THE TEACHERLESS
CLASS
The light was phosphorescent as it bled into the hall from
the classroom studio. It seemed slightly creepy, and I worried
about peeking around the corner. My nerves were on edge. When
I pulled at the door it stuck with a dry grind, inch by inch,
each jerk a betrayal. Looking through, it was like seeing
a film strip evolving through the visual staccato. Once the
door was open wide enough, floodlights enveloped me. I had
to squint, seeing the room for the first time only through
the ribs of my eyelashes.
A sudden gust
pulled the door from my hands and swung it open wildly –
it was like someone tore it from my grip and slapped it against
the wall. The window opposite the door had been lifted at
the same moment by someone, causing the room to violently
inhale, the drapes to snap as if lashed on a clothesline.
Everyone turned their heads from their drawing boards, now
looking up at me. Even the model’s eyes fluttered my
way.
There were about
fifteen students sitting straddled across wooden stools, low,
long and wide. The front leg of the stool was extended higher
and supported a plywood board inclined against it and a sketch
pad attached with a clip. Each of the students sat straight-backed
with one hand pointing a stick at their paper. All their heads
were cocked toward me, all their creativity briefly ceased.
I was reminded of the geese when they’re startled, long
necks protruding up from stilted bodies, aware briefly of
a possible threat. That, I suppose, was me.
A week ago, before
classes started, I visited the school and saw some of the
studios. I thought I’d try out a free studio before
the regular sessions began, a teacherless class for practice.
I knew what to expect, or I thought I did. I’d worked
in rooms like this, deeply darkened against the bright spotlights,
natural light all but hidden by heavy drapes. I knew the donkeys,
the wooden benches the students sat on might be splotched
by wet paint. Everyone would be gathered around a large rolling
platform with their eyes trained in the same direction, on
an artist’s model. The spotlights would shed their tapered
beams, theatrically cast on the model. And she would likely
be nude. At least in a proper art school she would.
Though
I knew the model would be nude, it was her nakedness that
I did not expect. I admit my prudishness; I immediately recoiled
back into the hallway and hid myself behind the door, peeking
in. My arms instinctively pulled themselves tightly across
my chest and I felt my own nakedness. My eyes were stuck on
the model in the center of the room. Everyone else disappeared
into a wavy periphery.
The girl on the
stand had lowered eyes. She reclined among a mixed collection
of couch cushions gathered under her hips and knees. Her arm
was bent with her hand supporting her cheek and her shoulder
hung over a stack of smaller pillows. A tasseled velvet cloth
covered the podium diagonally, draping it in deep-red cascading
folds. The model’s blonde hair hung freely from her
head, splayed in its glory across the pillows pressing up
against her breasts. Her skin gleamed perfectly, cusped by
the spotlights. She was breathtakingly beautiful, peacefully
reposed. A gentle tinkle of jazz piano music wafted across
the room from the corner. All the students were intent on
their drawings, with deep, furrowed brows, snapping glances
up to the model and back to the drawing.
I know I lingered
and stared. I was completely absorbed by the model. She etched
herself in my mind, burning a plate I’d consider archetypal,
ideal beauty. I thought about all the pictures of paintings
I’d seen in books, the models covering themselves demurely
with strategically placed drapery, their eyes staring back
intently at the reader. Essentially nude. Essentially naked.
Seductively challenging me to keep on looking, looking longer
until the etching process was fully scored. I was trapped
in the model’s power. She was seen to be seen, commanding
power through her complacent serenity. I realized that only
a true master could convey this kind of power through drawing,
this kind of magic.
Time dissolved.
I discovered that I could feel my eyes sensually touch the
model’s form from afar. It was embarrassingly intimate.
I almost felt ashamed, and to manage that near fear I hid
my gaze by facing down.
“Are you
going in or what?”. There was a youthful, singsong male
voice close to my ear. It was close enough that I could feel
his breath on my neck. It gave me goosebumps like a cold breeze
on a hot day. I felt caught like a Peeping Tom.
I whispered without
turning, “I’m taking my time. Waiting for a moment
when I won’t disturb the others from their work.”
He whispered back.
“It’s a free studio. There’s no rules. Just
go in and set up. Leave when you want. No one cares.”
Then, as if he was throwing it over his shoulder back at me
loudly and casually, “Robbie.”
He wormed his
way past me and set himself up. He took a donkey from the
corner where they were vertically nestled. It squealed on
the floor as he dragged it to a spot where he could point
it towards the model with an unimpeded view. He then unloaded
his supplies from his tattered, green military knapsack, spilling
some on the floor beneath. He toted a large, black portfolio,
which he unzipped in a fast crescendo, pulling out a sketch
pad. The zip echoed loudly, but only in my mind, for no one
else seemed to notice. His arm bumped the drawing board of
the student beside him. She was briefly annoyed and twitched,
but she quickly melted back into the drawing coma she shared
with all her classmates. I found myself watching Robbie now,
like I’d watched the model a moment ago. He was an interruption
of noise and commotion that seemed the very opposite of the
magic-making from moments earlier. All of it now blended into
a colorless background. But, despite the sudden change in
tempo he had imposed, I appreciated his coarse instruction.
I followed him
and set myself up to draw as he had done, but without the
noise, timidly. I selected a donkey, smoothed my hand over
the seat checking for wet paint, and chose a spot in the room
that was not with a full sight-line to the model. I was close
to Robbie. I could see him well enough, in fact he blocked
some of the view. But that felt safe, since I believed if
I couldn’t see the model fully, the model couldn’t
fully see me looking. That sense of voyeurism did not disappear
as I tried to draw. My eyes still dropped to my lap, where
I was busy fingering my charcoals.
