“Mixed media,” he says. He reads the small list near the edge of the page. “Clay. Metal. Fiber. Which kind of fiber?”
I resist the urge to close the sketchbook. Showing him is faster than having him hover. I honestly don’t knowwhyhe’s hovering. “I haven’t decided what kind yet. Maybe jute.”
He pulls out the chair across from me and sits down without asking, which is very Dorien. “Can I see it?”
My heart is pounding, which is stupid because I’ve known Dorien most of my life. Well, he’s beenaroundmost of my life; not that we really know each other.
I push the sketchbook across the table because the alternative is saying no and then having to explain why, and I don’t have the energy for that. And if I’m rude, he’ll tell Carter, who will tell June, and then she’ll lecture me like I’m five.
Dorien picks up the sketchbook carefully, which surprises me. Most people grab sketchbooks like they’re leafing through a magazine. Dorien holds it at the edges like it’s something important, and his eyes move slowly across the page like he’s actually studying my thought process.
Then his eyebrows lift slightly. The set of his jaw loosens. His expression opens, the way a curtain slips and lets light through a window you thought was covered.
“This is good,” he says and… I believe him. I haven’t ever known Dorien to be a liar, but also, he just sounds genuine. No “real potential” bullshit. Just a simple, flat statement.
I don’t know what to do with that, so I deflect. “It’s a rough concept. You know, the proportions are off and the metal work is mostly hypothetical since I’ve never actually welded anything.”
“You haven’t welded?” He leans forward like I just said something interesting instead of something embarrassing. “I’ve been thinking about metal lately too. Clay is… it’s where I live, but metal keeps getting into my thoughts. The permanence of it. Clay can crack, collapse, break in the kiln. Metal holds.” He taps the sketch where I’ve drawn the armature. “This structure, the way you’ve got the metal underneath everything, like a skeleton. Is that the point? That the thing holding the whole piece together is hidden?”
I stare, wide-eyed and mouth hanging open. The studio light hits one side of his face and leaves the other in shadow. It occurs to me then that Dorien has a bone structure that looks like it was forced into submission instead of developing naturally. Hair pushed back like he ran his hands through it once and it decided not to resist. Posture that’s too still, like he trained himself out of slouching. Even the way his sleeves are rolled to the forearm is purposeful, the cuffs folded at the exact same width.
He’s made himself this way, but if he’d had different life experiences, how might he look different?
Regardless, nobody has ever considered one of my pieces this deeply. People look at my work and say “cool” or “interesting” or “what the hell is it?” They don’t ask about what’s underneath, what I’m thinking or trying to express.
I sit up a little, his words pulling my spine straighter. “Yeah. The clay is the exterior, which is the thing people see. But it’s breaking apart. And the metal inside is what’s actually keeping it upright. But you know, I think that should have some cracks too. Because what holds us up isn’t reliable either.”
“And the fibers?”
“The fibers? Um…” I pause. The fibers are the messy part. It feels like they fit because I’m going with my gut instinct, but I don’t yet know what they’re for. “They’re, I think, connecting the broken pieces. Or trying to. I don’t know if they’re stitching things back together or coming apart. I think maybe both. Maybe they’re what connects this internal and external, so we’re all one being.” I bite my cheek and grimace at myself. It feels like I’m rambling bullshit. Learning how to “talk like an artist” is stupid. I just make art. Period. The viewer should be the one giving it their own meaning.
Dorien sets the sketchbook down and looks at me. I think it’s with recognition, like he realizes I can speak “sculpture” to him. At least, that’s what I hope.
“Both is good,” he says.
The conversation opens from there in a way I’m not prepared for. He asks about my process, and I tell him things I don’t usually tell people: that I build pieces from the inside out, starting with whatever material feels like the core and layering everything else around it, even when I don’t understand why. That I can’t stay in one medium because every material says something different and I haven’t found the one that says everything I need it to. That I chose this class because I wanted access to the welding equipment (and the freedom), not because I care about sculpture as a discipline, which is probably offensive to say to someone whose entire artistic identity lives in sculpture.
He laughs at that last part, and it makes me realize I’ve never actually heard Dorien laugh before. Maybe he’s laughed with Carter, but not out in the open with anyone else. The sound is more soothing than I expected from someone who carries himself like he’s made of angles and leather.
“I’ll teach you to weld if you teach me about fiber work,” he says. “I’ve been looking at textile artists lately. Anni Albers. The way she treated weaving like architecture. I want to bring some of that structural thinking into my pieces but I don’t know the first thing about working with thread.”
I almost say something sarcastic, something about how Dorien, the junior-year sculpture prodigy, wants fiber tips from the kid who set fire to the garage ceiling last summer. But I don’t, because the offer is genuine and I can tell by the way he’s leaning forward, elbows on the table, hands open.
“Yeah. Okay.”
Cheng ends the break and Dorien retreats to his table. I spend the rest of class half-listening to a discussion about material storage while adding detail to the sketch. The afternoon light from the east windows has shifted, moving across the floor in a slow crawl, and now it reaches my table. My sketchbook sits in full sunlight for the first time all class. The graphite lines glow slightly at the edges where the light catches the sheen of the pencil lead.
I stare at the drawing in this new light, and it looks different. Better, maybe. Like someone turned a lamp on inside it.
Light. A light on the inside of the piece.
That’s a great addition.
CHAPTER SIX
AERON
After class, Dorien catches me in the hallway before I can disappear into the stairwell.
