This time Justin had only drawn the outline of her head and shoulders, suggesting the shape of her hair with a few uncertain strokes, when once again Locke walked over and made her stand up. He suddenly turned to the corner of the studio and appeared to look straight at Justin. He froze.
And then Locke turned and walked back towards his easel; he was evidently unable to see Justin through the glazed panel; it was dark where the student was sitting, but Locke’s studio was ablaze with light. It had given Justin a fright, but he made sure that he did not risk attracting any attention by moving.
Locke again reconsidered the pose he wanted the woman to be sitting in. He once more walked forward, and he almost pushed her into the corner close to where Justin was watching. He made her sit on the edge of the desk, and while he was preoccupied Justin’s nerve deserted him and he drew back. Leaving his satchel, but taking his coat he slowly and quietly moved away. As he padded off across the studio to the door to the stairs he looked back and could see Locke through the door of his studio, now back at his easel, and working furiously
The following morning Justin woke late, exhausted after three long days in the art school, but especially from his last, late night there. In his room in the house that he rented with two friends he lay on his bed looking up at the bright ceiling, knowing that it had to be mid-morning, but purposely not looking at the alarm clock on the floor by his bed.
He had slept soundly, although he did not feel that he had benefited from this. Because he had fallen asleep almost immediately he had returned home he had spent little time thinking over the events in Locke’s studio. It was only now, with the light of the summer morning through his curtains slowly clearing his head that he wondered why it was that Locke was drawing the woman in the studio so late at night? A number of possibilities played out in his imagination, including a scenario in which she was his mistress. She certainly was not one of the usual art school models, and the possibility of there being some mundane, prosaic explanation of what had happened seemed unlikely. They had been working too late at night for that to be a possibility.
Eventually Justin got up and found himself some breakfast. He washed, pulled on his clothes, and walked back into town. Other students were leaving the art school for lunch when he arrived, but their greetings were cheery enough and nobody seemed surprised at his lateness. Justin often arrived late, having worked at home in the mornings, and it had only been in the last couple of days that he had been the first to arrive in the studio. Up on the first floor he walked to his own easel, but peered into Locke’s studio to see that there was nobody inside. In the communal studio, however, it was busy. Those who had finished their work in preparation for the afternoon Criticism may have been going off for lunch, but those who were left behind were busily finishing pictures and rehearsing their arguments in defence of the artwork they would soon have to exhibit.
Justin took his three studies from out of the plan chest that he now shared with Judith. Looking them over he was rather pleased with his efforts, and decided that last-minute titivation would add nothing positive to them. It was only then that he opened his drawing pad, left on the desk from the previous evening. He flicked through the various drawings until he found the sketch that he had made of the woman.
Life drawing was one of his weakest disciplines, but he was pleased with the results. Late at night, tired, without much thought and certainly no premeditation, he had produced a lovely drawing. He did not have much time to admire his work, however, as Jennings and Fredricks appeared from behind Judith’s easel and insisted on seeing the studies for the still-life Justin would be pinning up on the wall that afternoon. They were looking for work that they could pre-judge, and dismissed his as being too good, ‘for once’. Fredricks was annoyed because two of the tutors’ favourites had come up with some outstanding sketches. Another, however, had obviously not put in any work at all, and his single study was decidedly poor, apparently. They were confident that although the student deserved to be lambasted by tutors and fellow-students alike, he would talk his way out of any suggestions that he had not worked as hard as everybody else.
‘You know what they’re like,’ Jennings moaned. ‘They’ll search for the positives in it, and congratulate him on not needing to put in all the work that us lesser mortals have to.’
The three of them sauntered between easels and offered support to everyone, genuinely in many cases, hypocritically in others. The time for the Criticism was heralded by the scraping of furniture on the wooden floor as a space was cleared in front of the long blank wall reserved for the exercise. Chairs and stools were brought over as some of the more eager students took their places at the front. Justin went back to his easel for his pictures and turned back to the room as Locke appeared, apparently for the first time that day.
‘I hope you have at least three preparatory drawings for us,’ he warned as he went into his own studio, shrugging off his coat.
There was never any arrangement as to the order in which the students showed their work. With the old belligerence rising up within him Justin walked out in front of everybody and declared, with uncharacteristic forcefulness, that unless anybody else wanted to go first, he would put up his work and get the ordeal over and done with. Then, with his back to them, he pinned up his pictures. He could hear them commenting, but it all sounded relatively non-committal for once. When he turned to face them Locke was sitting down next to Archer and two other tutors were joining the crowd.
‘Explain yourself then,’ Locke insisted.
‘Well,’ he said, trying to control his nerves, ‘this was my first attempt, and I was pretty pleased with the result.’ He decided that he would disarm his critics by honesty. ‘Normally I would’ve decided to rest on my laurels, but it was suggested that I try and improve upon it. I thought the composition good, the massing of shapes interesting, and the light made it quite clear in what relation the various parts stood alongside the others.’
