The Art Studio

In the cool autumn air, my friend brought me to the art studio to sketch. She had been coming to the studio for years on Tuesday evenings. It was my first time; I was a sketch pad virgin. There was a paid model. He was an old man with parts sagging and other parts in the right place. But he was beautiful. This was so because I had adjusted to seeing him with the same eyes as the other artists. Artists, I hear tell, only see beauty.

We socialized for the first hour with wine bought by the woman who rents the studio, an older well-to-do woman, beautiful for her age, tall and gaunt and all angles. It was the birthday of my friend, one of the artists. Her husband surprised her with a chocolate cake. Then we sat down to draw the life model for two hours. The old man took off his black satin robe and posed nude on top of blue sheets and white cushions under the glare of the studio lights. He was a professional so he only took one brief break and managed to keep his pose the whole time. Beautiful music played throughout, something Celtic I want to say.

It was a grand space with the artists' works posted all over walls that reached far above our heads. The place was a former warehouse that had been converted into a series of large rooms, what in New York became known as a loft, but this one was more functional - without any stainless steel fixtures or ultra-modern furniture. There were lots of canvases stacked against walls and paint lying about and stains on the hardwood floors.

The artists complemented my haphazard sketches. I forced myself to draw the things I hated to draw - hands. The apparent consensus was that hands are really difficult to draw. I gave up and drew the old man as a cloud. I love to draw clouds, having been fascinated by clouds since I was a child. I drew another abstract form of the old man, which is difficult to describe now but I did get compliments on that, too. I didn't know at first if the artists were being insincere or if I really did have talent that they recognized. I decided that they had seen enough to make that kind of judgment. So I committed to see how far I can take this art journey.

Maybe I will develop some real talent. Or maybe I will end up drawing clouds all my days. At least I will create a collection of sketch pads that I can share with my few visitors. We are on this world for such a short time. Art is one good way to invite one another to experience our vision of the world, rather than force our vision upon others, as in, say religious indoctrination or military invasion. Maybe Pentagon generals should take art classes . . .