charles silverberg walked into his large classroom with high ceiling over huge windows. every three years he looks out on to a lake of new students sitting by, or leaning on quality oak desks in jet black polo neck jumpers… pure white haines t-shirts…many with just the right cut of levis or flat front trousers…legs sprawled everywhere with bulging crotches…every single one of them in the exact same black shiny chelsea boots… this year one has the nerve to wear impenetrable shades ….a few girls in good bras… all of them have great hair and nice tight backsides…except one kid in the corner who looked like he might die early, and up close smells slightly rancid.
to give them some credit, they hushed immediately on their own volition when charles strolled in slamming the door violently behind himself. their ears and eyes were all his from the word go. he sat on the edge of his own massive oak desk and made an opening gambit.
look at you…i fucking hate you all, and just because i use bad language, doesn’t mean you can…it’s not do as i do…it’s do as say, unless you’re smart enough to break a rule in a way that takes us all forward…but look at you..you clusterfuck of fake rebellion…hands up the trust fund kids… only seven?…huh..there’s usually at least twenty of the talentless cunts….still.. trust fund or no trust fund, you’re all here cause you think you’re better than your brothers and sisters working in offices or ticket stalls, while we sit here with the autumn sun blasting through these enormous panes of glass. you all look so great in your shitty clothes and boots don’t you…no cream suede boots this year? huh… maybe you rebels have two pairs of boots… only you’re not rebels are you? you’re just scared…scared of the real world, so you thought you’d come here to hide from it.. well you can’t.. not in my class anyway…
let me give you an example of a fearless spirit, way higher than any of your off the peg rebellion. look at this edward hopper painting. it’s called ‘the nighthawks’. he painted this in his new york city apartment while the japanese were bombing pearl harbour. the whole city was instructed to turn their lights off, but hopper ignored everyone by keeping his bulb switched on so he could continue to paint…he had to paint, and was prepared to risk his own life along with everybody else’s to do so..so that’s lesson number one you awful pussies..be fearless and dangerous and dive all the way in.. fucking hell, but i hate you all.
all those students loved charles silverberg..he was the very opposite of their lazy rich parents…he talked straight to them and gave council constantly. none of them went on to be great painters..not even the one who smelled rancid and looked like he might die early, but they all left a whole lot less arsey than what they were on the day they walked in.