He moved over to the second picture. ‘This attempt,’ he admitted, ‘wasn’t so good, but I did manage to tighten a few things up that I had rather ignored in the previous attempt. The third picture, it seems to me, improves enough upon the first to have been a worthwhile exercise. I do realise that I’ve rather neglected the background, but my plan is to do a little extra work this weekend, in preparation for starting on the final picture next week.’
‘Well…’ Locke considered, as though he was about to make an immediate comment, but then he stopped and turned his head to one side, squinting at the first picture. He stood up slowly and walked over to the second drawing, which he only looked at briefly. He then moved on to the third one.
‘Well…’ he repeated. ‘I’m glad that you’ve finally seen fit to listen to your tutors.’ He looked directly at Justin. ‘Frankly, your second composition is an abject failure. But the third is more than adequate. Work on that background over the weekend, and on Monday we will let you all know in what medium you are expected to complete your final picture.’
Locke returned to his seat and Justin took his cue to remove his drawings.
‘Well?’ bellowed Locke. ‘Who’s next?’
After the Criticism Justin joined the others in the bar where it was generally felt that he had done well. When a number of them had drifted off he decided to return to the studio to retrieve his belongings before going home. The Night Porter had just come on shift and greeted him in a friendly enough fashion. He told him that if he was staying in the studio then he would be on his own that evening. Justin thanked him and climbed the narrow stairs, not thinking of anything particularly. He was not surprised to see lights still burning on his floor, although there was no reason for the students to be in the building; no new work would be set for them until Monday. Justin walked in and saw that the most brightly illuminated space was Mr Locke’s room.
Justin made his way up to it with some caution, and past the door. He desperately hoped that he hadn’t been seen by the occupants; Locke
and his model. The man appeared to be just starting out on a painting and had posed her in the corner where Justin had seen her the previous evening, just before he had left. The student did not turn on his own lights. He found his satchel and took out his pad and pencil. He placed his stool where it had been the night before and turned to look into the studio.
She was sitting right by the window, in profile. She did not seem to have seen him. Her eyes did not once look in his direction. He was convinced that she was unaware of his presence. In the borrowed light he sketched her profile—the shape of her face from brow to throat in one long sinuous line. He was bewitched, and realised that he was also inspired. The curve of her eyebrow worked perfectly at a stroke. He caught the shape of her lips exactly. And her eyes, large and heavy-lidded, filled him with joy as he reproduced them perfectly on the paper. He admired his handiwork and decided that it could not be improved upon. He turned over to another blank sheet and looked up.
She was now looking directly at him. She smiled for a second and he froze. Now that his eyes were accustomed to the dim light he knew that she must be able to see him. In the smallest of movements her eyes flicked down to his pad and back up to him. She smiled, slightly. It was a sign for him to continue, and he did so, hesitantly, knowing that his embarrassment, his rudeness in fact, would be far more profound if he were to stop now.
Justin drew a large oval and divided it in to two, just as he always did when drawing portraits. He drew in the line of her hair, which was up around her ears now, and sketched in the eyebrows, nose, eyes and mouth. Her cheekbones were wonderful, he considered, and he smiled to himself. Then he blushed. Could she see him blush in that light?
He considered her face once more and was amazed at its perfect symmetry. No face is ever that perfect, he thought, but hers made him take an unnecessary deep breath and he forgot what he was doing for a moment. He had to compose himself. But the drawing would not now work for him.
He heard Locke talking to his model and she replied, smiling slightly, but whether she smiled at Locke or him he did not know. He looked around his space and decided that he could not move his easel for fear of making a noise. He leant over and took up a board that Judith used and saw that she had already taped a blank piece of paper to it. Well, he could replace that for her he decided, and taking a piece of charcoal he turned back to the woman.
She was still in the same position. As soon as he looked up to start drawing again she smiled ever so slightly, and ever so fleetingly.
Justin worked fast. He would normally take his time, but he had no idea how long Locke would allow her to hold the pose. The charcoal in his fingers travelled over the paper at a rate that seemed almost impossible to him, although he had seen others work that fast. He made mistakes, but he smudged them away and drew over them with bolder, thicker marks. Twice he drew her eyes, only to decide that they were wrong, and the surface of the paper was dangerously damaged by the time that he had removed the errors and drawn over them in an intense black. Her cheekbones were too accentuated, he decided, but they would have to remain. He was adding the shadows under her neck when she suddenly turned away and was gone. There were voices, and he expected her to return at any moment, but the minutes passed and she did not. Finally he heard the door open, and unable to breathe for fear that she would have revealed him to Locke, he waited to hear the door close once more, and voices and footsteps receded down the studio towards the stairs. When he was certain they were gone he put down the board and allowed himself to relax.
