The calling of the humanities is to make us truly human in the best sense of the word.

J. Irwin Miller

Greetings!

It was several months ago when we first met, me presenting the whys and hows of our pledged encounter, you unsure and doubting of your decision. I could sense that you wondered if this was the best way to spend your time, together two days a week for several weeks, sacrificing a portion of your long awaited summer. Not everyone in a commitment such as ours sticks it out and many fall away. But you, you stayed all this time, and aren’t we both the better for it?

You began our relationship only wanting to know how to get what you desired, that perfect affirmation, that A+ grade. Oh, I sensed your skepticism when I explained that our journey was bigger than that, that we were going to spend time exploring what it means to be human. I wanted, and still want, more for you— for your third eye to open and for you to view yourself and the world differently.

So I’ve played Scheherazade, telling stories about how a grouchy Renaissance genius sculpted, from flawed marble, an enduring symbol of pride for a small city-state. How that same artist not only depicted the moment of animation of the Biblical first man, but how he also slyly showed Eve already formed and tenderly sheltered in the Creator’s embrace. That led to a discussion of time as being experienced simultaneously, in the present now and the far distant past, and that led to more talk about physics, time, and creation.

There were stories of an artist whose tortured sense of self meant his actions kept him away from the one thing he truly longed for— to love and be loved; and how he turned that ache into paintings and drawings and all kinds of wonderful things like stars that spun in the sky and planets whirling and whirling and whirling.

We looked at a painting that showed the fate of a teacher from Ancient Greece, a gadfly, who insisted his students question everything. I joked that whenever anyone asked me what I did for a living that I answered that I corrupted the youth of Detroit, and we laughed, because you understood what that meant; we all agreed that I shouldn’t face the same end as Socrates, and I remain pretty confident that I won’t.

Like giants we stepped from continent to continent, and like time-travelers we went from prehistoric caves in France, to Imperial China, to revolutionary France, and back home again before we took off on another world tour. All creative doors were open, and if sometimes the folks we met were different than us, that was okay too, because they were honest and interesting and very human.

Then one day we stepped outside the classroom to visit our local museum. It was there, in front of a painting that you had first seen in our text book, by an artist who had been sorely misused, who dealt with her pain and injustice with story, legend and paint, that you said the very words every humanities and art teacher longs to hear from her students:

“Art is about more than just paintings and drawings, isn’t it? It’s about things that happen in real life.”

It was then I knew that, although our time together would shortly come to an end and other commitments would soon take precedence, and in time you would turn to others in your quest for knowledge,  at this moment you really understood what I was trying to show you. You understood that art is not a frivolous pastime or a casual undertaking; that to study the humanities is to connect to others through time and space, and to truly see you need only open your third eye, and your mind and your heart will follow.

Wishing you much wisdom and continued insight, I remain yours truly,

Martine