It's sultry in the studio today, damn near stifling, just they way I like it when I work. There's something about the discomfort that keeps my hands, my mind, my entire body on edge, the kind of edge I need when I'm creating. The air is full of dust from the soft pastels I'm using, and I'm practically covered in the stuff, but I wouldn't have it any other way. This, as far as I'm concerned, is the only way for an artist to work.
The usual bland still life sits before me, the kind of insipid offering that I know is well beneath my ability. Still, there's a certain charm in letting the professor believe she's actually teaching me something I don't already know. She recognizes my talent, but she holds me back because I have a big ego and a shitty attitude, and I know it. I think I deserve it, though, since this seems to be the only class I've stood out in during my four years of college.
I continue running my pastel across the rough textured paper, shaping out the bottles and fruits before me carefully, defining the lights with the darks, the darks with the lights, blending colors expertly into one another, adding the subtle hints of light and shadow. My mind is so completely absorbed by my project that I don't even notice her enter the room.
I'm not entirely sure how long she stands there before I notice her, but through the dust filled air, it's her scent that I notice first. It's the smell of something not too sweet, but something purely feminine. Before I know it, it fills my head with its delicate sensuality, and for a moment I'm almost irritated that my concentration has been entirely fucked.
When I turn to her, it takes all of my will not to grab my heart and drop to the floor. She's absolutely stunning, a shy young brunette, with a perfect figure clad in a halter-top and cutoff shorts. As I try to think of what to say to her, I can feel myself breaking through my finely honed "temperamental artist" attitude, and I do my best to contain it.
"Can I help you with something," I ask her irritably. Her perfect feet in sandals shuffle uncomfortably against the wooden floorboards, and I find the gesture endearing. I glance down and notice that her toenails are painted purple to match her top. A second glance at the taut, smooth belly showing beneath her shirt makes my head spin.
"Yeah, um, I think so," she stutters nervously, "Professor Cornell told me to find you, she said you might be able to help me." In one smooth motion, she brushes some long hair away from her face and hands me a piece of paper I can't even bring myself to look at. On one hand, I feel like my intense stare may be giving my real feelings away, but on the other hand, I think it may actually be intimidating her. My mind is too clouded to tell.
"My name's Andrea," she continues, "I'm one of the freshman art scholars Professor Cornell's tutoring. She told me if I really wanted to learn anything, I should come to you."
I keep staring. Truthfully, I'm flattered and confused at the same time. She glances down at the piece of paper in my hand, which I hand back to her.
"I think you've come to the wrong place," I tell her, "I don't teach art, I just make it."
"Oh." She seems disappointed, and suddenly I find myself feeling downright guilty as hell. Is my reputation as a moody artist really worth this?
"Look, just find someone else, okay? No offense, I just don't have time."
She shakes her head, more of her long brown hair falling into her face. "Okay, I'm sorry to bother you." She turns to go, and makes it as far as the door before I cave.
"Hey, wait." For the first time in the conversation, I drop the pastel in my hand and turn to her. "Hang on a sec, let me see that." She quickly comes back and hands the piece of paper to me again. I skim over it, some bullshit note from the professor that I could care less about. I look back up at her. "What's your name again?" I ask, as if her name hasn't been charging over and over again through my head constantly since she first told me.
"Andrea."
"Andrea. Well, Andrea, I'll tell you what. Show me what you've got, and I'll think about it."
"Really? You want to see my portfolio?" The excitement in her voice is contagious, and despite my inflated ego, I suddenly begin to wonder whether I'm actually worth her time. Seeing her glance enviously at my current work in progress makes me a little more comfortable with giving her a hard time.
"No, I don't want to see your portfolio, Andrea. I want to watch you work right here, right now. You're going to do a sketch of this still-life."
"What medium," she asks me. I reach into my art box and pull out a small stump of broken graphite pencil, which I hand to her. From the table next to me, I grab a piece of cheap, blank newsprint paper. Again, she plays with her hair nervously, shifting on her feet.
"You're kidding me, right?"
"Nope, this is the way I learned. Be thankful, my first teacher made me do this with a quarter-inch piece of black crayon on a cocktail napkin. So, uh, get to it."
She releases a stoic sigh and takes the paper. She slowly begins outlining the sketch.
"You've got ten minutes," I add, and she smiles at me sweetly. My heart flutters; her smile is enchanting to say the least.
