Mere Skill

Sam Steele was back from the war in Iraq, glad to be alive, and ready to begin his art career. Sam had spent eighteen months in Iraq, much of it in combat. He showed up at the Admissions Office at the art school ten minutes early. Middleford College of Art was considered one of the best art schools in the country. Sam hoped that it would take his artistic abilities to a higher level.
 

Dean of Admissions, Jonathan Quembly, was running about twenty-minutes late. The young secretary smiled at Sam and apologized for the delay. Finally, after a half-hour, she told Sam that he could go in. Dean Quembly, a tall, patrician looking man, got up and greeted him. The Dean’s eyes were pale, his handshake limp. After some preliminary chitchat, he got down to business.  

“So, tell me, Mr. Steele… why do you want to come to Middleford College of Art?”

Sam told him about his longstanding ambition to be an artist. He also told him about his recent tour of duty in Iraq.

“When I was over there in the desert, I made up my mind to go back to school — if I survived.” 

He handed Dean Quembly a thick manila folder. It was full of small sketches and drawings.

“I did these over there.”

Dean Quembly seemed fearful of contaminating his hand and desk with the folder. He opened it very carefully. One by one, he gave each drawing a cursory look. They were intense sketches of combat, desert flowers, children playing amid the squalor, and people going about their business in a war-torn land. Quembly seemed reluctant to look too closely at the vibrant scenes. He smiled weakly, shook his head, and handed back the manila folder as if it contained dirt.

“Tell me what you plan to do beyond art school,” asked the Dean with little interest.

“I’d like to become a commercial artist, and paint fine art on the side.”

The Dean of Admissions pulled out an official looking sheet of paper. He seemed to study it carefully. Then he looked at the young man skeptically.

“Your grades in high school were not good. What makes you think that you can do college-level work?”

“I grew up a lot over the last 18 months. I’m ready to work hard. I’m not the same person I was in high school.”

“Even if that’s the case,” said Quembly, “this is an art school. One must have talent.”

“I thought my drawings would prove that I’ve got talent.”

“What your drawings show, my boy, is mere skill,” said the Dean. “Talent is more than being able to draw.”

Sam seemed taken aback, and was at a loss for words for a few moments.

“What is talent?” Sam asked, feeling as if he were sinking into some hidden desert quicksand.

Dean Quembly smiled patronizingly. “Talent is indefinable. It’s something that rises to the surface involuntarily. You can’t control or create it. You either have it or you don’t.

“But is you can’t define it, how do you know when you see it, or have it.”

“You just know it. You feel it,” said the Dean.

Quembly stood up as if Sam’s time was already up.

“Here’s what I suggest,” he said. “Go back to school at night. Try doing college work in our night classes, while you reestablish yourself back in civilian life.”

Sam didn’t get up. He looked up at the Dean. “I don’t have time for that. Night school would take me twice as long to graduate. And, I’ve heard that your night instructors are not from your daytime professors.”

“That may be so, but your work lacks discipline, and, quite frankly, real talent,” said Dean Quembly as he headed toward the door to dismiss Steele. “Try night school for a year. Then come back when you’re more mature, and we’ll discuss this again.”

Sam stood up, shaking.

“Mature? What are you talking about? I spent 18 months of my life in that damn war. Almost died. I dreamt of coming back and beginning my art career. GI benefits will pay for full-time school.”

“It’s not a matter of money, my boy,” said the Dean, turning. “Mere skill is not enough to be a student here. One must show talent.

Sam suddenly thought of something. “Dean, I know you’re busy, but could you show me the kind of work that shows such talent? Give me some examples.”

Quembly sighed, shook his head sadly, then walked over to a long metal filing cabinet, with many narrow drawers, suitable for artwork.

“Come here,” he said.

Sam went over to where the Dean was standing.

