THE OTHER PATH

It seemed like the longest bus ride I had ever taken as we stopped every half mile to pick up or let off a passenger.  I knew I would have to take a very early bus to Philadelphia each day from now on or select later classes.  I was nervous.  I am a hick I admit it. I had never even walked the streets of Philly or any other big city alone before.  
The small towns on route 47 kept slipping by (this was decades before 6 lanes without traffic lights and without much to see either) As we came closer to the city the houses were closer; the traffic got heavier. 

Finally I arrived, and I made a fast walk from the bus station to The Philadelphia Museum School of Art which was housed in what looked like a “Greek Temple” with columns and tiers of marble steps leading up to massive doors.  After ogling the architecture like a tourist, I notice the students. They were totally different from my friends (except Marsha); they were “artsy” as mom would say.  Why one guy was actuallywearing a beret! 

Most of the males sitting on the steps were dressed in worn jeans (before they were the fashion) turtle necks and had (or tried to grow) goatees; most of the chatting gals were dressed in black with tons of bangles and bubbles and beads galore – this too was long before the days of multi-piercings and sleeves of tats). Gads these are really Beatniks I thought. 

This increased my worry to the boiling point.  I was dressed in madras – brand new buttoned down madras.  
A a madras belt with new chinos  and a useless little belt in the back at the waist for what - I could not figure?  The best first day of school clothes Jules Men and Boys had to offer.  And of all things, my penny loafers were standing out among the sandals around me.  To make things worse my shoes were squeaking shows and actually had a bright new penny (Mr. Freeman, at his shoe store stuck in them at the register). 

Comedian George Gobel once said on the Carson show, “Did ya ever feel like the world is a tuxedo and you’re a brown pair of shoes?”  I now knew that feeling…

I rushed into a massive foyer trying to avoid eye contact.  Perhaps if I wore some really old clothes tomorrow my peers wouldn’t remember the me of today?  I got in a line in front a long table with “normal” looking types sitting in a row behind cardboard tent cards.  I spied H to K and waited.  I had read about my courses and after much deliberation a month ago, quickly signed up for Life Drawing, Pottery, Studio 101 and a course called Humanities.  Now I had forms fill and lastly I presented my scholarship letter to clerk,  instead of a hefty check, which the others were doing. 
I joined a small group led by a student guide who showed us around with the warning to bring our classroom information tomorrow – “We don’t want to get lost…do we?” 

On our walk I realized that the building was much bigger than it looked and it was filled with student's paintings, mobiles, and some real wacky “sculpture” (one I saw was a pile of old truck tires with a day-glow orange human skull resting at the top of the heap).  

I really started to sweat; my "art” was traditional, representational line drawings and heavy handed paintings - I only knew used the primary pallet.  This work here was “far out man” as Maynard G. Krebs would say to Dobie on TV.

            I found many upper-class students alreadyworking in the studios – drawing, slapping wads of clay, chiseling away.  In one room there was someone playing bongo drums as others were making charcoal drawings of white plaster hands resting on a piece of black velvet.  The room smelled like oregano.  (I would learn a bit later what plant was burning, but this would not be today).

          After the tour it was lunchtime.  The cafeteria had the strangest menu I had ever seen.  What’s tofu? Lentils? I pondered  them but knew I couldn’t ask – I did know this wasn’t Jim’s Luncheonette. I ordered just a coffee but even that was different – it was very strong and served in a miniature cup.  As I sipped, my courage slipped away as I had realized a hard fact that was building inside me for months.

I left the lunchroom and looked for Dean’s office who had sent me my scholarship letter and soon found it.  Inviting me in, he was behind a desk covered with piles of papers and surrounded by stacks of paintings and drawings.  After the usual pleasantries, I utter one sentence that was very hard for me to utter and it would change my entire life from that moment on. 

“Sir I can’t do this…I can’t accept your scholarship…I can  never be an artist with a big “A”...the artist you teach here...I really don’t remember all of the rest of our talk as I think I was in shock.  I only recollect one statement that has haunted me.  The Dean said with a glare - “Don’t you realize that you were awarded our one national scholarship…we only give one…we gave it to the student  we think has the most promise…don’t you want to learn to be a great artist perhaps…maybe the next Picasso or Monet…

The bus ride home was very long.   I never returned.  I had finally realized that day I was not at all “artsy”.  

But now what was I going to do???  (To Be Continued)