“We know this sketch is a preparatory study for the larger painting that followed,” he said. “But does the artist’s original intent affect its beauty and quality? Is it possible to admire this preliminary sketch as much as the painting that later emerged from it? Anyone have an opinion?”
I examined the drawing further. Its lines seemed spontaneous, alive. I started to raise my hand.
“I want it in my living room,” Laurie said with a giggle. “It looks done to me.”
Someone else shot back, “But if the artist had been satisfied with the sketch, he might never have made a big painting. That would have been a loss.”
“I’d take either one,” Laurie said.
Several others voiced their opinions, and by then I was sinking into cowardice. Afraid of sounding like a fool, I kept silent. When the discussion wound to an end, Henry asked us to open our sketchpads, with instructions to scribble notes on technique or to make our own quick sketches, copying the masters. For several minutes, I walked around the room with one hand in my pocket. I drifted up behind Emily, who stood drawing an etching—creating her own marvelous rendition of a British farm scene. The ramshackle barn and cottage and the horse-drawn cart full of hay bustled with life on the page.
“I didn’t know committing forgery could be so much fun,” she said. Seeing my sketchpad in my hand, she asked, “Why aren’t you drawing?”
“I’m much happier watching you.”
“Come on, give it a try. No need to be bashful.”
“All right.” I found a pencil in my purse, then flipped open my pad. “I haven’t been in this museum for years,” I said as I tried to decide what to do. “It sure looks different.” I noticed an etching of a barge navigating a canal that might serve as a good subject.
“Quite a face-lift, isn’t it?” Emily’s tapered eyebrows rose as she glanced around the room. “I do prefer more traditional architecture, but the lighting and walls are beautifully done.” She turned to me. “Didn’t you say you were once a student here?”
I was saved the task of reciting my college ambitions by an announcement that the class would gather in the coffee shop on the lower level in fifteen minutes. I completed a hurried sketch, just as Henry said we had run out of time.
Laurie, who’d kept her distance since we arrived, descended the steep staircase with most of the class, and Emily and I followed. By the time I entered the café, the group had dragged tables and chairs together so they could compare drawings. Rhonda, the young redhead, placed her sketchpad on the chair between Henry and Roger, and offered to get Henry coffee. He sent her a wide smile as he handed her money. “Leave the rest as a tip,” he said.
Moments later the conversation buzzed. Odd, I thought, how the others had so much to say, even though they had most likely not studied art or art history as I had. And they didn’t even seem embarrassed to show their sketches.
Good-hearted laughter erupted as Laurie presented her childlike drawing. “We already know I’m no artist.”
“Yes, you are,” Toni said. “You’re making art, aren’t you? At least that’s how I look at it.” The others agreed.
“I’m with you,” Henry said, his face alive. “Remember, some of the drawings we saw tonight weren’t recognized in the artists’ lifetimes, but that fact doesn’t diminish their genius.”
“But they’re all so good.” Laurie turned her palms up. “I could never draw like that.”
“Allow yourself to grow at your own pace.” Henry scanned the students’ faces. “One cannot reach maturity through desire alone. It takes practice and more practice. Use those sketchpads at home every day.”
His gaze fixed onto mine. “You’ll see results. I promise.”
I stared back, feeling relieved he couldn’t see through the cover of my almost-empty notebook.
“I need to get home,” Roger said, standing. “This has been great. See you all next week.”
The others took the last sips of their drinks and gathered up their belongings. I watched Laurie reapply her lipstick, then I followed her up the stairs.
When we reached my car, she said, “Wasn’t that fun?” She got in the car and opened her sketchpad to admire her drawing. “Imagine, me an artist. Henry’s sure supportive. Not many men would take the time to help a beginner like me.”
“That’s true.” Against all reason, my shoulders drooped as I pictured Henry and Rhonda sitting together. Even if I found him attractive, I couldn’t compete with a woman half my age. I worked the key into the ignition and tapped my foot on the gas pedal.
“Did you get together with that guy Susan wanted you to meet?” Laurie asked.
“I’ve seen him twice.” I coaxed the transmission into reverse, then craned my neck to see over my shoulder as I backed up. “He’s cute. I mean, handsome.” Tim’s face loomed fuzzy in my memory. “Not that appearances are everything. During my divorce, Phil’s looks meant nothing to me.” But how good it would feel to be drawn to a man by that passion we once shared.
I put the car in drive and initiated our climb to street level. “Tim’s a banker,” I continued, thinking how good he must look in a three-piece suit. “I need a man who works at a normal job, not a flaky artist who’s glued to a canvas day and night and can’t pay the bills.”
“I’d still aim for Henry Marsh. And I’ll bet he earns a good income. Roger says he’s quite successful.”
I jammed my foot on the gas, causing the tires to squeal on the last corner. “He’s not interested.” I was using my bad-dog voice, the one that sent Charlie to his
