Chapter ten:​ Questions --- 1906

Months after the judgment, my hands trembled with excitement as I finally received the response letter. I was confident I had been accepted---so certain of it. The judges had shown interest, paying close attention to my explanations of the second and third paintings. Standing by the counter with Mother, I began reading aloud, eager to share this moment with her.

"Dear Applicant, we regret to inform you that your applica---" I froze mid-sentence, the words catching in my throat. "What?" I whispered, barely audible. Months of preparation, the endless slog of rotating paintings, all of it---wasted. Time I could never reclaim. None of it made any sense.

It had to be a mistake. It had to be. I'd go back East and straighten everything out. It would be simple---no big deal. It had to be.

I had done everything right. The admissions requirements were clear: demonstrate a diverse skill set, prove you're a cut above the rest. I met every expectation---so why had I failed? What more could they possibly want? I poured hours upon hours into work that reflected the skills of the worlds greatest painters.

Each demonstration was unique, my work one of a kind. If the abstract trash that filled their halls was enough for others to gain entry, then surely, I deserved my place. If anyone had earned admission, it was me. There had to be justice.

"They must have made a mistake... right?" I turned to Mother, searching for reassurance. But her pale blue eyes held only pity.

"Yes, that's right," she said softly. "I know you, honey. Your art is one of a kind---better than a friend of mine who went there in the '90s. It has to be a mix-up." She smiled gently, but the words felt hollow.

I sighted, releasing my tight grip on the letter. It fluttered onto the counter as I forced myself to keep reading. Near the end, I noticed something---a second chance. Applications would open again from next January through March.

As I read further, I noticed a messy handwritten note near the end, suggesting I reapply in March to give myself more time to prepare. I folded the letter carefully and place it in the junk cabinet.

I wouldn't need it. This was just an error---a mistake to be fixed, nothing more.

Answers

​I boarded a train that Sunday evening, determined to find answers. The journey passed in a blur, my thoughts consumed by a single question: Why had I failed? Or had I failed at all? As the train screeched to a halt in the early hours, I stepped into the chilly morning with a renewed sense of purpose.

I didn't stop---not for the road, not for food, and certainly not for the people. When I finally reached the administrative hall, my watch read six-thirty---half an hour before opening.

I sat and waited in silence, impatience simmering beneath my calm exterior.

By seven-ten, the man at the door, clearly tired of my lingering presence, let me in early. As I approached the help desk, I found it empty.

Frustrated, I struck the bell---perhaps harder than necessary. A moment later, a women emerged, her exhaustion evident in her slumped shoulders and weary expression.

"What can I help you with, sir?" she asked, her voice flat with fatigue.

Not wanting to appear rude, I made an effort to keep my tone neutral. "I'd like to check the current status of my application."

She nodded, seeming to understand my request, and asked if I had already completed my review. I answered yes.

Her bro furrowed slightly in surprise. "In January?"

Her question caught me off guard. It seemed both random and unnecessary.

"Yes, I did," I replied. "Just last week---On Saturday."

She turned around and pulled a nearly empty folder from the shelf.

"Ah, I have it here, Adolf," she said. her tone unreadable.

After a long, awkward pause, she added, "I don't know how to put this gently, but... you've been rejected."

I gripped the edge of the counter, the words hitting me harder than I expected. It wasn't a mistake. It wasn't a misplaced letter. It was real.

I had to accept it. I had to move on, no matter how much it hurt. But frustration boiled beneath the surface. I couldn't leave---not yet. If I walked away now, the unanswered question would haunt me forever: Why? Why wasn't I good enough?

"What does it say?" I asked, my voice low but firm.

Her mouth opened as if to refuse, but she then hesitated. Looking back, I think it was the desperation in my eyes---so stark and undeniable---that changed her mind.

I held her gaze, unflinching, until she finally answered.

"The general feedback says... that you wasted their time."

Her words cut deep, but she wasn't finished. "Your art doesn't meet the standards of the Art Academy of Vienna."

After a pause, she continued, "The main critique was that your work felt... inhuman. They said it lacked feeling, emotion."

Anger flared within me. Everything I had poured my soul into---dismissed with those fifteen words. The haze of fury stayed with me until I finally reached home.

When I finally arrived, Mother greeted me with a hopeful smile. I killed it with a single shake of my head. Too exhausted to undress, I collapsed onto the bed, still in my clothes. Fifty hours without sleep, and I felt every second of it.

Lying there, yet sleep refused to come. My thoughts returned to the paper in the cabinet. Dragging myself out of bed, I retrieved it and wrote down January 9th---the earliest application date. I would mail it after some rest.

If the judges thought my art was inhuman and unfeeling, I vowed to show them what truly inhuman art could be.