Our model thisweek is a young blond woman named Mel. She’s a grinning, friendly good time until she strips naked on the model stand and then she’s Death Valley serious. She’s got soccer player legs that pin her aggressively to the earth, no matter what pose she strikes, and I get lost trying to draw them.
“That’s two muscles, actually, not one,” Daniel says over my shoulder, putting his terra-cotta pencil on my drawing and adding an extra bump where I hadn’t noticed there was one. “It’s hard to tell from this angle, but look at her right leg. See? You can see it there.”
“Ah. Right.”
“And, Roz?”
I look at him.
“We’re drawing Mel today,” he says in smiling, gentle admonishment. “Not just legs.”
“Oh.” I eye my drawing pad. Across which five pairs of legs dance, all in different poses. “Right.”
I lift my pencil to try to give these legs a torso, a head, a—God, help me—face,and I just, sort of, get stuck. What am I supposed to be looking for again? Organic, repeatable rhythms? Mel doesn’t have a penis. So now I’m not sure how to draw her nose. But that’s my best trick! Wait, what other body parts happen to look like other body parts?
Daniel pushes my pencil forward until it connects with the paper. “Draw, Antonio. Draw.”
I’m not exactly sure what this Antonio business is all about, but I’ve heard him say it to other students, who also are not named Antonio, so I assume it has some meaning that’s lost on me.
The timer dings. Mel gets dressed and drinks a smoothie in the corner while Daniel gives us all an anatomy lecture on what he calls “the autonomous unit of the arm,” which apparently goes all the way across your shoulder blade and down your ribs. When the lecture ends, Daniel doesn’t immediately call us all back to our easels and I notice that other students are walking in a circle, eyeing everyone else’s drawings.
“Care for a stroll?” Lauro says to me, one elbow cocked out for me to take. “I’ll give you a tour of your classmates.” We start strolling. “Here’s Reggie. He’s a structural engineer, if you can’t tell.”
Reggie, the middle-aged redheaded man who I saw carrying Esther’s grandson to a cab after class last week, has drawn a very different Mel than I have. Reggie’s Mel has every single muscle a human can have. She’s an architectural marvel. His lines are single and dark.
“Stacia makes everybody look like they could fly,” Lauro says, affectionately, as we get to the next easel. And he’s right. Her lines are feathery and delicate. Under Stacia’s hand, Mel has become big-shouldered but skinny-waisted, like a bird about to take flight.
“Esther loves everyone.” Esther’s drawings are cherubic and simple. She hasn’t bothered with muscles or bone structure, really. Esther’s Mel is well fed and happy.
“Cindy’s got attitude.” And, boy, does she. Mel looks like Jack Nicholson.
“Penny finds every model’s best feature immediately,” he says admiringly. Penny’s drawing is anatomical and sure-footed until it gets to Mel’s chin and neck, which are done with the flourish of a treble clef.
“Shan is…Shan.” These are anime-style drawings, they look nothing like Mel, but that doesn’t seem to bother Shan, who is propped in her chair, texting and eating Swedish Fish.
We circumnavigate the room. I’m charmed by every new drawing, and artist, we see. I think, in the back of my mind, I’d been thinking that every person, besides me, was an artistic genius. I’d been expecting them all to be drawing on Degas levels. But no, these are ordinary New Yorkers taking an art class, just like me. Some with more practice than others. Some with more talent than others.
“Everybody’s drawings…” I say slowly.
Lauro stops circumnavigating and eyes me patiently. He looks genuinely curious. Which, I’m not gonna lie, is a good look for him. Much better than his usual tinge of sexy-and-I-know-it.
“Everybody’s drawings seem…a little bit likethem.” I try to formulate the thought. “It’s like…each person…some part of their personality does the drawing, not just their hand.”
Twin matches are lit behind Lauro’s eyes. He gives me a brisk nod. “Undoubtedly.” He opens his mouth to say more but snaps it closed when Em pauses next to us.
“In short,” she says, “I wanted to understand myself.”
“Hm?” I ask.
“It’s something Matisse said. When he was talking about why he drew. He studied the great masters and drew from them, to learn. To find himself. He thought that expressing himself through drawing…that would be the best way to understand himself. As a person.”
“Oh,” I say.
Em pauses for another beat, perhaps waiting for me to contribute to the conversation by quoting Picasso or something. But when I don’t/can’t, she just bobs her head and ducks away.
Lauro is looking after her, but then turns to me.
“I’m very smart!” I insist. “I’ll show you my SAT scores if I have to.”
