There is nothing as cold as an art studio in the middle of winter! All of those beautiful lines that attract you
to the space in the warm glow of the sun;
high ceilings, large windows that allow in the natural light, silent open
spaces, seem to unsympathetically chill you to the bone in the dead of
winter. But nothing would keep me from my Wednesday night art class. Nothing!
Not even my inability to draw.
Regardless, here I am … dressed in 6 unsexy layers of warm clothing, enduring
the freeze – not even the cold anymore – to allow this flame to be nurtured and
to see … him. Mason Steward - my art
lecturer and the man that I have secretly loved for so long.
I’ve been told everyone can be
taught to paint, I am challenging that theory!
I started art classes 6 years ago as my initial escape from my terminal
marriage. One evening a week, that I
could escape for 2 or 3 hours and immerse myself in something that I’m terrible
at, an exhilarating uncomfortable space – I never felt more alive!
I can’t draw to save my life or
anyone else’s for that matter, but I love colour and acrylics and the richness
of the textures and I’m observant and even though I know my talents lie elsewhere,
I felt inexplicably directed to this class… even before I met the lecturer. Adult education evening-classes bring together
the most wonderful assortment of eccentric people and personalities, people you
would never normally meet in like-minded places. So for the first time in years, I was excited
about starting art classes. I had invested
in the required utensils and stepped into my first class.
I was early, so me, but I wanted to immerse myself in every aspect of this first
little step to my freedom (and maybe I
might have wanted to get out of the house before Steve got home from work). It was early evening at the start of summer
and the large open space was bright with white-wash and large windows. The room was set-up for eight easels, with a
small table next to each easel, with a larger tea & coffee table set-up
against the wall. Three students had
already arrived and they were speaking to a tall, dark-haired man, who had his
back to the door. Tentatively taking a
deep breath, I entered the room and Mason turned around giving me his full
attention. I stopped abruptly and
realized I wasn’t breathing. Moments
passed and eventually my brain kicked in.
Breathe! Mason walked towards the
door and extended his hand to take my art-bag.
As he took the bag from me, we unintentionally touched, which sent sensation
recoiling through both my hand and Mason’s arm.
We felt it. He had my
attention! “Come inside” he said slowly,
I was absentmindedly rubbing my hand where the sensation entered my body. This man was attractive - to say the least - but
there was more, he was mid to late 30’s, dressed semi-casually in chinos and a
golf-shirt that covered the expanse of his broad chest and shoulders. He wore a Tag watch, Italian tan shoes and he
was about 5 or so inches taller than me.
He had warm green eyes and hair that used to be jet black in his youth
but now there were one or two grey hairs at his temples that showed, together
with the slightest lines at the corners of his eyes, that life had had her way
with him.
That was 6 years ago. And over those 6 years we had been restrained,
controlled, polite, particularly Mason at my attempts at art, we had chatted
and drunk a few cups of coffee after class, learned about each other, we had
celebrated 6 birthday’s and 6 Christmas’ together – with the rest of the class
and a few more other memorable events with the other occupants of the class, but
mainly we had worked really hard at skirting the attraction that was palpable
when Mason and I were together. Mason
was married to a powerful business woman who kept him in Italian shoes and fed
his art habits but left him regularly in pursuit of the next deal. I divorced 4 years ago and for a moment I
entertained the pity party … not any more.
This evening, its cold and we are
working with watercolours which I loathe, because they are all drawing and
technique – both of which I am terrible at - but compared to that first year …
I am getting better… barely. Because my
art project isn’t speaking to me, my eyes watch Mason with the other students,
kind, tutorial, generous and gorgeous, as he talks perspective and
proportion. I smile as I realize his
words are lost on me and yet I’m still here, in the cold with not even a kiss
once in those 6 years. But I have heard
and remember every word he has ever said to me, and I could listen to him read
the phone book, as I listen to the sadness in his words that tugs at my
chest. He is smiling now at Agnes our 83
year old gusto-granny who finally got to art class when she turned 80. Mason is kind with her and again the ache in
my chest tugs. He moves onto Gerald,
Gerald is our accountant that is indulging his secret passion and they get into
a beautiful discussion around technique and brush strokes. I better get back to my landscape. Trying to encourage my landscape to appear horizontally
instead of vertically I am willing the colour onto the paper.
I can feel him before I hear him.
Silently Mason stands behind me observing me. I can’t turn round. The pull between us is physical, as Mason
stands just a little too close to me to observe the landscape. I can hear his heart beating and feel his
breath on my neck playing with a loose strand of my blonde hair that tumbles
down my neck. I can’t move. I’m just enjoying this moment and he smells so good, I can smell his fragrant
scent, something strong, spicy and manly.
Just for a moment I thought I could feel his hand on my hip as he gently
moves me over and I move to the left under the insinuation of his hand.
“Beautiful as always Christy”
Mason says quietly, just to me – I’m not sure anyone in the class can hear him.
I try to control an uncontrollable
need to laugh, realizing he must be inebriated.
I turn to look up at him with disbelief in my eyes, realizing he isn’t
looking at the landscape. I catch my
breath and blush.
Enjoying the moment, a wicked
smile creeps across my face as I cock my head to one side and coyly ask “do you
think I am getting better?” looking up at Mason with big eyes.
Now unable to stop, he smiles
broadly and flashes me that beautiful smile, that I don’t see often enough “without
a doubt, money well spent all of these years Christy” he says turning his head
to try to find my landscapes best side.
“You lie badly Mason” I say
laughing
“I wasn’t lying about the beauty”
he suddenly says seriously.
I think my heart has stopped … and
I don’t know what to say to that, so I turn to the painting to plan my next
stroke.
Again I can feel his breath on my
neck and for a moment I am lost in that sensation, feeling the heat coming off
his long hard body, too close to me.
“Can you feel it” he whispers
into my ear “the power, the pull?”
“Yes” I say mesmerized and my cheeks
flush
Moving right up against me,
pressing his hard body against me so he can lean over me to take my right hand
holding the brush into his right hand to guide a slow and purposeful stroke that
changes the scene on paper and in a moment and a sentence all of the landscape
is changed as he whispers “I am not sure how much longer I can deny this”.
You can call
me Eva! You don’t know me … But you want
to …
Fiction, Flirtation and Fantasy … by C. Kelly
Beautiful work.
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