Getting Her Back

What changed Christian’s mind?

9

I’m practically bouncing by the time work ends the next day. There’s not even enough time to go home before I head to the first day of the art workshop. It’s in downtown Manhattan, the lower East side. The building the folder listed is chic and modern, and looks like an art gallery. Clean glass windows show an open space inside with art hanging on the walls.

The woman inside directs me upstairs, and in the secondary space, there are chairs set up around a central platform where something is hidden by a sheet. There are already a few people sitting down, casually chatting. The brochure specifically said not to bring any art supplies, and now I see why. On each chair, is a case stuffed to the gills with new supplies. Pencils, acrylics, a sketchbook, charcoals, and more. The only restriction on the workshop is that it will be dry mediums. Paint takes too long to dry for the time period we’ll be working in.

I run my finger over the new pencils. I hope we get to draw something with them tonight. Just plain pencil was how I first learned to express myself before my love of painting bloomed, and even though I’m looking forward to learning new mediums, I know that I can show off my skills best in the area I’m most comfortable.

In front of each seat is an easel with a large pad of paper. I assume that means we’ll be drawing something today.

I sit quietly until it’s time for the class to begin. One by one, the chairs fill, until the entire circle is occupied. Promptly at seven o’clock, a door opens, and Alexander Prince walks inside. There’s a collective gasp and murmur as he appears, and I swear I see a tiny grin on his face. He looks like he stepped out of a painting himself. Silver gray hair and beard, a cane, and formal slacks with a button-down shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows. His forearms are course with muscle from years of detailed painting and sculpting.

“Good evening.”

There’s a chorus of ‘good evenings.’

“I’m so pleased that you all could join me, and I hope you are as well. I’ve seen each and every one of your work, and I’m excited about what we will be able to produce in this class.”

Someone across the circle raises their hand. “What will that be exactly?”

“A fair question. I assume you all noticed that the lower level of this building is a gallery?”

We all nod and make noises of assent.

“Good. This is a short workshop, but you are all talented. At the end of this five-week session you will each have at least one piece displayed in the gallery. Whether or not you choose to put that work up for sale is up to you.”

There’s a flurry of murmurs at this announcement. I immediately have a storm of butterflies in my stomach. I’ve never shown my art to anyone beyond my family and friends. Having a piece on display in a professional gallery seems like either a dream come true or nightmare. I’m not sure which it is right now.

He continues. “Because of the brevity of this workshop, there’s no way that I’ll be able to cover the breadth of artistic styles you might encounter in a traditional art course. Because of that, you each will be able to choose a medium in which to take this class from the supplies provided. If you want to experiment with something you’ve never done before, that is your right. If, for the purposes of instruction, you want to stick with what you know, that’s fine too. I’ve seen enough of your work that all of you would be welcome in any of my other classes, in any medium.”

There is a storm of emotion clashing around me right now. All of this seems like too much. How is it that the greatest artist I’ve ever seen, knows my work enough that he wants to teach me? This is insane.

“What will we be drawing?” another student asks.

“Each week will be something different,” he says. Then he smiles. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to make you do a life drawing tonight.” The whole room chuckles. “The classes this week will be still life. Next week will be life drawing. Week three, landscape. Week four, architecture. Week five, miscellaneous. You will choose your own subject in week five. At the end of the course, you will choose which one of your works you would like to display.” His face goes suddenly serious. “Well whether or not you want to sell your work is up to you, having a piece in the gallery is not. If you do not wish to have your work on display, you are free to leave now.”

No one moves an inch. Why would they? This is an opportunity that most people would kill for.