Mr. Speck

Mr. Speck, what a story that man was. He was our supposed art teacher; supposed because I always thought art was a free expressive medium that can be taken in anyway, just dependent how audiences saw your art differently than you did. Mr. Speck seems less expressive and more sensitive, as well as unanimous. The final example I can think of was the day I quite art.

I had my glass piece ready for the opening day, or at least ready for the Mr. Speck inspection. Once it was my turn, Mr. Speck bend far over while I heard the trill noises squeaking from his back. He finally rouse up after two minutes of checking, and his perturbing glare of dominance told me his opinion was going to be told with incensed. Though he wasn’t screaming he was loudly explain the small ‘motes’ in my piece that made it a huge blunder apparently. I ignored him while keeping my eyes on him, what ‘motes’ was he on about? I’m sure he did explain but I couldn’t hear him over the grunts of annoyance I played in my head. I felt wistful, about where I was now, and I found that if I wanted to prevent attracting someone like Mr. Speck, perhaps choose to do something I’m good at. I always enjoyed exploring myself in a not artistic way, and perhaps Mr. Speck, has made me realize this. I quitted art with little regret.