(no subject)
Lucille does not think she’s the best artist in class. She doesn’t think she’s awful, but she doesn’t think she’s brilliant. She’s okay with that. She’s not in the class to get praise. She’s in the class to draw. As this is a life drawing class, Lucille thinks her expectations are fairly reasonable.
She wishes she could spare more sympathy to her classmates, who drive themselves to the bone trying to draw great art. She can’t. She doesn’t see the point. She especially does not see the point of appeasing Mr. Skinner, the class’s host, who isn’t a bad artist but isn’t worth the respect piled on him. The respect has little to do with his art and everything to do with his supposed importance. What’s so important about managing a grocery store? What did it have to do with art?
Truth be told, she didn’t think much of Mr. Skinner as a person. He was sleazy, cheesy, and his motivations were not pure. Mr. Skinner was all image. He strode into class as if he owned it then strode out of it as if he owned the whole town. Co-owned it, anyway. With who, she couldn’t rightly say, but Mr. Simon Skinner fancied himself a founding father of a village that existed way before he was born.
Except, certain things have changed in Mr. Skinner’s demeanor.
Today, as has lately been the case, Mr. Skinner is reserved, thoughtful. He walks into the room as if on a cloud and floats back out of it as if returning to a fog. He smiles, of course, but not as intensely, more relaxed, sometimes, but often more distant, as if he doesn’t care about dazzling anyone. And when he stares at the model, he’s not leering, as he usually does, but staring beyond the body, beyond the room-beyond the universe, perhaps. Who knows? Mr. Skinner’s simply not on Earth anymore. Maybe he’s in love.
He’s so engrossing in this state that one day Lucille finds herself drawing him instead of the model. She has a clear view of him staring out the window. The sun’s setting. “Magic hour,” as the filmmakers call it. She just has a pencil, so she can’t capture the colors. Just the shades. It’s a quick sketch. She’s pleased. She closes her sketch pad before anyone has a chance to see what she’s done, packs up and heads out with the rest of the class, hearing, today, not Mr. Skinner’s loud, theatrical voice booming over the crowd, announcing what the next, “opulent” subject will be, but muttering that he’ll see them all next time, and exchanging a few short, quiet conversations with students. She smiles at him as she walks by, and he nods. Nothing more between them. Lucille walks out the door, her secret drawing tucked into her backpack, and wonders what’s gotten into Mr. Skinner lately.
She may never know.
Nor is she certain that she cares enough to find out.