That first free
studio I attended was a virginal moment. There was an excitement
and impropriety to it, where I could view a naked woman in
detail with impunity and then, with implicit permission, detail
what I saw. The living, breathing, body on display was compellingly
real, tangible. When I allowed myself to touch her with my
eyes, I felt her tenderly, hyper-aware she was surrounded
by students studying her intimately from all directions. But
no one else seemed to notice. They were all happily scratching
away on their sketch pads. In that first open studio, I could
hardly lift my head to look. I certainly wasn’t ready
to draw. I spent the hour stealing swift glances at the model,
glances at the other students’ work. I could barely
move my own charcoal though.
____________________________________________
When time was up, I packed up my art supplies into the old
fishing tackle box I’d brought to hold my supplies and
stuffed the sketchpad into my portfolio. My hands were blackened
from the charcoal even having only handled them briefly. I
washed up in the corner laundry sink. There were no towels
to dry my hands, so I shook them and wiped the wetness on
my jeans, leaving dark stains of ink trailing my fingers.
The model shut down the spotlights, and now the only light
left in the room came from the hall. I had much to think about.
I was terribly self-critical. My drawings were awful. I’d
had no idea how or where to start. I’d been unable to
get past the model’s nakedness and allow myself the
luxury to really look. My drawings might as well have been
stick figures and I felt they were worthless. I ripped them
to shreds before I left the room and stuffed them into the
garbage can. A puff of the drawing bits shot up and floated,
teasingly flashing black lines on paper shards. I was disappointed
in myself, closed my eyes and hung my chin against my chest.
When I looked
up, I saw that model was the only person remaining in the
studio, sitting on a chair in another corner, pulling up her
jeans over her underpants. She was dressing unnoticed. I was
embarrassed to watch her, but doubly so when she looked up
and caught me looking. We nodded at each other. I blushed.
It seemed to me
the only positive result of the day had been meeting Robbie.
He irritated me with his comfortable boorishness, his ability
to draw without worrying who cared. I wasn’t so confident.
But Robbie’s casualness was in perfect opposition to
my anxiety. I wanted to be like him.
I crossed the
hall and selected a locker to leave my things in. The lockers
were rudimentary chain-link doors over a metal box, three
by six by two. I had brought a padlock with me and closed
my supplies in the space. The door closed with a rusty screech.
When I walked away, I felt the need to glance back at my still-visible
art supplies as I walked the hall towards the exit.
Robbie was at the front door with a few other students, loudly
planning to meet up across the street at The Guildsman. He
caught me by my arm as I tried to slip by and said “Hey,
where are you going? We’re all heading over to the Guild
for a beer. What’s your name again?”
I took a big gulp
of air, hesitated and asked myself, “Where am I going?
Back to a quiet little apartment downtown by myself?”
And before I could think more about it, I shook off a smile,
grinned, painfully shy, and answered as confidently as I could
muster, “Maya. I’m going home now.”
___________________________________________
Now, that could have gone differently. My thoughts pictured
another story in that split-second. Robbie would have packed
up his things abruptly once the model broke her pose and wrangled
his way out towards the hall. Before he left he turned to
me and said “Come over to the Guild with me.”
I would have been slightly stunned and stutter a half-answer.
Robbie didn’t bother waiting for my words to be formed.
He answered for himself, “It’s across the street.
We’ve got a whole table in the back with a bunch of
us coming. See ya.”
He belted out
a loud “Maisy!, meet us at the Guild”.
But, then I heard,
rooting through this whimsical story roaming my imagination,
the echo of real words with real live sound.
“Maisy!
Meet us at the Guild.” Robbie blocked my path to the
front door. I swirled to see who he was talking to and saw
his words were thrown at the model. I blushed. Maisy said
she’d be there. Hopping down the hall putting shoes
on her feet one at a time, she hadn’t even put her bra
on yet.
______________________________________________
I went home.
The walk back
to my apartment toured a long downtown street. The air was
cool and I pulled my jacket close. All the buildings were
decrepit, low red-brick fronts with wrought-iron balconies
above. Windows were dirty and difficult to see through, but
each storefront I passed boasted its wares on large signs,
making poetry of the cityscape.
Stamps. Milk.
Shoe Repair.
Soup and Sandwich.
Grocer. Flowers. Ladies Wear.
Bar and Dancing.
My pace was set
by the rhythm of the signage, step by store by store by step.
Pizza. Keys. Laundry
Land.
Coke and Pepsi.
Books. Bank. Burger Stand.
Pawn and Lending.
The key turned
easily. Inside, I tossed my jacket on the table, dropped my
socks and shoes, shirt and jeans to the floor as I walked
along shaking off my bra and panties, going straight to bed.
Sleep also came easily.
In my dreams,
I followed my dreams.
A long group of
students were seated in the back of the Guild. It was smoky
and smelled of wet wood and beer. Noisy and bustling, the
Guild was clearly a popular place. I found my way to Robbie,
who shoved the guy sitting next to him off his chair, brushed
it clean, patted it and motioned with his other hand for me
to sit. Robbie never paused from his deep conversation with
Maisy in front of him, voicing loudly his opinion in opposition
to hers. I couldn’t track the subject. The disagreement
was friendly, but the topic was wandering. I wasn’t
sure they even knew what they were arguing about. The empty
beer glasses between them spoke loudly, though. There was
some catching up to do. Before long, I understood about as
much of their discussion as they did. Which was irrelevant.
Chattering now, my thoughts ran rampant. I was thrilled to
be in this group of art students, bolstered on one side by
Robbie, on the other by another guy. Everyone was engaged
in happy conversation, and my own animated dialogue demonstrated
approval of my new-found friends, approval of this gateway
to art school, and that I was enchanted by my intelligent
future.