modern
Steve Rogers was having a bad day.
If you asked him, bad was an understatement. It was the "fucking worst day of my life like what the fuck am I even doing I hate this I hate my life." Yeah, that kind of day.
It all started when Steve woke up in the middle of the afternoon. He rushed to the bathroom and threw up a storm (and last nights dinner), and proceeded to cry from the excruciating pain of moving considering he had some broken bones.
Then, he sulked back into his bed and complained to Clint that his life sucked and he hated everyone and fuck the world and Clint.
He continued this complaining and rotating between watching television and drawing, for three hours, before Clint finally had it. Steve was complaining about his head when-
"You motherfucker."
"Cliiiiint it hurts s-"
"Don't be a bitch, you did this to yourself, Rogers," Clint said sternly.
"Yeah but it- but it hurrrrtsssss," Steve whined.
"I'm literally gonna shoot you."
"Do it, save me from this misery that is life," Steve lamented, throwing his head back onto the pillow.
"You're being a bitch, I'm leaving," Clint started to get up.
"No no no, I'm sorry I'll stop complaining okay Clinty," Steve rushed. "I love you please don't leave me I love your big muscles," Steve continued.
Clint sniggered. "Normally, this flattery would get to me," Clint sat back down. "But unfortunately, I do hafta go, Captain."
"Whyyyyyyyy?" Steve complained.
"I'm meeting up with Nat and Sam at the diner, we planned it from lastweek," Clint said softly. "I'm sorry, I didn't exactly plan on my best friend getting his ass kicked, but I have to go, man."
"It's okay, you can go, I have my Netflix," Steve smiled. "Gon' watch more Sherlock."
"Okay, I'll be back later tonight, I left some money on the counter inside, so you can order some pizza," Clint says and gets up. "Call me if you need anything, Stevie."
"Yeah, yeah, love you mom," Steve sniggered, and Clint made a face and went into his room and changed. After a minute or so, he heard the door to their apartment close, and the lock being put to use.
Steve was alone in the apartment.
For the next four hours, Steve fell in and out of consciousness, as Sherlock played in the background. His entire body was aching and he was on so many pain meds. He felt weak, and tired. It kind of felt like when he had mono, but like way, way worse.
When Clint came home, it was around 1 o'clock in the morning and Steve was sitting in bed with the blanket completely wrapped around him, so that the only thing you could see was his face, poking through the hole formed by the blanket. He sat on his bed, glumly watching Sherlock.
"Have you even moved at all since I left?" Clint asks doubtfully.
"Yeah," Steve answers. "I moved from one side of my bed to the other side of my bed, can't you tell that-"
"Steve-"
"No, I have not moved, mom," Steve says sarcastically.
"Steve, you gotta take care of yourself man, it's not healthy that you're like this-"
"Whatever, I'm going to bed," Steve blows him off. "Good night."
"Wait, I gotta tell you something," Clint presses on. "You're not gonna like it, but please do it for me."
"What is it Clint?"
"No, but like you're really really not gonna like it so don't yell at me, just trust me," Clint continues ranting on. "It'll be worth it so please just-"
"Clint can you just fucking spit it out already?"
"IkindofmighthavemadeusplanstomorrownightwithNatandSamandSam'sroomatepleasedontbemadatme?"
"No."
"OH COME ON, STEVE," Clint groans.
"No, I'm not going," Steve insisted.
"It's just hanging out at Nat's place, it'll be fun, pleeeeeeaasse?" Clint whines.
"Why do you want me there anyway?" Steve crosses his arms.
"Because Sam asked about you, said he and his roommate were friends and I don't know, we figured we might as well hang out more often," Clint reasons.
"And Sam actually invited me?"
"Yes."
"Clint."
"Okay so he said you could come if you want so technically that's an invite, but legit you're coming," Clint says firmly.
"I'll see how I feel, Clint. And besides, I have a shit ton of work to do because I wasted today away," Steve gives in.
"That's your fault, bitch," Clint teases, and walks toward the doorway. "Go to sleep, Captain, I'll see you tomorrow."
"Good night, asshole."
"Rude."
"Fuck off."
"Even more rude."
"Please go away."
"That's better."
***
Steve sat glumly in the back of the lecture hall, as his professor droned on and on about the definition of modern and its relationship with art and its history.
"The real question is- what does postmodern mean? When I look at something, say- a sculpture, or any piece of art, and I classify it as postmodern," Professor Hale pauses, "what are the characteristics that cause me to say this- better yet, why do I call it postmodern art?"
Steve looked around the hall. It wasn't any more than 30 students, all scattered across the room and slumped in their seats as well- after all, it was a Monday morning.
"What separates modern art," she points to a picture of Pierre Bonnard's 'After The Theater,' "from postmodern art?" Hale then points to a picture of Chuck Close's work titled 'Georgia.'
Steve looked up, and looked back down uninterested.
"I'm gonna speak quite generally here, folks, so forget about Chuck Close and Pierre Bonnard and the 1970s for a moment," Hale continued. "Modern art, by definition, is related to the idea that the work corresponds with its own era and time. What constitutes modern nowadays, is completely different from what was modern, say, fifty years ago."
Steve looks up.
"So why is it important to learn art history?"
No one answered.
"Come on, you're all going to be art history majors within the next few years, guys," Hale persists. "Fine, I guess I'll tell you.
"The fluidity of time is very often modeled in the timeline of art history. The definition of modern itself is defined by the time itself. When we look back at prehistoric art, we see a world completely different from our own, yet at that time in history, it was the most modern you can get. That stuff? It's old, it's crusty and it isn't that pretty or as cool as the art we see today, yet we have this connection- this, humanity and emotion. Anyone from any time in the past, present and future, can relate to having their heart broken, no? You see, I believe that art history is history itself. Wars, treaties, laws... they don't define the humanity that we call our past. Art? Music? Writing? Poetry? They connect us to our past, they humanize our past, they make our timeline our own- they define who we are.
"But, modern- the word modern is special, folks. We learn that no matter what our past is, we can change it. Because what was not accepted then, could be accepted now- just by the definition of the word. So if I want you to take anything from these last few years of art history, I want you to understand this- your past defines who you are, but your present defines who you will be. Don't be afraid to defy the past definitions. Hell, how do you think artists did it? They looked back, admitted their pasts, and then painted their own future."
Steve had his head cocked, looking directly at Professor Hale.
"So yeah, the nitty gritty stuff? You'll have to know it. You're going to have to know who Picasso is, down to what kind of stone did they use in what period. But most importantly, you have to know how art history defines who we are, and how you can define who you will be." Hale pauses, "your midterm paper is due in two weeks, come to me with any questions. Class dismissed."
Steve got up, grabbed his laptop and his bag, and proceeded to walk out the door
"Mr. Rogers?"
Steve turned to see Professor Hale staring at him intently, and walked toward her.
"Yes?"
"I'm sorry to be nosy, but are you alright?" she asks, noting his bruises and black eye and split lip. "I couldn't help but notice."
"Yeah, yeah, I'm completely fine. Just got into a fight with some guy who was bothering a young lady," Steve answers.
"Oh, I see. Well, let me know if you need anything."
"Thank you, Professor Hale."
"And Steve?"
"Yes?"
"Remember what I said today in class, alright. Paint your own future, as cheesy as it sounds. Don't let your past stop you," Professor Hale smiles, and grabs her notes and leaves the lecture hall.
Steve turns around and walks out the door, confused and tired, and in a shit ton of pain. Professor Hale's words meant nothing to him now, but soon enough, he will be grateful for that Monday morning Contemporary Art Class.