Portrait Study
The daffodils had just begun to bloom that April afternoon in 2008, so that from the moment we arrived at our rural Connecticut high school we were chaperoned by bright yellow bulbs. Peripheral, but like large fireflies dancing in the garden sun. The final bell rang and students rushed through building doors, racing to be outside and bask in that long-awaited, perfect blue sky warmth. Not us, though. We were (as usual) separately making our way to the eastern wing. Eager, but not too eager, to spend our afternoon in Mr. Aleck’s art classroom.
The art classroom was the only place in school that managed to feel antique despite (or perhaps in spite of) the white ceiling lights. It was an indulgent place – fairy dust floated in and out of golden rays from half-obscured windows. A dimness that beckoned. A disarray that defied rules. No other place in the world could get away with the astonishing array of stuff arranged in haphazard piles, some lying in wait to trip the unsuspecting and others daring anyone to turn them into a mountain avalanche. Wooden mannikins, oil paint palettes covered in Press’N’Seal, an assortment of fake fruit for still life compositions, jugs of forgotten brushes left to stew in congealed grey water, feeble charcoal vines long and short, and grey kneaded erasers that janitors kept mistaking for chewing gum.
We loved this place, but we would never admit it. Being too into something was just uncool. Which is why we, obviously, weren’t into each other. Not to mention you were in the year below me (oh, scandal!). Instead, we were clumsy, we were puppy, we never spoke in class. Instead, we pretended that we were not acutely aware of the thrumming between us as we sat back to back, hardly an inch apart, easels in front of us forgotten. Or, we pretended that our hearts did not skip a beat when our fingertips brushed as we shared a tube of Winsdor & Newton prussian blue, our eyes meeting for half a heartbeat before flitting away for fear of being caught in the act (ah yes, your eyes were the most piercing blue). But, when we returned to the art classroom after final bell, when you and I were the only members of “Art Club,” you spoke to me. Murmuring, while we sheered burnt umber acrylics to create underpainting glaze, you would scold me for being ignorant of Tracy Chapman, uncultured for not knowing A Tribe Called Quest, and sheltered for not having heard of Creed. And I, while we painted homemade charcoal paper using gritty grey paint, would call you a snob for not understanding the magic that was KT Tunstall, the depth of Relient K, and the genius of Boys Like Girls.
That April afternoon, I stepped into the art classroom, pushing up my sleeves to stretch canvas for our study of Franz Kline (what could be so hard about a black lines on white canvas?) when you shuffled behind me and whispered “Mr. Aleck left us something.” Although you already knew what it was (I suspect), you sustained the mystery. You led me through the leaning oak bookshelves, we squeezed through narrow gaps between large canvases stacked against each other, we tip-toed past an ambitious still life arrangement of T-Rex figurines pulling Big Bird in a sled, until we arrived at an ink-stained table balancing precarious stacks of paper and crinkled notes. On the corner of the desk, a pink note. “Art Club! I had to run so let’s pause modern art until I return. Instead, keep practicing anatomy by drawing each other’s portraits.” We looked at each other. My face was ever so hot. Nothing before, nor after, had felt so risqué.
Preamble
Model: Three Girls by Joyce Carol Oates
Narrator: Older narrator looking back on a time of great emotional significance, a scary but exciting event, a time he/she looks back on with great affection.
Tone: Lyrical, heightened emotion | Mood: Exhilarating, ebullient
Posts in this series
Internally Flawless
Panic!
Portrait Study
Discharged
Ocean Ode
Proper Protocol