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She jerks her thumb over her shoulder, and I follow the gesture. On the wall is a series of drawings tacked to the corkboard. Next to them are small sheets of paper with the instructor’s comments. It’s the critique board from last week.
The drawings are not terrible, but not great either. They all depict the same model, as far as I can tell. Matilda. Proportions are wrong. Anatomy is unschooled. But in general, I can see that this is a class of people that was working with the model on the same day.
On the last drawing, the instructor’s comments really stand out because all it says is “Wow!” It makes me wince.
“Wow” is an amazing compliment in art school. You probably only get three or four of them in your entire career. It’s when you have done something totally unexpected, earth-shattering, groundbreaking.
In this case, it is because the depiction of the model is a tic-tac-toe board in the middle of the page, with an X in the middle square.
Yes, that is how you get a “wow” in figure drawing in art school.
“You could probably do that,” I answer, twisting away so I don’t have to look at it again. “Put your mind to it, Jenna. I believe in you. I realize that it is so groundbreaking your mind is probably blown right now, but focus. Try.”
She squints her eyes as though she is really, really focusing. “I don’t know,” she whispers desperately. “It is such genius! How could I ever…”
“Art harder!” I answer under my breath.
Slowly she drags her charcoal across the paper, and I can’t even look at her. She’s going to make me laugh, just as everybody is going silent because Diego is naked again, leaning magnificently against that pedestal with his giant schlong reclining across one thigh. And that schlong is pointed right at me. I mean, it’s practically staring at me.
“I will never be as good of an artist as Stevie Chrysler!” Jenna moans as she somehow manages to scrape out a tic-tac-toe board that really does look a lot more like Diego than the one on the wall.
“We don’t call her that anymore,” I correct Jenna, but barely keeping myself from bursting into giggles.
“What? Really?” Jenna asks as she rips the newsprint sheet off the pad and theatrically begins again. “What are we supposed to call her now?”
Since nobody is looking, I gradually pick the coversheet up and reveal my one, lonely line again. This is what I want. I want to finish this drawing. I hate leaving it like this. I hate knowing that I could be making something beautiful, and that I’m not permitted to do that.
“Lindy? Are you serious? She changed her name again?”
“Of course she did,” I answer absentmindedly. “She actually already changed her name plate on our door.”
“Well, that’s thoughtful,” Jenna smirks as she scribbles.
“Yeah, she doesn’t want me to walk in and traumatize her by using one of her fake names that has already expired. Honestly, I missed the whole Neon Baud week. Never even got to use it.”
“That’s a pity,” Jenna frowns. “Neon Baud is a name that could really go places.”
“One would think,” I shrug.
Would it kill anyone if I finished this drawing? I mean I could just lightly sketch out the right side. At least make sure that there’s some sense of form here. Just cheat. Just a little bit. Who is it really hurting? I can always cover it up again before Mr. Pecker gets over here.
“Okay so what are we calling her?”
I have to wait for a few seconds. I feel like I’m at a crossroads. I mean, if Mr. Pecker is so interested in me taking chances, isn’t doing what I want to do taking a chance? Specifically because he doesn’t want me to do it? Doesn’t that count for anything?
“Lindy?”
I twist in my chair, forcing myself to meet Jenna’s inquisitive stare.
“Seattle,” I answer.
Jenna frowns thoughtfully. She doesn’t look like an art major, but that is probably because she isn’t an art major. She’s an artminor. So she only looks a little weird when she really tries to do it. She doesn’t wear funny clothes. She doesn’t use unconventional items as hats. She doesn’t usually walk around with smudges of charcoal on the tips of her ears or anything. She’s a finance major, so she looks like a banker. And a volleyball captain. And our resident advisor on our dorm floor.
She looks like exactly what she is.
“Okay, okay… Seattle. Interesting choice since she is from the East Coast. Or is she?”
“No, she’s not from Seattle,” I roll my eyes. “That’s part of the built-in irony. We are supposed to appreciate it because it’s so remote or something like that.”
