Everyone except me was clapping and cheering and whistling, like they were at a rock concert.
"Thanks, thanks," Gregg said. "Now, I want to get started ASAP. Let's not even bother with attendance. I don't really care if you're here or not. It's your loss if you skip. Anyway, names aren't important. It's what you do that matters."
He jumped down off his desk.
"Everyone push your chairs against the walls and come back to the clearing and lie on your backs," he instructed.
I walked slowly and waited until almost everyone was on their back before I joined them, just in case this was a joke.
The floor was cold and hard.
If I had to be lying down right now, I'd rather be in my bed.
When everyone was in place, Gregg said, "Now, I'm going to give you a series of instructions. Some of them may sound a little strange, but bear with me. I want you to totally lose control. Forget about what's normal and what's weird." He made quotation marks with his fingers around normal and weird. "You are about to feel what it really means to be an artist."
He clasped his hands together and took a deep breath.
"First of all, you need to spread out. Give yourself enough room to make a snow angel, and then some."
I stood up and walked to the back of the room, stepping over the people in my path, and lay down. Sam and a couple of others did the same.
"Good," Gregg said. "Now I need you to close your eyes. And keep them closed. Really. No cheating."
It sounded like a kid's game of hide-and-go-seek.
"Now imagine that you're lying on hot sand."
That wasn't easy on this floor.
"The sun is beating down on you and you're drifting off to sleep. You don't even realize that the water has been creeping up to your toes. Feel the waves tickling your feet. They crash at your ankles, but you're not bothered because you're so relaxed. Breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth."
Everyone in the room was breathing in synch.
"That's it," Gregg said. "By now the water has reached your knees and is making its way to your thighs."
I wanted to open my eyes. Just to make sure everyone else was still doing this.
"Now it's crept up to your bellybutton. The lower half of your body is floating."
Is that possible? Can half of you float while the other half is on the beach?
"You are more relaxed than you could ever imagine," Gregg informed us. "The waves have gotten to your shoulders, and now to your head, and now they're lifting you away from the beach and you're floating. Breathe in and out. In and out."
I heard the breathing. But still, this could be a trick. They could all be sitting in place, laughing silently at me, the fool who fell for it.
"You're floating, but you find that you can move around in the water without fear of sinking, so you rock back and forth. Left to right. You rock just to the point where you could roll over, but you don't pass that point. Back and forth. Back and forth. Now very slowly I want you to roll onto your stomach, but do it carefully so you don't hit the person next to you. And keep your eyes closed. Over to the left. And back over to the right. That's it."
I folded my arms across my chest when I rolled on my stomach, and I lifted my head so I wouldn't get dirt on my face. I hoped I wasn't getting bruises on my elbows or the bony parts of my pelvis as they hit the floor.
"Rolling might hurt a little, but here's your first lesson: good art involves pain."
Gregg's voice was somewhere in front of me, but I couldn't tell if he'd be able to see my eyes if I opened them. I was dying to sneak a peek at Sam, for a good eye roll.
"Now, I want you to hum," Gregg said.
A low vibration of voices began in unison over the sound of rolling bodies.
"Gradually, very gradually, I want you to hum louder."
We did.
"And louder and louder. Now open your mouths and say Aaahhhh."
Were we at the doctor's office?
"More volume!" Gregg shouted. "More! More! Keep rolling! Roll and roll! Back and forth! Don't worry about rolling into each other, on top of each other! Keep your eyes closed!"
I opened mine just as I was rolling toward Sam. Everyone was rolling into each other and screaming and doing everything that Gregg wanted. And their eyes were closed. Except Sam's. I rolled my eyes at him and he rolled his back.
"Eyes shut! No cheating!" Gregg commanded.
Sam shut his and I did too.
We banged into each other. I rolled away, then back toward him again. When I was on my back, Sam tried to roll all the way over me, but he hadn't built up enough momentum. He only made it halfway.
"Sorry. I didn't mean for that to be so weird," he said as he rolled back in the direction he came from.
I wondered what made Sam so awkward. Maybe more physical contact would loosen him up.
"I want you to scream until your throats hurt, till you can feel the rage!" Gregg yelled.
What rage? The rage of being forced to roll on a dirty floor with a bunch of strangers?
I opened my mouth, but no sound came out.
New Views
Sam and I sat with Ralph in the dining hall. I took the seat beside Ralph.
"You guys get to be in the same class?" he asked. "No fair. They shouldn't have split up the Gilloggley Three."
"You're not missing out," I said. "This is going to be a long semester."
"I think it'll be fun," Sam said. "I heard Gregg telling some guy we were gonna use video." He craned his neck around to look behind him. His sterno-cleido-mastoid muscle stretched, forming a line from the back of his ear to his sternal notch.
"It sounds like bullshit to me," I said. "He's not gonna teach us any skills. Except how to freak out."
"I don't know." Sam turned his head in the opposite direction. "Maybe you're right. But I still think it'll be fun."
"I think you'll change your mind," I said.
"Sam," Ralph interjected, "what are you looking for?"