When he was calm he carefully removed the drawing from Judith’s board and put it away in his drawer. He replaced her paper, put back the board, and then considered going home. It was not quite twelve, and he looked out into the dark night in the hope of seeing the tutor and the model walking away along Infirmary Road. But they had long since disappeared.
Although Justin would normally have spent the whole of the Saturday morning in bed, especially after another late night, he awoke early and was desperate to return to the studio to take a look at his drawings of the night before. By the time he got there, however, Jennings was standing at Judith’s easel discussing with her the Criticism of the day before. They were the only two other students in the building and they were in precisely the position to see the charcoal drawing if he tried to take it out to look at it. He was able to take a surreptitious look at it, however, and was pleased with it. He took his pad with him down to the library, though, and was able to look at those sketches without fear of discovery.
As he stared at them an unaccustomed confidence crept over him. He could draw, and pretty well too, when he was inspired. And whoever Locke’s model was, she inspired him. It was certainly very strange that she modelled for him so late at night, and there was obviously something clandestine about their relationship, but this had been to Justin’s benefit. If she had come into the studio at any other time he certainly wouldn’t have been able to draw her. And she had conspired with him too. Although they had not spoken there was now a relationship established between them. A very odd and tenuous relationship! He shook his head and closed the pad. The librarian had seen him and gave him an amused glance over the top of his glasses:
‘We’re closing at lunchtime today,’ he warned Justin, who decided that he might as well attempt a little research while he was there. He had promised that he would put some thought into the background of his painting; it would not do to make it too neutral because that would risk the wrath of Locke, who expected to see some development. On the other hand, it would not have to draw the eye away from the objects in the foreground. He found a few obscure examples of still life pictures in a book of American modern art and made some photocopies.
Back in the studio he was invited by Jennings to go to the pub for lunch, and he agreed. They met some other students and he stayed with the merry party until mid-afternoon, when he killed time going into town and doing a little shopping. He had decided that he would be staying late in the studio again, but this time he was disappointed. He was the only one there at six that evening and he stayed until one o’clock, but Locke and the woman did not turn up. While he was there he lounged on the sofa, out of sight of Locke’s studio, and using Judith’s board once more he worked on ideas for the background to his picture. Making himself stay there in the studio, waiting, he tried out a number of possibilities, and by the time he left he was again feeling positive about his work.
Justin stayed away from the studio during the day on Sunday, but returned that evening and once again saw nobody at all. He heard a rowdy bunch of students walking past, obviously thrown out of the King’s Head around the corner, and they appeared to be threatening to come inside, but the Porter would never have let them enter the building in their state. Justin walked back home that night feeling more dejected than he had since Archer told him that he was to move his new position in the studio. On the long walk home it was as though all of the triumphs of the previous few days had never happened. Forgetting his excitement at drawing Locke’s model, all he could dwell on now was the fact that he would have to start work again on the still-life the next day, and under the eye of Locke.
Monday dawned bright and warm, as though summer was really getting into her stride, and despite his dark mood, Justin felt the infectious anticipation in the studio when he arrived. The presentation for the next project would be made at eleven, and apparently neither Locke nor Archer would be there to make it. Throughout the year they had both been adept at adding extra, unnecessary requirements to the work of their students, and everyone hoped that they would simply be asked to produce the painting they had been preparing for in some reasonable medium. It was a badly kept secret that they would be working in oils, but the official announcement had yet to be made.
Turbot arrived; a third year tutor they did not normally see in their own studio. He was all smiles, and asked for quiet.
‘Now, you’ve being preparing for a still-life. You will be given two weeks to complete it in oils.
’
There were a few whispers from among the students.
‘Those of you with surnames beginning A-G are to go down to the workshop and pick up the materials for your pictures between now and three o’clock. The rest of you can go along after three. Unlike last term your canvases will not have been prepared for you. The stretchers have been made up, but you’ll need to put the canvases over them yourselves. You can bring the staple guns up here, but make sure they are returned. There’ll be a pot of rabbit-glue size in the studio, but you’ll have to buy the primer yourself.’
The students were starting to discuss this among themselves, but Turbot quietened them down.
‘You will need to pay for the materials when you pick them up from the workshop. And one last thing. You’ve been presenting your preliminary designs on the paper we supplied for you. The canvases we expect at the end of the fortnight are twice as large…’
The noise level from the students rose with a certain amount of indignation at this.
‘You must be very careful getting them up from the workshop,’ Turbot had to raise his voice. ‘We don’t care if you damage your stretchers, but do be careful with the paintwork in the stairwell!’
The students were not pleased. Although they had been prepared for working in oils, they had not been warned about the scale they would have to work at. There were complaints about the amount of paint they would have to buy. Of course, they would all simply scale up their earlier studies, but Justin suddenly pictured the vast expanse of canvas he would have to cover.
Literary Remains Page 4
