What do you think of the beginning of my story?

Question

It's called "Facade" and it's about a young woman who finds her calling in art and moves to New York. She has one crazy professor who insists that art is not the creation of beauty but the creation of an honest world. She soon finds herself trapped in this world, taken for crazy, unable to stop painting the way the world truly is. She cannot extract herself from her own mind, where truth reigns free about the massive cover appearences place over quality and freedom of thought, and society's constant need to write off what is different. Will she end up in insanity or sanity, normalcy or eccentricity? Is there really that much of a difference? This is just a slight prologue and chapter one, but please tell me what you think and if you'd continue reading.

A deep breath plunges her underneath the world she has been hiding in. Eyes closed in thoughtless wonderings, the core of her existence flutters her eyelashes. Fluidity envelopes the creature who isn’t quite sure of herself, of her surroundings, of the world.
The girl sways, struggles, holds her breath, and leaves her present state in the shadows of a brief splash. She is within herself; she is no longer bound to the useless rules of nature and the universe. She can feel her own pulse as each heartbeat echoes for miles within her own conscience.
Her maroon tresses sway carelessly and her soft shoulders wriggle in discomfort. The slender body is pale and the legs twist in unconscious motion. She is no longer aware.

Colors rake across her vision. Bursts of deep reds, pale violets, emerald greens, crisp oranges, and lively yellows dance and create patterns, shadows, silhouettes. She can see her own bony fingers commanding the colors, ordering them into shapes and images.
Her thoughts ripple, her mind twists and turns as her thoughts threaten to consume her. Who is she? What is her purpose? What do all these colors mean?
Strange almost vintage-like textures and a looming shadow are drawn from her imagination. Flowers, landscapes, ribbons, trees, people, skylines, bookshelves, fruit, jewelry, castles, a million things reel in her mind in a millisecond.
Her lungs constrict as she comes to a startling truth. This strange collage of random colors, patterns, images, and textures all seem to be her. They seem to be her heart, her soul, her actions, her choices, her spirit, her.

Rippling up to the heavens, her imaginings surround her. She is suddenly aware that her hands are tracing patterns on her arm, caressing her thigh, and that she is surrounded by see-through, permeable dreams.
The woman emerges from the bathwater and clings shakily to the edge of the bathtub. The water is lukewarm with her intense dreaming that has led her inevitably to her destiny and the truths of the balance of beauty and deception that rule the universal nature.
“I’ll be an artist.” The woman whispers.

She twisted her fingers, cracked her knuckles, and wrung her ivory hands as she entered the large classroom of her first university course in New York. Her large dark eyes scanned, constantly searched for something in the room. She wasn’t quite sure what she was seeking but as she settled into a seat her mind raced with a constant static that seemed to lie underneath her every breath and action.
A man about fifty years old entered the room and the chattering youngsters instantly were silenced. Their faces seemed paralyzed with respect that the professor had not rightly earned yet. Their eyes shone with attentiveness that hid their unprepared demeanor and their selfish thoughts. What could he teach them? Would he appreciate their work?
The man’s eyes surveyed the room in a nonchalant way and it seemed to him there was all the eagerness in the world sitting before him but not enough potential to turn these naïve children into artists.

He could easily assume their positions; he could easily imagine what their vision was. He saw no mystery in their eyes, no point of view that could create. Their eyes could see but could they create? He doubted it.
Silence ensued, a silence that threatened to consume the young faces and drown their energy, leaving the room washed up and the old professor standing alone. He saw one girl with darkness in her eyes. She appeared to have something hidden inside of her struggling to burst out, hopefully onto the canvas. Perhaps once the flood was over she would be standing with him, no longer a painter but an artist. The thought caused him to smile and begin.
“There is always a mist between reality and what is perceived. If you wish to be a painter, your purpose is to grow on this mist and make it as beautiful as possible.”

There was a pause, and he reveled in the fact that his students were hanging on his every word. They would soon be overtaken by his extremity, bored and shocked by what he was attempting so vainly to tell them.
His purpose was to teach them. He knew that most of these people would reject him, take him for insane, drop his course. He had accepted this fact long ago. But what he truly wanted was to connect with one student, to penetrate the mist that people put over themselves, and to pass his simple message successfully on to one individual. There had been those who had come close in years past, he had hoped and wished only to find that they drew back, from the influence of their friends and family no doubt.

He had discovered that people weren’t willing to sacrifice their image for the greater good. They refused to let go of outward appearances and appear insane for their art, for other people’s art. He had learned to conquer this impulse to maintain some form of normalcy in his own life and had resorted to extreme eccentricity in the hopes that his knowledge would push someone else closer to the edge of the true meaning of art. He was not asking for them to be like him, to be quite as “crazy” as he was, only to be somewhat crazier, more honest, and more realistic in their pursuit of art. He continued.
“If, however, you wish to be an artist, your purpose is to reject the mist, to look beyond it. If you are able to do this, you will find a whole other world beneath the one that has been painted a hundred times over. It is your ability to honestly portray this other world, but for your viewers to see that this strange place is the world they themselves have been living it.

