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The last painting is mine. Gwen has just said she’s “saved the best for last,” which, at one point in my life, might have made me burst into tears. With happiness. But I hardly ever cry anymore. Somewhere along the line, all my tears dried up.
You belong here, is what that comment suggests and I can feel that. It’s ridiculously energizing to be part of a group of like-minded people who thrive on artistic expression as much as I do. Until now, I’ve only ever painted alone, as a kind of knee-jerk reaction to grief and existing through difficult times. It’s refreshing to step out of all that, like I can finally look forward.
“This painting,” Gwen begins, and I brace myself for the commentary, “is a style I might call Millennial Impressionism with a very original twist. With the artist’s permission, I’d like to include it in our freshman exhibition coming up in October, along with the first piece we discussed.”
Wow.
“Who do you see as this artist’s influences?” Gwen asks the class.
I wait for it.
But, to my wild relief, no one says Adelaide Fox.
“Matisse,” says Christopher. “Obviously.”
Matisse does happen to be my favorite artist. But…obviously? He hardly needs to emphasize it like that. It’s almost as if he’s accusing me of being derivative. I’ve spent the past four years working like hell not to be derivative of anyone or anything, so it stings.
“I can almost see the influence of Basquiat,” says a girl with pink hair and a lot of piercings. “In the neo-expressionism of the color blocks.” I’ve learned during the discussion that her name is Maeve and she’s nice. She’s kind about what she says and she’s well-informed. Like me, she obviously studies art history and reads all the latest art magazines.
The class discusses my painting and most of the comments are encouraging. But I’m glad when the critique comes to an end.
Once they’ve finished, Gwen attaches a name tag to each of the paintings and there’s a lot of murmuring. Gwen’s right: I am surprised by some of them.
Jackson Hyde is all about hyperrealism.
Maeve paints like a seventeenth century Dutch artist. Which I wouldn’t have expected, with her pink hair, her tattoos and her punk rocker vibe. Of all the artists in the room, she might be best. Hers was the other painting Gwen mentioned she’d like to include in the freshman exhibition.
Christopher’s painting is the one that looks like a Mondrian with graffiti painted over it. It’s cool but, secretly, I don’t think it’s wildly original. I would never say that, of course. And he obviously feels the same way about my painting.
Anyway, it hardly matters what we think. Like anything, you can never tell what’s going to strike or which trend is going to hit some kind of tipping point. We all know luck and hard work play just as big a role in success as talent does. That and—I’m hoping—sheer grit.
“We’ll take a five minute break before the second half of class,” Gwen tells us. “Your next assignment is going to be a life drawing. In paint.”
A life drawing.
It’s something I haven’t done a lot of.
We all head back to our easels to start setting up and there’s a commotion near the door. I hear several people gasp. Including Maeve.
I look up to see—holy shit.
It can’t be.
But it is.
Elias O’Shea.
Gwen clasps her hands together. “I got the email from the registrar this morning and I was very surprised to see your name there but of course we’re thrilled to have you in the class, Mr. O’Shea.” Mr. O’Shea? I guess he does command a certain amount of respect. “There are some extra supplies over there in the corner and you can set up your easel wherever you’d like.”
What the hell? He’s joining the class?
Everyone’s talking in hushed, excited whispers.
Elias’s eyes find me instantly and if I’m not mistaken, the hot quarterback looks almost guilty. And even more gorgeous and impressive in this familiar, everyday setting than he was out there in the open air.
He grabs an easel and a canvas and walks over to me. To Christopher, he says, “Hey, man, move along, would you?”
At the sound of his low, commanding voice, my nipples bead into tight little peaks and the tiny hairs on my arms stand up. Holy shit.
