be lucrative for somebody. Maybe James—
But then I just shook my head. Obviously at some level there had to be adults providing all this stuff, but they certainly didn’t need to be right at school, masquerading as students. There were plenty of kids ready to do the work themselves. And last year James hadn’t been here, and I didn’t see that his presence had changed anything. My little theory just didn’t hold water. It wasn’t even worth being called a theory.
Commentary from Daniel again.
The mind creates the reality, and reality creates the mind.
He’d used the aphorism mockingly, but there actually was something to this one. I was discombobulated, creating my own stupid version of reality that had nothing to do with what was real.
Feeling even more depressed than usual, I slipped back into my dorm.
I had art class that morning, with a full two hours of clay sculpture scheduled. Normally I’d have looked forward to it; to spending time doing the one thing that made me feel entirely comfortable in my own body. Not to mention the fact that it didn’t matter, in art class, if anyone wanted to talk to you or not. If you belonged or not.
But today I felt awkward. My usual eagerness to see Ms. Wiles was tempered by what had happened yesterday at the Unity meeting. The fact was—I had to face it—I’d felt a littledisappointed by her. I’d have thought she’d understand, immediately, what I felt when Patrick Leyden made his suggestion. In my mind’s eye I could still see her face, hear her silence. James, Andy—even George de Witt, that Unity flunky—had said something to help me. But the woman I admired most in all the world had just sat there. Had said
What an opportunity!
On purpose, then, I arrived at the art studio only after other kids had gotten there as well, so that there would be no opportunity for private conversation with Ms. Wiles. She gave me her special encouraging smile, as always, but my own returning smile felt stiff.
Still, just breathing in the air of the studio made me feel better. I pulled the unmistakable mix of fragrances deeply into my nose and lungs and identified each of them lovingly. The wood-like perfume of the drawing boards and easels, which were always being sponged off. The plastic smell of the old yogurt containers with their splotches of dried paint or tempera. The cold metallic tang of the sinks, mingled with a certain soapy-towel and turpentine odor. The wet-dog stench of one particular brand of watercolor paper, and the weirdly clean scent of wet clay. Finally, overlaying the whole room, the sneezy bouquet of charcoal and graphite.
For me it smelled like home.
I busied myself taking the wrappings off my fledgling sculpture. I could feel my hands simply aching to work the clay.
We were modeling a large bone—a plaster cast of an elephant’sfemur, to be precise. It sounded dull, but once you looked closely, once you saw how the bone flowed and changed as you walked around it, how precise and yet individual was each curve and surface and angle, you realized how extraordinary a thing it was. How impossible to replicate in clay, working in all three dimensions—infinitely more difficult than working on paper, in two. And yet how irresistible it was to try.
I squinted at the model femur, and then at my own copy. My femur was coming along, I thought. I was behind the rest of the class—the week of sitting shivah for Daniel had of course cut into all my schoolwork—but here, at least, I’d have no trouble catching up.
Ms. Wiles was walking around the room, pausing at each student’s shoulder to observe and make suggestions, and then raising her voice to talk more generally to the rest of the class. As I listened, as I worked, I felt myself soften toward her. She was always so fascinating.
“Working with sculpture, you can really begin to understand that making art is all about seeing clearly. Look, people.
Look.
That’s the key to everything. The young
But then I just shook my head. Obviously at some level there had to be adults providing all this stuff, but they certainly didn’t need to be right at school, masquerading as students. There were plenty of kids ready to do the work themselves. And last year James hadn’t been here, and I didn’t see that his presence had changed anything. My little theory just didn’t hold water. It wasn’t even worth being called a theory.
Commentary from Daniel again.
The mind creates the reality, and reality creates the mind.
He’d used the aphorism mockingly, but there actually was something to this one. I was discombobulated, creating my own stupid version of reality that had nothing to do with what was real.
Feeling even more depressed than usual, I slipped back into my dorm.
I had art class that morning, with a full two hours of clay sculpture scheduled. Normally I’d have looked forward to it; to spending time doing the one thing that made me feel entirely comfortable in my own body. Not to mention the fact that it didn’t matter, in art class, if anyone wanted to talk to you or not. If you belonged or not.
But today I felt awkward. My usual eagerness to see Ms. Wiles was tempered by what had happened yesterday at the Unity meeting. The fact was—I had to face it—I’d felt a littledisappointed by her. I’d have thought she’d understand, immediately, what I felt when Patrick Leyden made his suggestion. In my mind’s eye I could still see her face, hear her silence. James, Andy—even George de Witt, that Unity flunky—had said something to help me. But the woman I admired most in all the world had just sat there. Had said
What an opportunity!
On purpose, then, I arrived at the art studio only after other kids had gotten there as well, so that there would be no opportunity for private conversation with Ms. Wiles. She gave me her special encouraging smile, as always, but my own returning smile felt stiff.
Still, just breathing in the air of the studio made me feel better. I pulled the unmistakable mix of fragrances deeply into my nose and lungs and identified each of them lovingly. The wood-like perfume of the drawing boards and easels, which were always being sponged off. The plastic smell of the old yogurt containers with their splotches of dried paint or tempera. The cold metallic tang of the sinks, mingled with a certain soapy-towel and turpentine odor. The wet-dog stench of one particular brand of watercolor paper, and the weirdly clean scent of wet clay. Finally, overlaying the whole room, the sneezy bouquet of charcoal and graphite.
For me it smelled like home.
I busied myself taking the wrappings off my fledgling sculpture. I could feel my hands simply aching to work the clay.
We were modeling a large bone—a plaster cast of an elephant’sfemur, to be precise. It sounded dull, but once you looked closely, once you saw how the bone flowed and changed as you walked around it, how precise and yet individual was each curve and surface and angle, you realized how extraordinary a thing it was. How impossible to replicate in clay, working in all three dimensions—infinitely more difficult than working on paper, in two. And yet how irresistible it was to try.
I squinted at the model femur, and then at my own copy. My femur was coming along, I thought. I was behind the rest of the class—the week of sitting shivah for Daniel had of course cut into all my schoolwork—but here, at least, I’d have no trouble catching up.
Ms. Wiles was walking around the room, pausing at each student’s shoulder to observe and make suggestions, and then raising her voice to talk more generally to the rest of the class. As I listened, as I worked, I felt myself soften toward her. She was always so fascinating.
“Working with sculpture, you can really begin to understand that making art is all about seeing clearly. Look, people.
Look.
That’s the key to everything. The young
Similar Books
