𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘢𝘱𝘩𝘺𝘴𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳
Whether it manifested as a fleeting specter, casting its ephemeral shadow across the girl's dreams, awakening her on that least likely of mornings, remained forever veiled, destined to...
The week has passed, a week of Duff's vain calls, and that event hung over her like swarming bees.
She decided to sign up for art classes. In the empty studio in the art museum's basement, she waited for the teacher, Ms. Tracey Smith. Her palms sweated onto the portfolio case. She wanted to sign herself up for an adult class in painting, but since she wouldn't come of age until December, she had to go for teen courses.
A petite, middle-aged woman entered the room, sporting short gray hair, khaki pants, and black horn-rimmed glasses. Wearily, she glanced at Linda, alongside an overeager mother and her spoiled kid, asking for special treatment. Ms. Smith went through Linda's portfolio briskly, her eyes moving in sharp lines over the surfaces. Green and black portraits, a bunch of stippled drawings, pointillism and charcoal landscapes and buildings.
-Where have you studied?
-In St. Petersburg, but it wasn't related to art at all.
She looked up at Linda from above her glasses.
-Self-taught?-she asked and Linda just nodded.
She finished the portfolio and handed it back to Linda.
-Okay. We'll give it a try.
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The next Tuesday night, Linda drove by subway to the museum. During the class, she was instructed by Ms. Smith on constructing supports, stretching canvases, and smoothing them with gesso. Ms. Smith had them experiment with color, with strokes. The brush's movement was considered evidence of the arm's gesture—a record of one's existence, reflecting personality, touch, pressure, and the authority of movement. Still lifes, featuring flowers and books, were the subjects of their paintings. Some classmates, particularly the ladies, hesitated to paint larger images. Ms. Smith urged them to work on a larger scale, but they felt too embarrassed. Linda, on the other hand, painted flowers as large as pizzas, strawberries magnified to a series of green triangles against a red background, capturing the intricate patterns of the seeds. Ms. Smith was spartan in her praise, blunt in her criticism, leading to occasional tears from some students in each class. Linda's mother would have liked her. Linda liked her too.
In the morning, Linda went with Sofiya to the magazine. Cinema Scene's art space, featuring ink pens, a carousel of colored pencils, ample paper, overlays, benday dots, border tape, and discarded headlines and photographs that Linda could wax and collage, was her heaven. She enjoyed the adult conversations that unfolded around her, where people often overlooked her presence, allowing them to share intriguing and candid discussions. On that morning, the writers and Lorraine gossiped about an affair between the publisher and the magazine's editor.
-Provincial madness.-Sofiya commented from the pasteup table.-You can take the man out of the rabble, but you can't take the rabble out of the man.
They laughed. Sofiya was the one who would say out loud what the others were thinking.
