Corning Community College - Corona Yearbook (Corning, NY)

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ADMINISTRATION BUILDING Great Riches But a Crazy Constitution

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ART ROOM Mrs. Stebbins. Carole Stuart At the bottom of the stairs, left of the vending machine room, lies the extended entrance to the art department. The corridor is flanked on each side by signs, posters, and drawings. Some of the signs and posters advertise such things as Live Cookies and Zowie Super Soap, whatever they may be. Some signs are informative, such as the one which appraises in elaborate Romanesque lettering, A quick brown fox jumps over a lazy dog. The drawings, we conclude, must be impressionistic or abstract, except for one, which is clearly a lobster attempting to pinch bits of green paper. Further on is the first room of Art (?). If we don’t step into the hole in the floor beside the paper cutter, we might keep our good humor to explore and amuse ourselves with paintings and crafts to be found in every direction. A canvas peers from every nook and cranny. Oil paintings are propped on all the easels and lying on every available surface to dry. Some of the half done self-portraits would be great as props for a Thriller program. Wandering on into the last room, we gracefully slide on a paint brush carelessly left on the floor. We put some action into a still-life with five grasping fingertips before landing abruptly on a startled derriere. A chain reaction is triggered by the thud, and an easel tips just enough to cast a gooey landscape on the shaken head below. Upon arising, we are startled by the sight of blood on a hand. No need to panic, however. It is only alizeron crimson—not a disease—a color. Becoming quite frustrated, we search for an exit from this jungle of crafts and canvases. We stumble in one direction only to be stopped by a locked cyclone fence bearing a sign which reads, ‘‘Do not feed.” We turn another way and bump into a large, wobbly table with drying pictures on its surface, each glaring gleefully at us. In wild desperation, we blindly push our way through a mass of stools knocking over tubes of oil paints. The caps come off several of the tubes, and the oils squirt madly onto a fallen canvas. We grab a rag and try to rub off the globs of paint. Just as we come to the realization that we have ruined someone’s picture of chrysanthemums in a pot, a pretty little woman hovers over us and the canvas we are dumbly holding. “Oh, I loove your abstract there!” she exclaims cheer- fully. “It’s nifty .. . just nifty!” 16

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