Once in the art building, we found our seats while the other students straggled in. Henry arrived with a cardboard box in his arms.
“Good evening.” He opened the box, removed half a dozen wooden blocks, and arranged them on the table. “Everyone did beautifully last week. You seem like a group that can take on any challenge.”
He spoke about ways to incorporate sketches with other projects. “In Emily’s case, perhaps her weaving.” All faces turned to the woman sitting on my left. He paused, his gaze moving to me for a moment. “Some of you may have studied art in high school or college.”
Had Phil talked to Henry about me? My chair grew harder, and I squirmed to find a comfortable position.
“You don’t need to take classes to be an artist,” he continued. “Rousseau and other Primitives painted without formal instruction. But for most people, it helps to learn the basics.” He repositioned a block. “Tonight we’ll explore perspective.”
Several students groaned.
Chuckling, he stood back to assess his arrangement. “For thousands of years, artists drew without using perspective and got along quite well. Creating an illusion of depth wasn’t necessary to making fine art.”
I watched Henry’s animated features as he spoke. I half-listened, wondering how it felt to harbor such an intense yearning for anything. The man was obviously passionate about teaching and about art. Long ago, I’d felt a similar craving for my painting. I remembered myself as a young woman standing before an easel. My hand boldly directed my brush, and images emerged from the untamed color.
A pencil dropped to the floor. My shoulders jerked, and I realized Henry had stopped speaking.
“What do you think of our still life?” my neighbor asked. The woman leaned closer, bringing with her a delicate aroma of lilac. Her face, framed with snowy wisps of hair, was at least as old as my mother’s.
“I’m Emily McBride,” she said.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Marguerite Carr.” I searched my purse for a pencil, then opened my pad.
“Are you enjoying the class?” Emily asked. She wore an olive green, loosely knit sweater and a silky floral skirt. A tiny gold cross hung from her neck on a chain. “I came away from last week’s lesson with so much good information. I’ve already seen my work improve.”
“Professor Marsh said you’re a weaver.” As I spoke we both began drawing.
“For most of my adult life, but recently I’ve been writing children’s poetry, and now I want to illustrate it.” She softened her r’s like someone who grew up somewhere on the East Coast. “Maybe it’s a foolish notion, but I thought I’d give it a try.” Her lips formed a crescent. “I don’t have much drawing background. How about you?” She glanced at the beginnings of my sketch.
“I studied art in college.” I decided not to mention the endless hours I’d spent in the painting studio, or that I’d carried paper and pencil practically everywhere I went.
I outlined the blocks in quick, easy lines. My hand seemed to remember the fundamentals of perspective like recalling the words to a childhood rhyme. I executed the correct angles to make my flat drawing pop out into the third dimension.
“Cool,” Laurie said. “How did you do that?”
“It’s really nothing.” Actually, I’d surprised myself with my accuracy. “Once you learn how, I guess you don’t forget.”
Henry suddenly stood behind me, staring over my shoulder. When would he say something? Did he think I had learned perspective from his lecture, or could he tell I’d studied drawing before?
He moved behind Emily. “You might work with this angle here,” he pointed out. “Otherwise that looks quite respectable.”
“You mean I’m not too old to learn new tricks?” Her laughter fluttered like a rippling brook; her slender fingers intertwined.
“In my eyes you’re a young woman.” The rich timbre of his voice vibrated against my back as I shortened a line, then lengthened it. Again he passed behind me without a word. I felt my pulse quicken and heat radiating up my throat. Why was I submitting myself to this torment?
After the break Henry asked us to get out our smaller sketchbooks. I’d forgotten mine. It contained only my one miserable attempt at drawing Charlie anyway. If anything, I was relieved no one would see it.
“How did you all do?” he asked. “Not an easy assignment, was it?” Several students shook their heads.
“Making yourself draw each day can be a daunting task. You’ll remember that I asked for quick, information-gathering sketches, the way a person might take a few notes if a speaker said something useful. A short phrase so the note taker could later recall the whole presentation.”
Addressing a plump woman with an anxious expression, he added, “Don’t worry, Toni. I’m not going to look at your work.” Relief swept across her face. Then he asked us to take the rest of class time to draw a new piece. “Use one of your sketches to inspire you.”
Again, the rustling of paper and quiet chatter filled the room.
“What’s up?” Laurie asked when she noticed me sitting motionless.
“I forgot my pad. Not that it would have done me much good. I don’t feel like drawing my dog again.”
“Who cares? You’re a good artist. Make something up. He said he wasn’t going to look at our original sketches. Besides, what’s he going to do, flunk you?” She opened her pad, then tried to decide between a sketch of a carnation and another of an apple.
How can a grown woman feel so insecure? I wondered about myself. I’d always encouraged Rob to jump in without caring what others thought. I stared at the rectangular page hoping for a brainstorm. I’d never been able to draw things off the top of my head. I’d always needed a subject sitting right in front of me. My mind grasping for ideas, an image formed itself like a pearl in the back of my mind. I began to sketch the oak