Dean Quembly seemed to think deeply for a moment, then pulled out the bottom drawer. He carefully examined the dozen or so watercolor painting in the drawer, then slid out three of them, reverently. He placed the paintings on a low viewing-table to the left of the file cabinet.

“Here’s what I’m talking about. This is what we are looking for at Middleford College of Art.

These represent work by three of our most promising students.”

Steele looked down at the first drawing. It was a blur of colors—red, green, aqua, purple, and yellow—swirling around like hungry, agitated piranhas. Sam looked at the Dean to see if he was serious. The look on the Dean’s face told him that he was deadly serious.

The second drawing was almost blank except for three black splotches about the size of quarters, as if the artist were designing an inkblot test. Sam carefully moved it out of the way so he could see the last drawing. This one was deep purple, with hundreds of tiny yellow check marks everywhere.

Sam could think of nothing to say. He had difficulty believing that the Dean considered these watercolors as showing outstanding promise. He felt like he was in an alternate universe, one where he had no place.

“That is raw talent,” said the Dean in a hushed voice. “No mere skill can take its place.”

Bowing his head as in prayer, the Dean reverently slid the three drawings back into the bottom drawer. Then he straightened up, brushed his hands lightly, and went back to open his office door.

“Now, if you don’t mind, I have things to do. My secretary will show you out. Thank you for coming in.”

Sam walked slowly up to the Dean, but didn’t leave. He looked directly into the Dean’s colorless eyes.

“Listen,” said Steele, “I didn’t fight my ass off over there to come back here and get the cold shoulder. All I’m asking for is a chance to prove myself. My drawings, at least, prove I have ‘mere skill’ as you call it. I’ll start on probation. Let me prove that I have the talent.”

Dean Quembly’s face reddened. He seemed to be having trouble controlling his facial muscles.

“Young man, outbursts like that are not going to help you. Let me make a final suggestion. Since you seem to lack the discipline and maturity for full-time college work, try your hand at some adult education classes. See if you can reign in that temper of yours. Maybe, someday, you’ll be able to dredge up a modicum of talent.”

Quembly grabbed the door, and told his secretary, “Show Mr. Steele out!”

“I’ll show myself out,” said Sam. “And, by the way, if those three drawings represent the best in this place, then I don’t want any part of this fraud.”

You, my dear reader, may now choose an ending that you like best from these five possibilities:

1) Year’s later, Sam Steele became a successful commercial artist, after taking a top-rated online course, and working his way into a lucrative career.

- or –

2) About a year later, Dean Quembly hired a local painting contractor to paint his two-story house. One of the painters was Sam Steele. When Quembly came out in his bathrobe on a Saturday morning to get his newspaper, Sam was directly above him on a ladder, painting the second story of the house.

The Dean looked up at him with slow recognition. “Well, I see that you’ve gained serious employment, young man.”

“Yes,” said Sam Steele, “and I owe it all to you.” Then Sam accidentally spilled an entire can of moss green paint on the Dean. Quembly was never able to prove that Sam had done it intentionally.

- or -

 3) The young man gave up his art ambition, and learned computer programming at a local technical college. Sam visits the Dean periodically to thank him for the sound advice the Quembly had given him.

- or -

4) Sam Steele got accepted to a well-respected college of art in New York. He became a successful artist and illustrator of children’s books. Meanwhile, Dean Quembly, after realizing that he was a fraud and killer of talent, committed suicide.

 5) Now’s your chance to create your own ending. I invite you to submit it, if you wish, with your comments.

Years ago, when I got home from Vietnam, I faced a similar situation that Sam (in my story) faced when coming back from war. The enemy, in both cases, was a Dean of Admissions. That situation inspired me to write this story. Hope you like it. Let me know.    



Ken West is a former U.S. Army paratrooper and the author of Get What You Want.  He is a former President of the New England Chapter of the National Speakers Association. Ken is currently Publishing Program Manager for The Fusion Group, Ltd., an international sales training and management consulting firm.