Sketches by Eric Walters Page B

broke into a huge grin.
    We walked away and Nicki turned back toward me.
    â€œHardest thing around here isn’t to help people to create beautiful art, but to convince them that they have created it. Can you imagine somebody not liking that painting?” she asked.
    â€œIt was good,” I agreed.
    We walked through a door and into another room. The music on one side of the door was replaced by music on the other—this time more metallic and blaring. The room was filled with workbenches, and tools lined the walls. There was one guy in the room.
    â€œThis is our industrial arts studio. He’s creating and customizing gas-powered scooters!” she yelled over the music.
    The guy looked over at us, waved, and gave a goofy smile. He had thick glasses, hair that shot up in a thousand different directions, and he looked as though he ought to be in the audiovisual club at school. Compared to him I looked downright street. He turned back to his work.
    We moved through another door. I was both impressed and amazed to discover how much of the music was blocked out when she closed the door behind us. We were now standing in a room that held desks and computers. There was nobody else there.
    â€œAlthough you can’t tell right now, this is one of our most popular studios. In here people are being instructed in how to design and create websites. We have people doing some amazing stuff. There’s a chance, and it’s stillin the initial stages, that a few of our participants are going to create their own online zine. Isn’t that exciting?”
    â€œYeah, I guess it is.”
    â€œBy the way, are you hungry?” Nicki asked.
    â€œI’m okay,” I said.
    â€œYou are?” She made it sound as though she didn’t believe me. “What have you had to eat today?”
    â€œWell . . . I had a coffee . . . and a doughnut,” I said.
    â€œThen you must be hungry. And even if you’re not, I am. Come and join me for a bite to eat.”
    We went through another door and were in a room with tables and chairs and a fridge and stove and a toaster on the counter. The counter and sink were piled high with dirty dishes.
    Nicki picked up a knife off the counter and wiped the blade on a cloth. She took a bagel from a basket and carefully sliced it in two.
    â€œDo you want one too?” she asked.
    They did look good. “That would be okay . . . sure . . . thanks.”
    â€œDo you want it toasted?”
    â€œYes, please.”
    She took a second bagel, cut it in two, and then popped all four halves into the toaster.
    â€œWe have juice, too. Apple and orange.”
    â€œCould I have an orange juice?” I’d been craving fresh juice or some fruit or something that didn’t come from a fast-food place.
    â€œHelp yourself.” She pointed to the fridge in the corner of the room.
    When I opened it up, it was almost empty, but the bottom shelf was filled with little plastic juice containers. I grabbed an orange juice.
    â€œIt really isn’t our mandate to feed people, but we have some contacts—nice people in the community— who donate food.”
    I sat down on one of the chairs around the table, and she took the seat right across from me.
    â€œSo, tell me what you know about Sketches,” she said.
    â€œI don’t really know much,” I said, shaking my head. “Just what you showed me today.”
    â€œIn some ways, what you see is what you get around here. We’ve been operating an art drop-in centre for the past four years. Our goal is to allow street-involved and homeless youth a place to go to express themselves through art.”
    â€œYou mean people just drop in and do art?” I asked.
    â€œFive days a week our doors are open to allow people to do just that,” Nicki said.
    â€œAnd I can do that if I want?”
    â€œIf that’s what you want to do. As well as the daily drop-ins, though, we also have special