by Sara Martin
“Sorry. Didn’t realise Priscilla left. I thought the shop was open.”
“That’s okay. I wasn’t waiting long.”
“Good.” He stood aside. “Come on in.”
I followed him across the shop floor, behind the beaded curtain, around the corner and to the narrow, impossibly steep staircase. Memories of the fateful afternoon I’d ended up here during the storm flooded back. I had been so curious to get a better look inside the studio.
Now, here I was. The large, airy room stood before me. The main feature was the large, sloping drawing desk in front of the window. Then there were bookshelves containing volume upon volume of reference books. Small tables and stools were scattered around, splattered in paint and ink. Stacks of paper and jars full of paintbrushes sat atop shelves and tabletops. The room pulsed with creative energy.
“I can’t believe you’ve got your own space like this,” I said. “It would be my dream to have a room like this to work on my own. Complete privacy. Peace and quiet. My mum doesn’t even like me closing the door to my room. She thinks it’s rude.”
Julian chuckled. “I’m very lucky. Priscilla lets me use this room for free. Otherwise, I’d never be able to afford a studio space like this.”
“Has she always let you use it?”
He shook his head. “Only after I finished school. That was when I decided to start taking my art more seriously.”
“Makes sense. Did you always know you wanted to be an artist?”
“Not really. Art was just a hobby for me, but one day, I realised it could be my career, and I went with it.”
I wandered around the room, taking it all in while Julian set up an easel and a stool. He sharpened a selection of pencils with a rotary sharpener and put a fresh canvas on the easel. After that, he positioned a small, wooden chair a short distance from the easel. I assumed that’s where I’d be sitting.
“I’m going to put some music on. Hope you don’t mind,” Julian said.
“Not at all.” In fact, it relieved me to no end that we wouldn’t have to sit in silence.
“It helps get me in the zone. Maybe it will help you relax too.”
Is my nervousness that obvious?
Julian took a CD from a stack on the floor and put it in the stereo. He pushed play and Mozart filled the room.
“I can’t concentrate if the music has lyrics,” he explained, moving back towards the easel. “Shall we begin?”
I nodded.
He gestured towards the chair. “Take a seat. Let’s start off simple. Just sit normally. No pose required.”
“Right.”
“Make sure you’re comfortable. You’ll be sitting there for a while.”
I relaxed, giving in to my natural slouch.
“Great.”
He sat at the easel. For what seemed like an eternity, he stared at me. His gaze was so intense. I prayed he didn’t notice me shake with nervousness. Sweat gathered at my hairline. Finally, he took a pencil in his hand and began to draw.
It surprised me how little he looked at the canvas. For the majority of the time, his eyes were fixated on me. Scanning my minutiae. I felt uncomfortable at first, but eventually, I tuned out. The classical music helped a lot.
The afternoon light was fading when Julian got up and turned on the light. “Let’s take a break.”
I stood up and stretched. My back clicked.
“Are you okay?”
“Fine. Thank you. Just a bit stiff.”
“Would you like a glass of water?”
“Yes, please.”
Julian went downstairs. While he was gone, I cautiously stole a glance at his drawing. It was still mostly a basic outline, with only a few portions shaded in. Julian came back shortly with two glasses of water. When we had refreshed ourselves, I sat back down, and he returned to work. I felt much more at ease.
Darkness had set in by the time Julian announced we could call it a day. He eyed the canvas in front of him but didn’t look too enthused about his work.
“Can I have a look?” I asked.
Julian didn’t answer straight away. I wondered if he were embarrassed. What right did he have to be embarrassed, anyway? I was the embarrassed one about this whole ordeal. Although, I had to admit it had been significantly less mortifying than I’d thought it would be.
“I don’t normally like showing people works in progress. I’m kind of anal about things like that. But since you did me this huge favour, I kind of owe it to you, don’t I?”
I sighed. “You don’t have to show me if you don’t want to.” Truthfully, I was desperate to see. I couldn’t tell anything from the bare outline I’d glimpsed earlier.
“It’s fine.” He gestured for me to come to his side.
I looked at the picture. My face had been rendered in meticulous detail. I looked much prettier than I expected I would. Perhaps that’s why Julian seemed unsatisfied—it wasn’t realistic enough. Nevertheless, it was the start of a beautiful portrait. The neck and the shoulders were drawn in detail, but going down from there, the rest of my body was a faint sketch. A tangle of lines with no proper shading.
“See what I mean?” Julian said. “It doesn’t look all that great.”
“Are you kidding? It’s wonderful.”
“It still needs a lot of work.”
“Yeah, but it already looks so good.”
“You think so?”
“Absolutely.”
“I might need you to come in again, just so I can finish off a few details.”
“That’s fine. Same time next week?”
“That would work. Thanks so much for your help today.”
“No problem at all.”
Julian walked me down the stairs and back into the shop.
Priscilla was there, tidying and organising the shelves. “How did you two get on?” she asked.
“It went well,” Julian replied.
“That’s good. Ivy, do you have any plans for this evening? I thought we could all get something to eat.”
