Plein Air
By Dawn R
A new hobby can become a passion...
All the characters in this story are over eighteen.
I'm Natalie Dressen (yes, my schoolmates found it hilarious to call me 'natty dresser', 'nattily dressed' or even 'naughtily dressed', but I had worse nicknames that had nothing to do with my name). I'm married with three kids, Jonah (18) and the twins, Caroline and Fey (16). My husband is Matt, two years older than me. After the twins he got the snip and walked around like a cowboy for at least a week complaining bitterly. I was glad because I have always had fairly light predictable menses but suffered nausea and headaches when I was on the pill. We got through quite a lot of condoms in those days but we both much preferred skin on skin.
"Nat, why don't we sign up for an art class?"
That's how it all started with a casual suggestion from Rosemary Broughton, who has been a close friend since college. We do yoga and exercise class together. Now on the cusp of forty with our children pretty much doing their own thing (except for meals, house cleaning and laundry) we found we had a degree of leisure time despite holding down full-time jobs. We had both been quite good at art and I would have liked to go to Art College, but I was also good at Math and that's why I ended up as an accountant.
We got enrolled in that first eight-week Fall course and while I found myself very comfortable as all the elements of colour theory and warm and cold tones came back to me, Rosemary got more and more frustrated. When it ended, I looked for something that might be more of a challenge and told Rosie I was going to enroll in a ten-week Life Drawing class.
"You mean like naked models and such? Not me, I'm struggling with a vase of flowers."
"Well, life drawing is really just another form of still life. The models aren't moving or anything."
"I don't want to look at wrinkles and saggy breasts, I'm beginning to see that in the mirror. God forbid there are any men showing their dangly bits. Besides Trevor would probably kill me. He's very prudish, you know."
"All the more reason," I said.
"Sorry, I'll take a pass."
Rosie was right. Most of the models were older. Our first model was a woman in her seventies, quite slim but sagging a little in all the expected places. Very practiced as a model, she showed up on a total of three occasions. Then there was another woman, probably five or ten years older than me, with large pendulous breasts and a gut. However, she was clearly quite comfortable in her body as she had not the slightest hesitation in spreading her legs wide and showing her all. She was our model for two sessions. We had a man who must have been in his sixties, who was no hunk but a great study in wrinkles and bulges and hairy dangly bits. He also showed up on two occasions. Then there was one young girl, college age, probably an art student herself trying to pick up some money. She was our model three times and became noticeably less shy each time.
I noticed that the three men attending our class, perhaps unsurprisingly, became more animated whenever she was the model. One of those three was also taken with the lady who so willingly showed her all. However, I was not there to ogle anyone, just get on and paint. Most people, once they got started just saw lines and tones, shadows and shapes, and for the most part the results were pretty good. I sketched some of the quick gestures to warm up but went straight to my paints for the longer poses. My objective was freer more confident brush strokes and by the sixth week I felt it was making a real difference. At home I had set up a workspace in the basement. Not ideal, but out of everyone's way.
The instructor, David Taylor, was a man in his mid-thirties, already a successful artist, at least locally. He looked a bit like Adrien Brodie or maybe, Nicolas Cage, on whom I had a teenage crush. He openly called me and one other woman, Elaine (call me 'Elle'), his most promising students and no one objected because I think we clearly were. On the penultimate week he announce that for the Spring session he was offering a six-week 'plein air' class, which he explained for those who did not already know meant going out into the world with our materials and easels to draw or paint what we saw. He said it would not all be traditional landscapes; he would include some cityscapes for variety. We would always go somewhere accessible by public transport.
He surprised us right from the start by taking us to a massive scrapyard where they demolished cars and compressed them. I doubt any of us had ever thought to paint a scene like that with broken cars spread about or in some cases piled up and heavy compacting equipment. Luckily, they did not work on Sunday, or I imagine the noise would have been deafening.
As the weather was getting warmer, I took off my jacket. More than once I caught David looking at me. I tend to wear white cotton blouses and don't always wear a bra as my breasts are barely B cups and still nice and firm. That's when I realised that he was probably seeing more than I intended because the sun was shining directly behind them. I better wear a bra in future I thought but I was flattered by his attention. I'm very happy with my body. I work hard to keep in shape and am blessed with good genes. I don't love my face; I think my features are too strong, but others tell me they're fine.
