The studio is exactly what you’d expect from a converted warehouse art space. Exposed brick walls. Industrial windows letting in gray February light. Easels arranged in a semicircle. A small platform in the center with a single chair.
Very dramatic. Very we’re serious artists here.
There are maybe ten other people. An older woman in her sixties with reading glasses on a chain who looks way too excited to be here. A serious art student type—early twenties, black turtleneck, judging everyone’s technique. A middle-aged couple doing this for their anniversary, apparently. A few other people who look as uncomfortable as I feel.
The room feels safe. Warm. That art-studio energy Alex loves—creative, open, no threat.
The older woman radiates gentle enthusiasm. The art student has that self-conscious intensity of someone trying too hard. The couple is nervous-excited, touching each other’s arms.
No danger here. Just people trying to make art and feel less alone.
And then there’s the instructor.
She’s maybe forty. All black clothing. Severe bob. The kind of person who definitely has opinions about Rothko. She’s been walking around talking about “capturing the essence of the form” and “celebrating the human body as art” and other things that sound very profound but mostly make me want to die.
“Welcome, welcome!” She claps her hands. “I’m Margot. For those new to figure drawing, remember—we’re not just drawing a body. We’re drawing energy. Movement. The spirit of the human form.”
Alex is already setting up her supplies. She brought her own brushes—of course she did. Nice ones. The kind you’d use for actual painting, not for whatever disaster I’m about to create.
I pour myself a healthy glass of rosé Moscato.
Alex raises an eyebrow. “Starting strong?”
“Starting scared.”
“You’ll be fine.”
“I will not be fine. I will be the worst person here. Everyone will see how bad I am and they’ll ask me to leave for bringing down the collective artistic energy.”
That old fear. The one I’ve been carrying since I was twelve. The one that says if I’m not competent, if I’m not good at things, if I show weakness—I’m not safe. The armor I built when Daddy died and competence was the only thing I could control.
And now I’m about to be publicly terrible at something and I can’t hide behind performance.
“That’s not a thing.”
“It feels like it should be a thing.”
Margot is still talking. Something about negative space and the relationship between shadow and light. I’m not listening. I’m too busy having an existential crisis about the fact that I’m about to stare at a naked stranger for two hours and pretend it’s normal.
“Our model today is very experienced,” Margot continues. “Please remember to be respectful. No photography. No inappropriate comments. We’re here to appreciate the form, not objectify it.”
“That’s rich,” I mutter to Alex. “We’re literally objectifying him by turning him into an object we draw.”
“That’s not what objectifying means.”
“Feels like it should be.”
“You’re spiraling.”
“I’m hydrating.” I take another sip of wine. It’s helping. Sort of. Maybe if I drink enough, my hands will be too shaky to draw anything recognizable and I can blame it on that.
The door to the side room opens.
And he walks out.
Hot Guy. The man I’m about to draw naked.
My intuition does its automatic check. Confident but not threatening. Comfortable in his body. Professional energy—this is just work to him. No predatory vibe. No Marcus-feeling. Just a guy doing his job.
