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“We’ll take turns using calipers to measure the proportions of Tristan’s face. Let’s start with Anya and make our way to the right. In the meantime, you should conduct some preliminary sketching to clarify your mental image of the model. Remember, your sketch should be approximately the same size your sculpture will be.”
With shaking hands, I pull a sketchpad and pencil from my messenger bag. I tilt my head—an attempt to gain perspective—but there is no perspective to be attained regarding this model.
“Pablo Picasso said, ‘Sculpting is the art of intelligence.’ It’s one of the oldest art forms on earth. And the sculpture portrait is, in my opinion, the best portraiture form to reflect reality. It takes up space, as we do.” Under any other circumstance, Jillian’s words would inspire me.
I clench my jaw and begin to sketch. The exquisite details of Tristan’s face are as familiar as his cool professional demeanor. I easily recognize the carefully constructed, stoic persona I so longed to break through, and eventually did. His aloofness calls to mind my grandmother’s cynical advice—never let them see you sweat. He is a living example of her wisdom.
By the time it’s my turn to take his measurements, I’m nauseated and perspiring. I can’t seem to move from my stool.
“Tristan, you’re up,” Jillian reminds me. “And time is of the essence.”
“Of c-course.” Sketchpad, pencil, and calipers in hand, I stumble toward Tristan.
When standing before him, I find myself at a complete loss for the measurement technique I long ago mastered. Tristan, however, is not at a loss for the compassion he consistently demonstrates.
“It’s okay, Remi.” His shimmering gaze falls from the clock and targets my face. I wonder what it costs him to look upon me with such empathy. The stunning translucence of his eyes—enhanced by the glimmer of the late-afternoon light shining in through the studio’s oversized window—catches me off guard. “You know what to do.”
I nod once and place the notebook and pencil on the nearby table. I hold the calipers in one hand as if my plan is to get down to business. Business, however, takes a back seat to raw need. I don’t—maybe I can’t—refrain from an impulsive action. I reach out, thread my fingers into his flaxen hair, and then gently brush it aside, allowing my touch to linger on his forehead.
“To gain a more accurate measurement.” A flimsy excuse for the unnecessary contact.
My words are intersected by his sharp gasp. “That’s f-fine,” he replies to my lie and fixes his stare high on the far wall.
I’m hurting him.
I shake my head—hurting Tristan has never been my intent—and take the necessary measurements with as much speed as I can manage, recording them one by one in my sketchpad. Throughout our interaction, he maintains steadiness where I tremble like a timeworn brown leaf in the brisk autumn wind.
“Thank you,” I say. Before stepping away, I utter the truth. “This is a slow death.”
Once again, feeling the warmth of his gaze upon me, I scramble back to my sculpture stand. On it, I drop the calipers, sketchpad, and pencil, and rush from the room, escaping my self-created torture chamber.
* * *
Tristan
“I shouldn’t have takenthis job,” I tell Dacia as we leave the Clayton Arts Building.
“Really, Tris? You’re gonna avoid modeling for art classes because Remi’s afraid to make a commitment?”
When Remi bolted from the sculpture studio, it reminded me of his behavior on the night after Wendy nearly got hit by a car. “I think he rushed out of the studio to… maybe to get sick in the bathroom. He seemed really upset.”
“I checked on him in the hallway a few minutes after he left the classroom. He mentioned something about drinking too much last night. I’d say bourbon is the culprit, not you.”
I’m not convinced. I know him fairlywell at this point—not as well as I thought, but enough to recognize panic in his behavior. And I can’t make sense of what he mumbled after he took measurements of my face. “This is a slow death.” I don’t mention his remark to Dacia, though. It was meant for my ears.
“Class couldn’t have been easy on you either,” she continues. “You look much the worse for wear.”
“Thanks.” I smirk at her. “Are you saying I’m not living up to my usual beauty standard?”
This earns me a spurt of laughter. “You couldn’t be anything but beautiful on your worst day—and you know it. But you look tired.”
Before I have a chance to dish out an excuse for why I’m not sleeping well, the solid mass of a large man’s shoulder rams into my side with such force, I’m knocked to the ground.
“Professor Santini—what’re you doing?” Dacia moves between us. “Jeez, dude!”
“Oh, dear me… I’m so very sorry. Did I accidentally bump into you, Tristan?”
He offers me his hand, as if to help me to my feet. I shake my head. “No, thanks.”