"There's someone I met over break. I thought they'd join us for lunch." He looked around again.
The pit of his neck was deep. I could probably fit two fingertips on its ledge.
"My class isn't so great, either," Ralph said. "The teacher's having us draw a still life, but with our eyes closed and using the hand we don't normally draw with."
"What did the drawings look like?" I asked.
"Just what you'd expect," he said. "Not much. Our teacher says she wants us to have new views of art."
"How can you have a new view with your eyes closed?" I asked.
Ralph laughed. "I should ask."
As I crossed my legs, my foot brushed against Sam's steel-pipe shin.
He gave me this terrified, breath-holding look.
I recrossed my legs in the other direction, this time making sure my foot touched him.
Same reaction.
Don't tell me you have a crush on Sam Slant, I thought. This cannot be happening.
Reason to Talk
The next night, Nate called.
"So how's the beginning of real school?" he asked. There was a banging sound in the background, but different from the radiator. "Glad to be through with Gilloggley?"
"No, I wish I had him back," I said. "I've got this new guy, Gregg Cramroy. Performance Art King."
Nate groaned. The banging was loud and steady. It sounded like he was hammering nails into something.
"So what's up?" I asked.
"Do I need a reason to call?"
"Well, I think so," I said. "Things are different now."
"What do you mean things are different?"
There was a pause, then more banging. I guessed that he'd started on a new nail.
"You know," I said. "We never really worked stuff out after that night."
"What night?"
"You know," I said. "Valentine's night."
"Ellie, aren't you over that by now?" he asked. "I hate games like this. And anyway, I actuall
y do have something important I want to talk to you about."
"So say it."
There was a sudden clunk. Then silence.
"Nate?"
"Sorry." He was back. "I dropped the phone."
"I figured. But what did you want to say?"
"Can I come over?"
"Tell me on the phone."
"But the phone is so impersonal."
"Just tell me on the phone."
"Okay, Ms. Friendly," he said. "I wanted to talk to you about my mom."
"Yeah?"
"I'm all freaked out about her wedding."
"That makes sense," I said. "But you've got to get used to the idea that she's moving on."
"I can't!"
The banging resumed.
"Nate, I can't stand it anymore. What's going on over there?"
"Oh, you mean the noise?"
"Yes. I mean the noise."
"I'm just hanging paintings. I had a few empty spaces to fill up."
"Are they the Sloane paintings?"
"Yeah. They're the only paintings I have here."
"You're calling me for advice while hanging your Sloane paintings?"
"Yes. And you don't seem to be giving me any advice."
"I don't know what to tell you," I said quietly.
"What's wrong, Ellie?" he asked. "You're acting so distant. You usually help me through stuff."
"I don't think I can anymore."
"Why not? We can't work this out if you won't tell me why you're upset."
"I used to feel really close to you," I said. "I used to feel like we were perfect for each other."
"Maybe we will be, when we're older."
"I'm not waiting around while you figure out what you want from all the other girls."
"I thought you understood the way things are between me and Clarissa."
"What about Sloane?"
"Look, that's not something to worry about."
"Why not?"
"Because. It's just not."
"That's not gonna do it, Nate. You have to tell me why."
"Fine, I'll tell you everything. But remember, you asked for it."
"Thanks," I said. "I'll try to remember that."
"The last day of class, during the final crit, Sloane announced to everyone that it was a tough decision to take the risk of posing for these paintings. But she said it was worth it because I'm such a gifted painter. Plus, I always made her feel like the most beautiful girl in the world. I couldn't argue with her and say she was lying. Then I'd lose all my credibility. Fritz clapped and said 'Bravo!' with a big smirk."
Pause.
"Are you listening?"
"Yeah."
"So anyway, my class went out for drinks before the party. We get totally sloshed real fast. I mean record time. Then we all go to the party and Sloane gets this idea. She says that she's gonna draw hearts on all the girls' nipples with her lipstick. A few of them are so drunk, they go for it. Then she drags me to the corner and asks me to draw her hearts for her. You know, it would be impossible to draw them upside down on herself, especially when she was drunk, she said. So I did it. I'll tell you, that girl wanted me bad. Real bad. I had a hard time resisting her."
"Did you?"
"Depends on what you mean by resist," he said in a cocky tone that made me want to punch him.
"I don't think I want to know what you mean by it."
"Well, I'll tell you, we didn't go all the way."
"Great. That makes me feel better." My voice was flat.
"It should. Because I could've," he said. "But anyway, the thing that sucks is she got an A and I got a B."
"Were her paintings good?" At this point I was talking just to make conversation, not to get information.
"No!" he wailed. "They were so primitive and pasty looking!"
"Do you think Fritz knew?"
"He must have."
"How do you think he found out?"
"I think Maura Bustier told him."
"Why?"
"I think she was jealous that I only painted one of her."
I let out a brief laugh. A mocking laugh.
"It's not funny."
"It sort of is."
"I obviously can't talk to you about anything serious."
"I guess not."
