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“Ah, but you don’t really know that until you’ve done theotherwork. Until you’ve doneallthe work,” she replies in that inscrutable art-speak that I find so frustrating and enraging.
What does that even mean? I know it, but I also don’t know it? Because I don’t know the things that I don’t know? Does that make sense to anybody?
Does she get paid for dispensing this kind of advice?
“Could I… see the work that you did today?” she asks gently.
I am vividly aware of the newsprint pad that is next to my right side. I know what’s in it. I know it’s not going to make her happy.
“Dean Rhodes, I’m doing it,” I answer defensively. “It may take me a while, but I will find the surreal, Cubist, deconstructivist savant that lives within me and I will—”
“Is this it?” she interrupts me suddenly, holding up her cell phone toward me.
I gasp in surprise. The picture is my drawing. Somebody texted her a picture of my drawing. I can vividly see that undulating outline of Diego’s body, right there.
“How did you…”
“It’s my job to keep track of my best students,” she answers, just a little bit smug. “And the reality is, if you are trying, you are not trying hard enough. It should hurt a little bit.”
“Okay, it should hurt,” I answer back, trying not to sound too sassy.
“It should burn,” she adds helpfully.
“Hurting and burning,” I mutter stubbornly. “Sounds like a venereal disease.”
“Ha!” she bark-laughs, startling me. “See, that’s I’m talking about! That’s you, Belinda. You’re funny. You’re insightful… Empathetic… Tender… Witty… You are a lot of things that don’t always come through in your work. You have to take chances. Be bold!”
“You want me to show how witty I am in figure-drawing class?” I reply incredulously. “How does anybody even do that?Doesanybody do that? Have you ever seen a witty figure drawing? Tell me how that works.”
She wiggles her eyebrows at me, caving her cheeks in as she drags on her vape pen.
“I think you can do it,” she answers.
I want to groan in frustration. I want to slide out of my chair and lie on the floor, beating my heels against the wooden boards. This is so aggravating, annoying, irritating… What are the other words? How many synonyms are there for annoying? It is all of those things.
“Okay, fine, I’ll keep trying,” I sigh, defeated.
“Maybe try a new medium,” she suggests. “Have you considered linocut? Photography? Textile arts?”
Yes, I answer her silently.I’ve considered all of those things. I don’t like any of them. I don’t want to do any of them. I am a painting and drawing major because I want to do… painting. And drawing.
But instead I say: “Sure. Okay. I’ll give it a try.”
“Great,” she announces with an air of finality. “So, I’d like to see you maybe take on a collaborator. Maybe push yourself even further.”
Immediately I imagine Jenna and I spending long nights working on projects to try to satisfy this ridiculous requirement. I can do that.
“There is a four hundred-level class called Outsider Collaboration Studies. I’ve enrolled you.”
“I’m sorry, what?” I sputter. “I don’t have any room for electives? I’m already at seventeen hours?”
She smirks shrewdly. “It meets on Wednesdays from two to five. It fits in your schedule perfectly.”
“But I… I mean, what is it? Outsiderwhat?”
“You can find it in the course descriptions,” she nods. “I think you will love it. And a change of perspective will be good for you, Belinda. It will. You trust me?”
Do I trust her? Do I?
