Beauty is Truth

It was a basement room, small and dank, with a row of windows along the top of one wall that peered out on to the pavement of the street. The noise of the street drifted into the room and competed for the attention with a small, tinny sounding radio which stood at the end of one of the desks. Amidst the crackling of the speaker and the sounds of engines and footsteps came the sounds of the Sex Pistols. About a dozen students were in the room, several perched on the edge of desks while others investigated their new surroundings curiously. The paint on the grey walls was peeling and old and they were adorned with a selection of colour charts and student notices. In the back left corner of the room sat a square table, of the type usually found in cafeterias, which bore a selection of stuffed birds and gave the room the somewhat eerie feel of a ventriloquist's shop. At the centre of the rear wall was a green door with a square window set in the frame and it was through this door that the figure of Leonard Erskine entered the room.
     He was tall and slim and he walked slowly but purposefully. He was aged somewhere in his mid-fifties and had a crop of dark blonde hair that rose from the middle of his head. He wore a tweed suit with worn leather patches on the elbows and a regimental striped tie in green and red, the colours of the Durham Light Infantry. He didn't stop to look at the occupants of the room but walked straight to the front. Just before he reached the small wooden lectern he turned on his heel and with a smooth movement knocked the edge of the desk bearing the radio. The small receiver clattered to the floor, it's plastic shell shattered and the speaker cone fell face down on the floor and buzzed with static. If he had wanted the attention of the room he certainly had it now.
      He cleared his throat and started to speak. “I suppose you think that that,” he glanced down at the broken radio, “was the height of rebellion?” He paused for a moment again and looked at the faces which focussed on him. “The Sex Pistols.” He almost spat the words out and then made a contemptuous noise by exhaling through his nostrils like a horse about to rear up.
      “That is not rebellion. That is cliché. That is what is expected of you, you're young so you're expected to shock us all with your irreverence. All you're really doing is conforming to what society says you will be; it's the new order of things and you sheep fit it perfectly.”
      The faces of the students had progressed now from curious interest to disgruntlement.
      “Yes, I know, look at me as though I am crazy. What could be more rebellious than rebellion? What could be more rebellious than the vulgarity of modern culture?” He tapped his fingers on the edge of the lectern for a moment before continuing.
      “Beauty. Beauty.” He practically purred as he repeated the word, like a person recalling their first love. “When society dictates that you rebel it is no longer rebellion. Society is crude and grotesque so if you want to rebel then the solution is simple; create something beautiful. Beauty is a revolution, beauty is magic, beauty defies the mundaneness of the everyday. Students, you're here because you want to create art. Possibly some of you are here because you heard it was an easy course. Forget your pre-conceived ideas. If you study this course you will learn to create a thing of beauty. If you don't you will fail. It's that simple.”
      One of the students, a skinny looking thing with spiked orange hair and indeterminable gender spoke up. “And who decides what is beautiful, Mister...”
      “Mister Erskine. In this instance, I decide. That is how this course works, I am the lecturer so I call the shots. I can give you a clue, however, Jackson Pollock would fail my course. Andy Warhol would fail my course. Pablo Picasso would be given a stern talking too and warned to buck up his ideas or he too would fail my course.”
      The spiky haired punk in the front row winced visibly at the slur on Warhol and rose from their chair to leave.
     “Leaving so soon?” asked Erskine, who had now picked up a piece of chalk from his lectern and was rolling it in his hand. “Please close the door on the way out.”
The student started at this, having expected to be talked into staying, but seeing that they had already made their position clear they shrugged and left the room.
      The door slammed behind them.
      “Anyone else care to join whoever that was? Or are you willing to be challenged?”
      The room remained quiet.
      “Then we will begin.”
      He turned to the blackboard and began to write.
      “I'm Mister Erskine but you're welcome to call me Leonard, should you so please; If you bear with me for this course, it's just possible it may change your entire perception of the world. You have been living in a pantone world, prepare to see life in full colour.”
     He finished writing on the board, placed the chalk on the lectern and stood aside. There, in neat round print was written: 'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.'