After we hung up my fake smile faded and I lay down flat on my stomach. I pounded the mattress with my fists and my feet like a bad swimmer. And I buried my face in my pillow to muffle my scream.
Art in a Vault
Friday, Gregg treated us to a field trip.
Only about half the class showed up on any given day, because of Gregg's nonattendance policy. And it was never the same people. But it seemed like everyone came for the field trip.
Gregg marched us up to the admissions building, where Ryan Brakee was exhibiting again.
"This guy's a genius, as far as I'm concerned," Gregg announced on our way up the hill. That day he was wearing John-Lennon-style frames. He seemed to have a different pair of glasses for every day of the week.
Sam put his heavy hand on my shoulder. "Try not to barf," he whispered.
The door to the admissions gallery was labeled Brakee: A One-Man Show. The room was empty except for a cubed metal vault in the center of the room. There were small windows on two sides of the cube. We had to take turns peeking through the glass. Inside, the walls were white. Ryan was crouching, gaping at us. There was just enough room for him to stand and to walk about five paces in every direction.
Gregg circled the cell and the tattooed students followed him. His stubble made a scratchy sound as he rubbed it thoughtfully with his fingers.
"One month," he said. "How many of us would have the balls to lock ourselves up for a month?"
The groupies shook their heads.
"I wish," mumbled the guy with the blue mohawk.
"I'd like to lock Gregg up for a month," I whispered to Sam. My lips were really close to his ear.
I took another peek.
A guy dressed in black came in and walked briskly over to the vault with a rattling garbage bag. He kneeled and unlocked a trap door at the bottom of one of the walls. Out of the bag he pulled a shining bedpan and a tray of cafeteria food and he slid them through the slot. Then he locked it back up and left.
Ryan pretended not to notice.
Gregg was watching the scene from the window opposite mine.
Ryan picked up a pencil that lay on the ground and crawled an-imalistically toward a wall. There he scrawled SCHOOL SUCKS!
"Here we have it!" Gregg cheered. "True art."
As much as I disagreed with that statement, I do have to say, Ryan had come up with a pretty good trick for getting out of doing homework for a month.
Blast from the Past
Since Gregg didn't believe in homework, I made up my own assignments. Over the weekend I drew a self-portrait, using a mirror in my room. I wanted a critique, but I didn't want to bring it to Gregg. So on Monday, a half-hour before class began, I found Ed.
I had looked up his classroom on the schedule. He was in the Garage again. None of his students were there yet when I walked in with my drawing rolled up.
"Ellie!" he shouted. "What a blast from the past! This is just like old times, when you used to walk in that very door!"
"Hi Ed," I said. "I've missed you."
"Oh, no need to flatter me!" he yelled. "How's your new class?"
"Well," I sighed, walking closer, "it's not what I'd expected when I came here. Rolling on the floor and screaming."
Ed stopped beaming.
"One of those," he said.
"Yeah."
"The administration thinks we need more variety in our faculty," he said. "But to me it seems like variety in quality."
"It's just not for me," I said. "Maybe a few years ago it would've been. But not now."
"Are you doing any work outside of class?"
"That's why I came to see you," I said. "I was wondering if you'd still give me crit
iques even though I'm not your student."
He brightened up again.
"Certainly! Certainly! I'd be delighted!" he shouted. "What've you got here?!"
He pointed at the roll.
"It's a self-portrait." I unrolled it.
"It sure is!" he said. "A lot of emotion too! A brooding expression on that face!"
"Really?"
"Yes," he said. "Self-portraits are very telling."
"I know you don't have time right now to talk," I said. "But I was wondering if you could give me assignments so I don't forget how to draw this semester."
"Sure I will!" he yelled. "What do you want to draw?"
"The figure," I said. "But the problem is I can't afford to hire a model on my own and I don't want to ask my dad for money for this."
"Well, you know, Ellie," Ed said, "the best model anyone can use is free. And I think you've already found her."
"You mean me?"
He nodded vigorously.
"But even for nudes?"
"Only if you're comfortable with that," he said. "You can do it for practice, and just show me ones with clothes. Whatever you want, I'd be happy to help."
"I'll think about it."
"Why don't you bring me a drawing in two weeks and we'll talk!" he shouted. "Here's my number!" He jotted it down on a piece of paper from his shirt pocket. "Call me and we'll set up a time!"
"I will."
"My students will be here soon. I'd better get my act together!"
"Okay," I said. "Thanks for your help."
"Anytime, Ellie! Anytime!"
He waved good-bye with both hands as I left.
Self Reflections
Instead of going to Gregg's class, I went home and pulled the shades.
I got out a big piece of paper, about half my size, and taped it to a board on my easel. Then I sat on the edge of my desk in front of the mirror.
I started to draw myself, just sitting there.
I drew right through lunch. But in the middle of the afternoon I quit. It just wasn't as interesting as Ed's drawings. It wasn't "revealing," like he said self-portraits usually are. Plus, there were so many folds in my sweater and jeans and they kept moving. I couldn't get them right.
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