Distant Shores

Cautiously, she opened the door. Inside the small classroom, there were six or seven people--all women--seated in a semicircle. In front of them, a long table was draped in white fabric. A brown wooden bowl sat in the middle; it was piled high with bright red apples.

She tried her best to move invisibly as she sidled around a pressboard bookcase and toward a vacant seat. She held her canvas bag against her chest as if it were a bulletproof vest.

Behind her, the door opened, then closed softly. A male voice said, "Welcome to Beginning Painting. If youve brought macrame supplies, youre in the wrong room. "

He walked between the chairs in that easy, loose-hipped way one associated with cowboys or dancers. He wore a black T-shirt that pulled taut across his shoulder blades, and a pair of faded Levis. When he reached the chalkboard and turned around, Elizabeth drew in a sharp breath. She didnt think she was the only woman who reacted that way.

He was young--no more than twenty-nine or thirty--but my God, he was good-looking. Brad Pitt in Thelma and Louise good-looking.

"Im Daniel Boudreaux," he said, flashing a white smile. "Im your instructor for the next six weeks. My job is to introduce you to painting. " His blue-eyed gaze moved from face to face; it paused for a moment on Elizabeth, or had she imagined that? "Hopefully, thisll be the start of a love affair that will last the rest of your lives. For those of you who care about such things--and you shouldnt, this is art, after all--I studied at RISD and Yale. I have an overload of knowledge and an appalling lack of talent. However, that doesnt stop me. I fish in Alaska all summer and paint all winter. " He moved away from the chalkboard and stood by the table with the fruit.

"Lets talk a little about composition . . . "

Elizabeths heart was pounding hard. Soon, she thought, soon hed say, "Okay, class, lets begin. "

". . . The truest expression of art cant be found on the tip of a brush. Its in the artists eye. . . . "

Elizabeth had been a fool to think she could do this. Shed forgotten how to think like an artist, how to let her emotions flow into a paintbrush.

". . . Like anything else, painting requires some preparation. None of that mixing your own oils yet. Well start with acrylics and make a working palette. Do you see the foil-covered oval Ive placed by your chair?"

Elizabeth unpacked her supplies in slow motion. The lethargy made sense; she was using muscles that had atrophied.

". . . Well begin on paper, and work our way toward canvas. So pin your paper up . . . "

Elizabeth clipped a long, rough sheet of paper onto the easel in front of her chair. She started to reach into her bag, then realized that no one else had moved. She put her hands back in her lap.

". . . Now look at the fruit, really look at it. Study the way the lines curl and slice, the way light reflects on the flat surfaces and disappears in the hollows. Painting is about seeing. Look at the bowl, feel its texture in your mind, discern the colors that combine within it. When youre ready, begin. Later on, well start with sketches and ideas, but for now, I want you to dive right in. Imagine yourself as a child with a set of paints. Freedom in its purest form. "

Elizabeth heard the sound of paintbrushes being smashed into paint--too hard--the thwop of overwet bristles hitting the paper.

She cleared her mind of everything except the fruit. Just that. Light and shadow; color, lines, and composition . . .

She realized with a start that she wasnt alone. He was beside her, Daniel, and he was bending down.

"Is something wrong?" he asked.

She felt herself flush. "Im sorry. What did you say?" She turned to look up at him so fast they almost conked heads.

He stepped back and laughed. "Whats your name?"

"Elizabeth. "

"Okay, Elizabeth, whats wrong? You havent started. "

"I cant see it yet. "

"The apples? You could move closer. "

"No . . . the painting. "

"Ah. Now, thats an interesting answer. Close your eyes. "

She followed his direction and immediately wished she hadnt. In the darkness, he felt nearer somehow; she could smell the tangy scent of his aftershave.

"Describe the fruit. "

"Its in a wooden bowl, hand-carved I think by someone who wasnt very good. Its from a solid piece of wood. The table is one of those metal lunchroom tables, probably with a wood-grain top, that youve covered with an inexpensive white cotton cloth. The apples are McIntosh, red with strands of green and black, almost heart-shaped. Light hits them on the right side. Theres a feather at the edge of the table, maybe a blue jays. "