My stomach rumbled at the very mention of food. My parents probably expected me home for dinner, but I couldn’t resist taking Priscilla up on her offer. “Sure. Sounds good.”
“Wonderful.” Priscilla smiled. “There’s a great little Thai place down the road that does takeaways. I’ll phone in now and place an order.”
After Priscilla ordered our meal, Julian left to pick it up. Priscilla and I sat down in the kitchen.
“Did you finish reading the book I lent you?” Priscilla asked.
“Oh! I almost forgot.” I rummaged through my backpack and produced the copy of Hole Hearted. “I finished it last weekend.”
“What did you think about it?”
“It was strange. Moody, atmospheric. I liked it a lot.”
“Alfred sure has a brilliant imagination.”
“I’d like to read more of his work.”
“This is his only book, I’m afraid.”
“I wonder why he didn’t write any more books?”
“I don’t know,” Priscilla said ruefully. “He is a man of great talent. I’m sure he has many more stories to tell.”
“Maybe he’s just writing in secret.”
“Great art deserves to be shared.”
“I suppose so.” I sighed. “Anyway, thanks for letting me borrow the book. I know how precious it is.”
“You’re welcome, my dear.”
I was about to hand it over when I remembered someone else wished to read it. “Priscilla, would it be okay if I lent it to my friend Anna? She’s the school librarian and has always wanted to read it.”
“Yes. I suppose that would be okay as long as you trust she’ll take good care of it.”
“I don’t know anyone who cares more for books than Anna.”
Priscilla smiled. “Very well, then. Return it to me when she’s done.”
“I will. Thank you.” I tucked the book away again.
Julian came back momentarily, carrying two
plastic bags stacked with takeaway cartons.
“Let’s eat,” Priscilla said.
We huddled around the kitchen table and dug in. I was ravenous.
“So, Ivy, how was your first time as an artist’s model?” Priscilla asked between mouthfuls.
“It wasn’t as awful as I thought it would be.”
Julian grinned. “Come on, it wasn’t awful at all.”
“I was so anxious. Could you tell?”
“Don’t worry. I was anxious too.”
“You were?”
Julian nodded.
“He’s a perfectionist. He worries far too much about his work,” Priscilla explained.
Julian shot her a glare. “I just like to do the best I can.”
I sighed deeply. Julian was so committed to his art. I wondered what it felt like to be so passionate about something.
“You look wistful. What’s on your mind?” Priscilla asked.
“I was just thinking about how wonderful it must be to be an artist.”
“It’s hard work, just like anything else,” Julian said.
“But you’re doing what you want to do.”
Julian nodded. “I can’t imagine doing anything else.”
“It must be nice…”
“Growing up, I was always taught you can do anything you want to as long as you set your mind to it.”
Priscilla nodded. “I think that’s true as well. Too bad I didn’t know that when I was your age. I made so many terrible choices. Luckily, I pulled through in the end.” She turned to me. “Ivy, what do you want to do?”
I blushed, suddenly embarrassed. Lawyer, I thought, but it felt like such a lie. “I don’t know,” I confessed.
Priscilla smiled kindly. “There’s still plenty of time to figure it out.”
I nodded. “I’m sure I’ll work it out.”
When we had finished eating, I helped Priscilla clear up. “Thanks so much for dinner.”
“You’re welcome,” Priscilla said.
“Do you need a ride home?” Julian asked.
I checked my watch. “I can wait for the bus.”
“Let me give you a ride. It’s late.”
“Well, okay, then. Thank you.”
After saying goodbye to Priscilla, I followed Julian outside. He unlocked a gate at the side of the building. A motorcycle was parked at the back. He passed me a helmet.
“A motorcycle?” I asked, stunned.
“Are you okay with that?”
“My parents would definitely disapprove of this.”
“So, it’s a no?”
I shook my head. “It’s a yes.”
“You’re a rebel.” Julian chuckled.
No, not at all. But, tonight, all my cares were out the window.
“What’s your address?”
“27 Dalton Place.”
Julian got on the motorcycle, and I clambered on behind him.
“Is this your first time on a motorcycle?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Put your arms around my waist.”
“Like this?”
“Yes. Don’t be afraid to hold on tight.” He started the motor. “Here we go.”
Before I could change my mind, we were off.
As we zoomed down the street, the air rushing past us, I felt like we were flying. I had never felt so free before. It was exhilarating.
When Julian stopped at the bottom of my driveway, I was disappointed it was over so soon. I let go of his waist and got down.
“Thanks for the lift.”
“That’s all right.”
“Goodnight.”
“Night. See you next week.”
I walked up the driveway. When I arrived on the doorstep, I looked over my shoulder. Julian was still there, waiting for me to go inside. I gave him a wave before I opened the door. When I entered, I was faced by my glaring parents.
“Ivy, I want a word with you,” Dad said.
9
“What is it?” I asked with a sigh of aggravation.
“You know the rules, Ivy. If you’re not going to be home for dinner, you need to let us know.”
“I told you I didn’t know what time I would get back.”
“That’s not the point.”
