“If you want to hear the instructions, turn up on time.”
The other students seem equally alarmed and amused by the response. Zane’s presence throws the entire class off their normal routine, a drop of black ink in crystalline water.
“Want to lend a hand?” He touches my shoulder with his palm again, the presence light but still sending a renewed shockwave of pins and needles racing along my spine.
“You’re sketching a still life. If you need help past that, you’re on your own.”
The pressure from his large left hand increases then abruptly moves away, leaving my nerve ends jangling. When he rests it on the table, I see it’s heavily bruised, deep purples and browns, the skin across the back stretched so taut, it’s glossy. His anger at my bully floods my brain and a completely inappropriate pulse throbs between my legs.
I clamp my jaw harder until my teeth ache. The discomfort lets my mind empty, lets it focus until I select a pencil and draw.
In a few minutes, Zane disappears.
The class disappears.
All I see is the play of light and shadow on the fruit in front of me, frowning in intense concentration as I try to recreate the aspects that give the apple depth and texture. Drawing lines, then adjusting, drawing more, layering until the sketch takes on depth and texture.
The hour-long lesson seems to pass in minutes, then the bulk of my pencil study is done. My mind slowly unfurls from the prolonged focus, and I sit back, stretching out my arms where they’ve cramped.
When I fall into my work, it’s hard to remember my muscles need to flex, my limbs to move.
I glance across at Zane and he’s looking at me. Not even self-aware enough to jerk his eyes away when he sees me watching. He barely blinks and I worry he stared the whole time without me noticing.
“Looking good,” he murmurs, and I don’t know if he means the sketch or me.
Other students shuffle around, finishing their work, glancing at the wall-mounted clock as the minutes count down to the bell.
“You’re not going to do the assignment?” Mr Simmons asks as he circulates among the desks, nodding at Zane’s blank page.“Considering you disturbed the entire class, it would be nice if you made some effort.”
“It’s my process,” he breezily explains. “Nothing and nothing and nothing and then everything, all at once.”
“Two minutes to go. You’re cutting it fine.”
Zane holds a pencil upright with his thumb pressed against the wood, biting the tip of his tongue, and closing one eye as though judging distance and ratio. The same image that litters a dozen B-movies. A visual cliché.
The teacher shakes his head and moves past him, continuing to check the other student’s work while they pack up, ready to go.
“Only one minute left now, Mr Beaumont.”
With a glance at the clock, Zane finally lifts his sketchpad. The hand gripping his pencil trembles.
He’s an entitled arse who doesn’t belong here, but empathy puts me in his shoes. Almost an hour gone in the lesson and the teacher he upset by his forced inclusion isn’t about to let him get away with doing nothing.
His eyes briefly meet mine, emotion flashing in their depths. Fear? But that’s ludicrous. Until I see how white his knuckles are, gripping the pencil until it seems set to break.
I turn away, not wanting to witness his humiliation any more than I enjoyed seeing his privilege in action. Movement catches in my peripheral vision, quick strokes filling out the sheet before he drops the pad and pencil on the table like they’re made from hot coals.
“Wonderful effort, Mr Beaumont. Perhaps next time you might give yourself five minutes and produce more than a few haphazard lines.”
The mocking note in Mr Simmons voice makes me frown, denting my idolatry. As much as I wish Zane hadn’t joined the lesson, making fun of people’s failure is unnecessarily cruel.
And when my gaze brushes across the drawing, I also see he’s wrong.
The sketch is fast, yes, but there’s nothing ‘haphazard’ about it. Those few lines capture the unique shape of the apple; the bulge on one side, the split stalk, the feathering at the tip of the core. Hatched lines recreate the shadow where it dimples inward, the intensification of colour on the side most exposed to the sun.
The drawing isn’t ofanapple, it’s the exact apple in front of me. Quick or not, the sketch ably demonstrates he can see. Not in the ‘everyone who isn’t blind’ way but in the ‘noticing the details and understanding how they relate’ way.
The vision required to be an artist. A talent more important than mastering any dexterous skill.
