The unusually dark classroom exuded mystery. A slide projector perched on a rolling cart in the center of our desks, aimed at the screen pulled down from its rolling apparatus atop the blackboard and weighted by a center dangling knob.
To a teenager, the ambiance evoked an opportunity to nap, but when the Art Professor turned on the circular projector and started talking about the many works of art—frescoes, sculptures, oil paintings—sleeping was the last thing on my mind. The images were so lifelike I wondered if they would shake free from their slides and step into our building as ancient Renaissance Titans.
I could not take my gaze off the screen. Wonder, awe, and amazement shot through my veins, awakening something I wasn’t even aware existed within my soul. How could this happen in a class that was meant to be an easy credit on my transcript, something that made me a bit more well-rounded than the endless trigonometry, calculus, and chemistry?
I’d had a bit of a chip on my shoulder. The university that served our county’s four high schools in the Advance Placement Program of the time—one where students achieved all their required high school courses besides Senior English and took their first year of college in tandem with their final senior year—altered the program that year. Instead of serving each individual high school, those of us in the program would have to transfer to the largest school in our county and our biggest adversary. I’d graduate with strangers and rivals instead of the friends I’d had most of my life. Only one of us made the transfer. It wasn’t me.
This great disappointment culminated in one of the biggest awakenings of my life at the time and taught me a valuable lesson. Had the university continued serving my school, I would not have been in the art class. I would not have seen the works that flipped a switch in my creative heart.
I sat up and, with my gaze glued on the images, absorbed the magic, especially that of Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti.
The Pieta, the Sistine Chapel Ceiling, David, Moses, Christ the Redeemer.
“Genius is the product of eternal patience.” — Michelangelo
The art professor, Johnny Holcomb, informed us he could not teach anyone how to be an artist but rather how to see. Although it’s been more than forty years since I sat in that classroom, I still recall learning that apples are not round, the effects of light and shadow, and sheer awe of the human ability to communicate through art. Sadly, he passed away in 2022, but he left such an impact on the lives of students who were fortunate to sit in his classroom.
See the light pouring onto the table…
…or filling a glass.
“Wine is sunlight, held together by water.” –Galileo
.
Light and shadow on a San Gimignano tower.
I feel so blessed to have had my path slowed by the university changes and to have learned how to see shapes, light, and shadow from a wonderful teacher. I don’t use calculus in my everyday life, but a day rarely passes without me noticing the effect of light and shadow.
“We cannot teach people anything; we can only help them discover it within themselves.” –Galileo
About Renee Johnson
Renee Canter Johnson was born in North Carolina, where she still resides. She has a BS in Business Management from Gardner Webb University. Johnson studied Creative Writing in France and Italy, was awarded two terms at Noepe Center for Literary Arts on Martha’s Vineyard, and completed a Novel Intensive Study at the University of Iowa. Johnson loves spending time with her family and fur babies, and when she is not with them, you will find her reading or writing.
Join her at reneejohnsonwrites.com for insights on travel destinations, books, authors, and living a creative life.
Published author with The Wild Rose Press, blogger, and lifelong voracious reader, with the belief that novels conquered the world of virtual reality long before technology made it possible. The next adventure is just a click away!
Renee Johnson Writes 