“But, more importantly,” Mum chimed in, “what were you doing on a motorbike?”
“I was offered a lift home. The next bus wasn’t going to be for another forty minutes—”
“You know my thoughts on motorbikes. They’re dangerous.”
“The roads were quiet. It was completely fine.”
“We decide what’s fine and what isn’t.”
“Whatever,” I grumbled and started towards my room.
“Don’t speak to me in that tone, young lady.”
I took a deep breath in the safety of my room. They’ll get over it.
I kept my head down over the next few days. If I put a foot wrong, my parents could ban me from seeing Julian and Priscilla again. I wouldn’t put it past them.
Like a good girl, I dedicated my attention to the pile of accumulating assignments taking over my desk. Next up, economics.
When the OCR is decreased, what is the effect on inflation?
I knew we had gone over this several times in class, but the answer didn’t surface. I thought harder. Nothing. I was feeling lazy, so I turned to Google. A few results popped up. I clicked on the first one and began to read. The dense and technical wall of text made my mind drift. I didn’t care about any of this.
Why am I even taking economics in the first place? I hate it. It’s boring. Oh, that’s right. My parents made me take it. It’s practical, they said. It’s a useful subject to know. I groaned. Why couldn’t I do what I wanted to do for once, completely disregarding practicality?
I thought of Julian in his studio, creating works of art. How wonderful it must be to pursue a dream like that.
I put aside my economics assignment. It had been such a long time since I wrote anything for pleasure. I should have been dutifully working on my assignments, but the urge to write took over. I decided I might as well embrace it.
I dug around in my desk drawer and found an old notebook. In it, were several old story ideas and partly written pieces. I read through the first page and then the next. Before I knew it, I had read the whole notebook. Some of it was actually pretty good. I even laughed to myself from time to time.
I turned to the next fresh page and jotted down the first few ideas that came to my head. Feeling inspired, I let myself write freely. Utter drivel, but it felt good to put something down on paper.
Despite getting hardly any work done on my assignments, I went to bed feeling fulfilled and with a new sense of resolve.
In my free period the next day, I decided to drop in and see Mr. Donaldson in his office. Perhaps he could give me some advice. Down the back corridor in A Block, there was a door with a small metal plaque attached which read English Department. I went inside and found Mr. Donaldson’s room easily enough. He was the Head of Department, so his room was the largest. I peeked my head around the door. He was sitting at his desk, his glasses on, a stack of papers in front of him and a red pen in his hand.
“Mr. Donaldson?” I asked, drawing his attention.
“Ivy.”
He looked a little shocked to see me. Maybe he wasn’t used to students coming to see him in his office.
“Do come in.”
I sat down in the chair opposite his desk.
Mr. Donaldson put his pen down and his papers aside, giving me his full attention. “What can I do for you?”
“I wanted to ask you a few things if you don’t mind.”
“Certainly. Go on.”
“Well…” I fidgeted nervously. “I wondered if you had any feedback about my story in your newsletter.”
Mr. Donaldson smiled. “You’re very brave.”
I blushed.
“There hasn’t been much feedback, but from what I’ve heard, the reaction to yo
ur story was quite positive.”
“Really?” I exhaled in relief. “That’s good.”
“I wish I could tell you more. The newsletter isn’t exactly a platform for critique.”
“That’s okay. I was just curious. That’s all.”
“Anything else?”
I nodded. “I wanted to ask your advice about getting better at writing.”
Mr. Donaldson’s blue eyes lit up. “I must say, I’m very glad to hear this. So, you’ve decided to take your writing more seriously?”
I shrugged. “I want to give it a shot.”
“First and foremost, I would urge you to write every day.”
“Every day?”
Mr. Donaldson nodded. “You need not produce a masterpiece. Just something. Even if it’s terrible. It all helps in the end.”
“Okay. So, I need to write every day.”
“I could also recommend some excellent reference books.”
“That would be helpful.”
He bent down and opened a desk drawer. He retrieved a notepad and scribbled down a list of titles. “Start with these. You should be able to get them from the library.” He tore off the sheet and handed it to me.
“Thanks.”
“Oh, and if you ever want a critique of a piece, I would be happy to provide my expertise.”
“Thanks. I’m sure I’ll take you up on that.”
“Please do. I’m just delighted you’re doing this, Ivy. I meant what I said before. You’re a very talented writer. Ever since your first year in my class, I’ve enjoyed your work.”
“Thank you.”
“Oh, and one more thing. Have you considered taking a creative writing course next year?”
“No. Not really.”
“There’s no shortage of great programmes. If you’re truly serious about writing, perhaps you should look into it.”
“Thanks. I will,” I lied. It would be completely out of the question. Nevertheless, I was pleased with Mr. Donaldson’s encouragement and enthusiasm.
I headed straight to the library to see if they had any of the books he’d recommended.
When I arrived, Anna welcomed me. “Hey, Ivy. How’s it going?”
“I’m good, thanks. And you? You must be close to your due date now?”
Anna nodded. “Sure am. Only three weeks to go. I’m going on leave next week.”
