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We veer off the main path so we can read the advert.
Are you an artist seeking inspiration? Join us, Thursday nights, 8pm. Art Building, room 401. Booking essential.
‘Jack! It’s a sign. You have to go,’ Dalton exclaims.
I scoff at the idea before my brain can even process what that means. I’ve walked past here dozens of times. Maybe even hundreds. ‘What? It’s a dirty old leaflet. It probably isn’t even on anymore.’
‘Are you kidding? I’m sure it’s the same art class on campus that Anders mentioned. You need to go. You said yourself that you need a hobby.’
I’m quiet for a moment then I say, ‘Did you know, I used to paint?’
‘Did you really? Were you any good?’
‘Yeah, a long time ago. I was alright. Used to like doing portraits.’
‘That’s it. I’m deciding for you.’
‘What are you doing?’
Dalton gets out his mobile phone and takes a photo. Then he taps on his phone and my phone suddenly buzzes.
‘There you go. You can’t say you don’t know about it now. I’ve emailed it to you.’ He stands there smiling like the cat who got the cream.
There was only one problem.
This art class is on campus, where I teach and have worked very hard to maintain a certain persona. I liked having my personal and my work life completely separate and I wasn’t about to break that now. But I’m also intrigued. Can I find what I’m looking for in an art class?
We walk back home and Dalton talks about his latest research and some things he’s working on in the history department, but my mind is elsewhere, thinking about this art class. We part ways just as we reach the bottom of the hill. I head up Albert Street and he takes a left, towards Neville Road.
I’m barely inside the house when my phone pings and I get an email:
Thank you for signing up to our weekly art class—
What?! My mind races for some sort of explanation but then I get a text from Dalton:
You really ought to change your email password. Have fun at your art class.
