“I think so,” I say in a timid, wavering pitch.
Emmy shoves me gently before preaching, “Don’t worry so much. I stalked your socials and your work isgood. Have faith in that. Okay?”
“Yeah, okay,” I yield with a nervous twitch of my lips.
By the time we make it to the Dalí Building, it’s full of students. We wind our way through the halls to our sizable classroom.
“Professor Waller is Daniel,” I exclaim when I see him standing near the front of the classroom.
Emmy asks as we walk toward him, “Did he proctor your audition?”
“Yep.”
“Maeve, welcome,” Professor Waller says when he sees me. “It’s good to have you here with us.”
“Thanks, Professor—”
He cuts me off with an open palm. “Please, I ask my students to call me Daniel. Just Daniel.”
Reveling in the familiarity, I correct my previous statement, “Thanks, Daniel.”
“I’ve reserved the easel in the back left corner for you. Has Emmy got you up to speed?” he asks.
“I have,” Emmy answers him with a flash of teeth, before whispering in my ear as we walk toward our seats, “but I purposely left out the most important part. Ican’t waitto see your reaction.”
“What?” I ask, but I don’t need her to answer me because in front of us, on a small raised wooden block in the center of the room, is a model removing his robe—leaving absolutelynothingunderneath to the imagination.
Crap!I knew the class had started live portraits, but I didn’t know we’d be expected to paintnudes. My cheeks and ears burn. Thoroughly rattled, I fumble through the motions as I place my tote on my stool and step into my coveralls.
Emmy giggles beside me. “I thought you’d react this way. Most art students our age haven’t been tasked with a project like this yet, but Lizbeth wants us to be as prepared as possible for anything and everything our future careers or graduate programs might throw at us.”
“But . . . how—”
Her pale eyebrows flash with anticipation. “How are you supposed to stare at a naked guy for the next three hours without dying of second-hand embarrassment?”
My mouth twists into a reluctant frown. “Well, yeah... kinda.”
“When you sit in front of your easel and start thinking about it through an artist’s lens, it won’t seem so uncomfortable anymore,” she explains as she methodically organizes her paintbrushes. “The model is here to do a job, just like we are. Trust me, you’ll get used to it quickly enough.”
I peer at Emmy, suddenly extremely grateful to have gained her friendship. She always seems to know the exact right thing to say to soothe my worries.
So I take her advice. I sit before my easel and force my gazetoward the model, despite how desperately it wants to stray literally anywhere else. The model is older than we are, but not by much. Perhaps in his mid-twenties. He’s of average height and rotund, with fair muscle definition. His auburn hair is shorn close to the scalp on the sides and left longer on top so that his fringe hangs around his eyebrows.
With a loud clap of his hands to quiet down the room, Daniel says, “All right class, we’re tackling live portraits again today. You’ve had some practice with this, so I’m hoping, by now, you’ll be able to really inspire me. You have three hours.”
I jump into the work immediately, sketching the model first. He’s looking toward a wall comprised of windows, the sunlight highlighting his face and casting haunting shadows along the plains of his body. I study his stiff posture, his graceful hand placement, the demure expression on his face, and in my head, I make up a story for him. He appears discontent. Worried. Impatient.Perhaps, I chronicle to myself,he’s lost the love of his life, and wonders if he can win them back. He’s looking to the light—to his lost love—in search of redemption.
My hand can’t quite seem to keep up with my brain, but I sketch as fast as I can. When the foundation is there, I yank my palette from its resting place and pick my colors. Zayne’s photography has been inspiring me ever since his party, so today, I opt for a monochromatic color scheme. I consider gray, but ultimately settle on beige. I don’t have a single tubed paint color to fit the bill, so I set to mixing. When I have ten different shades of beige mixed and ready to go on my palette, I begin to paint.
I fill the background in with the darkest, grayish shade of beige, and let the model be home to the lighter shades. I spend far too much time on his face, transfixed by his expression. There’s more to this story, but I’m not sure I have the time to dwell on it. Forcing myself to move on, I finish painting his body, and jolt upright inmy seat when I find that Emmy was right. Itiseasier to focus on and honor the model’s nudity when you view it as a job. I’m truly grateful that the model is here, donating his time to our education.
By the time Daniel is calling out a fifteen-minute warning, I’m adding the finishing touches to the piece. I release a long, heavy breath, leaning back to view my work in its entirety. My eyes are immediately drawn to the model’s face and I’m pleased that I took the time to add in the extra details. It elevates the piece more than anything else.
In my rendition of the scene, the model looks heartbroken, but fiercely determined.
Is it my best work ever? No. But do I still love it?Hell yes.
“Holy shit,” Emmy breathes beside me. Her eyes are stretched wide behind her glasses. “You went with a monochromatic color scheme? Why?”
