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If Virginia Marjorie Curtis was wedded to her passion, Dallas Tucker Winston danced too close to danger. It sang to him like some enchanting siren and he couldn't help but dice with life and fall head over heels in love with danger. Perhaps that was why they were remarkable for each other.
"Now remember, before that brush makes its first stroke, you must ask yourself: What am I painting? Is it my unique, vibrant voice or the opportunity to bring my imagination to life? What are the powers a single canvas and a mash of colors could awaken inside of me?"
Virginia watched in pride as her students took a second to truly ponder her bizarre but invigorating questions. She didn't realize how large the art classroom was, now that all he desks and chairs were pushed against the walls and stacked to accommodate the number of stools and easels that speckled the art space. She had given them instructions to work wherever they felt inspiration flowed unrestrained for their first few projects.
A golden-haired girl shyly raised her hand from her position near the window. The paintbrush clutched in her fingers remained undipped. She ran the pad of her thumb over the coarse, black bristles as Virginia dutifully walked over.
"Miss Curtis, is this for a grade?" she inquired quietly. The fidgeting of the brush increased as her eyes darted to the stark whiteness of the foreboding canvas hanging in front of her.
Virginia took a peek at the blank slate, a knowing smile growing on her face. "Inspiration doesn't come easy to everyone, Mary Anne. You know, one morning I climbed up on the roof of my house just to get a better look at a robin's sky blue wings?"
The girl's forehead creased. "You did? I-I don't think my mother would be happy with me going on top of our roof."
"Believe me, my brother wasn't," Virginia couldn't help but laugh a bit. "No, this is not a grade, it's for practice. What I'm trying to say—awfully— is that the desire to create art can't be forced like answering a math problem. You may not know what to paint now or even today at all. But you will soon and whatever you conjure with your hands will carry value."
The girl grinned and nodded gratefully. "Thanks, Miss Curtis."
"Let me know if you need more help," Virginia informed as she departed from the corner.
Often times, Virginia wondered if her students thought her as unique. Certainly her fellow teachers and faculty members would have a fit the second they walked into her unconventional teaching space. She didn't like the word "peculiar" since it sounded so austere and particular. It was a word designed to confuse or hurt. Growing up, she had been called odd and different, no matter how many jeans she wore or cigarettes she smoked. Looking around at that classroom, with all its desks and chairs pushed out of the way and windows propped open, she accepted it and all its flaws.
Her joy withered the second the bell rang, signifying the end of third period.
"Alright, class, remember to rinse your brushes and store your projects on the drying rack— one per student," she called out in the bustle. "We don't want your yellow suns to turn green."
