“Yes! I’m Roz.”
“You can call me Penny. Hey, heads up, Daniel’s probably not going to let you sit there.”
“Oh. Okay.” I stand and scramble all my things up into my arms. I glance at the student sitting beside me, still leafing through her drawings and seemingly oblivious to me and Penny. “Why? Where should I sit?”
“Anywhere but where you sat last week is Daniel’s rule.”
Ah.
Apparently I’ve GPS’d back to the exact stool I’d sat on before without even noticing. How robustly loser-ish.
As I skitter to a different seat, my “art school boots” start pinching my toes.
Penny is humming and doing something at the big aluminum wash sink in the corner of the room, so I just sit my ass down and start resharpening my pencils.
Daniel returns next, a thermos of tea steaming between his hands.
He gives me a little wave from his desk.
I expect him to say something. Maybe, you know, offer me some foolproof affirmation that will make me feel energized and resilient. Instead, his eyes track over to the other students.
Em finally looks up. “Daniel,” she calls to him, not warmly but not blandly either. “What’s the deal with the perspective on this one?”
He joins her at her easel and they jump into a discussion that has the effortlessly tumbling rhythm of a conversation they never stop having, but pick up again whenever they see each other.
The other students start to return to the classroom. They are youngish and oldish. Brown skin, pale skin, tan skin, braids, blowouts, coiled curls in a structured halo. A small gold cross framed against chest hair. The Star of David tumbles out of a ruby-red V-neck when its wearer bends to dig through a messenger bag. A PB&J is taken down in three bites by one student (Lauro—in a mesh short-sleeve that shows his nips). A bento box lunch pail is carefully opened by another student and a line of gorgeous kimbap revealed. I smell a delicate tendril of rosewater from one direction and the vague fug of body odor from the other direction.
This classroom is a true New York City People Salad.
This is why I absolutely love living here. It makes the world feel so big. Everywhere you turn there are people living their lives differently.
How expansive.
Right,I remind myself.Roz, no one gives a shit about your combat boots but you. They’re here to draw and eat kimbap.
Daniel makes his way to the classroom door and glances at his watch. Almost start time.
At the last moment, Esther bustles through the door holding the hand of a seven- or eight-year-old boy with a Messi jersey on and a mulish expression on his face.
Daniel sighs, belabored. “Esther…”
She purses her lips at him. “My neighbor who usually watches him is currently passing a gallstone. That’s why we’re late and that’s why he’s here.”
The little boy shrinks as he looks at Daniel’s face. “Abuela,” he hisses. “You said it was okay.”
“It’s okay, Fabi,” Daniel reassures the kid. “I just have to clear it with the model.”
Oh! The model! I eagerly watch as Daniel approaches a short, square man in basketball shorts. He’s the one wearing the small gold cross. They converse in an easy way and then Daniel returns to Esther. There’s an alcove to the classroom, where a bunch of extra easels are set up and I see, in the far back, there’s a beanbag chair. Esther gets Fabi set up with an iPad and headphones and then comes back out, dusting her hands. She grins and waves when she sees me.
I grin and wave back but I’m also wondering what the big deal is about bringing a kid to a drawing class—
Oh. Right.
The model hops up onto the wooden modeling platform in the middle of the circle of easels, strips off his shirt, and drops his basketball shorts. Stark raving naked.
Right.
Because this is a figure drawing class, Roz. Where you draw models in the nude.
