I asked.
I t’s part of the art history lesson , the icon answered.
The café that surrounded me summed up DS. I was there, but I wasn’t it. You could see anything but you experienced nothing. You could order anything, but you never tasted it. A critical sensory was blocked. I didn’t share this opinion in the open chat space.
Did Picasso scare you off? the chameleon asked. A warning censor turned on inside of me. This person had been watching me during the tour. I clicked on the icon and it gave me a brief description: Male, DS-4 student, two grades higher than me. He lived in Corvallis, Oregon, the same town as me. Usually students offered main courses of interest, social groups or additional profile links, but his information was scarce.
“ Do you like Picasso?” I asked, and threw the question back to him, like passing a ball.
Yeah, I do, he said. Not that I want to order his prints as my bedspread anytime soon.
I smiled. “He’s messed up,” I said.
He
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