What do you believe is the meaning of art?” He abruptly questioned the quietly seated class, who were now paralyzed with fear of saying something wrong. Someone raised their hand and recited the commonly cited Andy Warhol quote.
“Art is what you can get away with. I’ve heard that one before.” The professor waited for another brave soul to volunteer their mundane and completely old thoughts.
“To create beauty!” someone from the back row called out.
“Ah, thank you. I have been waiting for that answer.” The young man smiled in pompous pride.
“But you are wrong. This will be the purpose of this course. You are all under the impression that the purpose of art is to create a world of beauty. The purpose of art, not just amateur painting, is to create a world of honesty, emotion, passion, realistic events. Not beauty. Beauty is the tool of the untalented.” He waited for a moment once more, allowing the new recruits to bask in the abrupt halt he had put to their childish dreams.

He could feel the earliest of them turning on him with their brows beginning to furrow in disgust and misunderstanding. He often paused within this opening speech for a multitude of reasons. He wanted his students to observe their own thoughts and reactions, but he also desired to look around and see the impact his statements had on the young people.
“If you wanted to walk into this room and learn about casting shadows to make angles more visually appealing, the lines that contrast best with certain colors, or the proper paints to mix, I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong place

I have nothing technical to teach you. The purpose of this course is for you to take your cultivated skill and apply it to the actual world, the honest world. You don’t have to look further than yourself. We are here to delve beyond the mist to the true source of things. If you are unhappy with my syllabus I encourage you to drop the course. Many of you are already aware of the fact that my name is Professor Julian Duval, but what many of you do not know is that I intend to separate the painters from the artists. And today was the first test. Class dismissed.”
Many of his students shuffled out of the room, ashamed of themselves and also disdainful at such a different outlook on art. He smiled, all those who left within the first minute were the painters. All those who sat thoughtfully, looking inward and replaying his words, had the potential to be artists.

The girl with the darkness in her eyes was the last to vacate the room. She seemed to be unaware and roving her internal terrain. He smiled at her; she had maroon hair and dark eyes that had secrecy and wit hidden in them. Her skin was ivory, and she had beautiful hands. What he liked the most about her was her aura. She seemed thoughtful and deep, a little dark, perhaps slightly strange. He watched her until she became aware of his observing her, blushed, and absentmindedly stumbled out of the room.
Half of them wouldn’t be back. A fraction of the brave would be here by midterms. He smiled to himself. His students dropped like flies, but those who survived earned his respect. He understood why they didn’t want to give their identities and sanity up, but they had to sacrifice.

He had though, and he was honestly the most interesting person he knew. His art benefited from his unrestrained mind. Once he resolved to put society behind him, his observation had become acute and his art had improved.
The girl with the darkness in her eyes had intrigued him. He knew she would be back, but he wondered what she had to offer. He wondered if he had anything to teach her, and if she was willing to learn.

Answer 1

It needs editing. You are trying too hard to sound like you think an author should sound. I call that JKRowlingitis because most novice authors try to sound like her.

As a teacher of CW, I would send this back to you with a note that says "I don't hear your own voice yet". If you sat down and told me this story aloud, it wouldn't sound like this. You wouldn't bother to tell me her fingers were ivory. I know what color fingers are. Remember what Shakespeare said "Imagine when we speak of horses that you see them."

Especially with this subject matter, give your readers a break. Let them use their own imaginations. Don't take the joy of reading and imagining away from them.

An editor would tone you down immediately and take out about half of your purple prose. I realize the subject matter calls for some artistic language, but you have overstepped the bounds and entered the world of serious purple prose. SHOW - not tell.

This is the type of project where I might recommend you working with an editor as you write so that you learn along the way. If you want some more specific notes, you can always write me.
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They're, Their, There - Three Different Words.

Careful or you may wind up in my next novel.

Pax - C

Answer 2

People are constantly going to mention "Start with a bang!" - and I'm going to inform you correct now that it isn't constantly vital. If you feel that you'll pull of a vibrant ample description of this residence, you can have your readers curious ample as it's. How you describe the residence is as much as you and your individual form, as many have mainly already instructed you. You might begin at an excessively small element, and paintings your manner up - your might begin describing room via room. It all quite is dependent upon the way you desire it to start. Experiment with it. Try writing it a couple of exclusive approaches and notice which manner that you just love it quality. If you feel that the outline is simply too uninteresting, then possibly you would be larger off describing the characters, a few movement, and even making use of discussion. Happy writing.

Answer 3

You've certainly got some skill at writing, but it doesn't sound like a NY art class. Start off by writing of what you know.