The Spring session passed all too quickly. One class in a large parkland, one at the botanical gardens, one by the river with high-rises and traffic, and a couple of other park locations. Once when seated at my easel I caught David looking over my shoulder not at my painting but at my nipples as I leant sideways to pick up my phone. I was wearing a bra, but it tends to gape when I lean forward. He quickly made a comment on my painting and then moved away. On the final day I enquired about a summer session but was disappointed when David said he generally takes the summer off to concentrate on his own painting and fulfill some commissions. With twenty minutes to go an attractive woman of about thirty came into the room and waved to David. As we wrapped up David was talking with her and waved me over.
"Natalie, I like you to meet my wife. Miranda, this is Natalie, she's my top student." He said this very quietly so other would not hear.
As Miranda and I exchanged 'Nice to meet you's, I thought that was a bit of an exaggeration, but I was flattered. In my honest opinion one of the men and an older woman were at least as good as me, possibly better. Then as his wife moved away to look at the work on our easels, he said he might invite me to join him on a 'plein air' excursion if I would be interested. Without hesitation I said "Yes, I'd love that."
One night shortly after, David was in my dream. I'm pretty sure it was David and not Adrien Brody and it was one hot dream. I don't remember the exact details and like almost all such dreams it ended just as things were getting really interesting. I do know I woke up very hot and bothered and...well, I quietly got up without waking Matt and rubbed myself off in the bathroom, not something I do very often. I mean Matt and I have a good sex life. To put it bluntly we fuck at least once a week; sometimes it's making love with lots of foreplay, caressing and more, and sometimes it's just a quick hard fuck. I'm not saying I don't have fantasies, and sometimes hot dreams, but I'm pretty sure they have never before featured someone I actually know. Have you? It's disturbing.
It's several weeks later when I receive his phone call. Honestly, I had almost forgotten about it, but I feel a shiver go up my spine.
"How would you feel if I go on a 'plein air' trip next Saturday. It would be about seven hours because we have to drive there?" I feel duty bound to ask Matt, even though it's just to go painting.
"That's fine as long as you can get a ride, because I'll need the car to go to the ballgame in the afternoon."
"Yes, I can get a ride," I say.
"If I haven't told you, I think your art is pretty good and getting better," he says.
"Thank you, darling. I feel I'm improving but I have a way to go."
"If I know you, you'll go all the way... when you have a passion you are not a quitter."
On Saturday at nine-thirty I'm waiting with my easel, a folding chair and all my paints packed in my son's old hockey bag. David arrives on time in a dark green convertible. My hockey bag only just fits in the trunk with all his stuff. I would have introduced him to Matt, but he has already gone to gym as per usual. By usual I mean we normally go together every Saturday from nine till noon.
"Very prompt," I say climbing in.
"Eager as ever, I see," David replies as I do up my belt. He likes to be called David and not Dave.
We get on the motorway and in no time, there are fields of ripening crops, and others filled with cattle as we leave the city.
"Where are we going?"
"Let me surprise you."
I love the feeling of the wind in my hair. I hadn't been in a convertible with the top down in years and this is the perfect summer's day. I experience a spontaneous feeling of joy. This break from routine is going to do me so much good. After a bit we leave the motorway and meander through some B roads into an area that's quite unfamiliar to me. Soon we are in rolling countryside with fewer fences and no cultivated fields. We don't talk a lot as our words get swept away by the wind.
David pulls off the road and stops the car at the top of a rise and we get out. I look at my watch; it's just before eleven.
"This is our landscape for this morning," he says pointing ahead. The land in front of us drops off into a vale or wide valley with woods and a river and far in the distance a church steeple and some houses. It's obviously a village but I don't recognize it.
Soon we're set up and busily organizing our painting. I am viewing the landscape through a square made with my fingers to choose the exact area I want. David comes up behind me and puts his hands on my waist; then rests his head on my shoulder. He's looking where I'm looking. I'm not sure this is appropriate behaviour, but a thrill goes through me none the less.
"What are you seeing?" I feel his breath upon my ear.
"Everything," I say, "There's the almost hidden village with the church. Closer there's two farms but they don't fit in my frame and over there the road through the hedgerows beside a copse of Cypress trees. I think there's a large house behind them."
"Step away. Now look at your canvas and show me where your skyline would be. Don't mark it, just indicate with your finger," as he lifts his head from my shoulder and steps back.
I move my finger across the canvas about two thirds of the way up.
"Traditional," he comments. "Why don't you move it higher unless you want to do something dramatic with the sky that isn't there right now."
My finger now traces a higher line.
"Good! Now look at the things that matter to you and don't be afraid to move them around your canvas to where you want them. This isn't a photograph. Think about the position of the sun and fix it now, it's going to move. Now how about your vanishing point? Take your time. As the military say, "time spent on reconnaissance is not time wasted."
These are all things I have heard him say before, but they take on a new relevance when I have such a wide expanse of country before me.
