Read Online A Drunkard's Path by Clare O'Donohue - Free Book Online
Authors: Clare O'Donohue
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highly eccentric or very broke.
“Is everything okay?” I asked.
She smiled. “Yeah. Great. How are things with you?”
“I don’t know. Okay, I guess.”
“Do you ladies have some questions?” A booming English voice rang out from the front of class.
“No, Oliver. Sorry.” I shrank next to my easel and started covering my paper with charcoal. As I did, I saw out of the corner of my eye that Sandra was moving slowly away from her easel. I watched as she picked up several pieces of vine charcoal from one of the other students and put them in her pocket. It was odd since she already had several pieces of her own, but Sandra was odd, and I added it to the list of things I needed to look into.
We were supposed to draw the fruit that was arranged on a small table in the center of the easels, but I just couldn’t make it work.
As if he knew what I was feeling, from across the room Oliver said, “Stop trying to draw the fruit. Draw the form as values. Lights and darks. See that and not the color.”
I had to laugh. It was something I heard over and over from the quilt club. To them fabric was a palette. A sometimes distracting palette. They held the fabrics at a distance and squinted, separating them into lights, mediums, and darks.
“Colors don’t matter as much as contrast,” Maggie once instructed me. “Light and shadow: that’s what’s important in an interesting quilt.”
And so it was, apparently, with fruit. As soon as I applied this quilting logic to drawing, the process became less intimidating.
“Don’t see the color,” I told myself. “See the value. The banana is light. The green apples are medium. The deep red strawberries sitting in the shadow of the bowl are dark. Simple.”
“See the sensuality in all the objects you draw. The life,” Oliver instructed as the class drew. “They are not lines; they take up space.”
I could see him walking behind each easel, nodding approval or making a suggestion. It was so important to each student that Oliver like what he or she did, and I could see the disappointment in those who didn’t hear “lovely,” his official endorsement.
When he stopped next to me, at Sandra’s easel, I couldn’t help but watch. I was hoping, stupidly, that he would hate what she had done, if only to prove that buddying up to the professor didn’t get you a free pass.
“It’s charming,” he said. “Quite a lovely interpretation. One of the best in the class.” He smiled at her and lingered near her easel. Though Sandra said nothing, she touched his arm in a way that seemed more intimate than a student and teacher should get.
I took the chance to step back from my work and glance over at Sandra’s. I’m not an art critic, but it was hardly charming—certainly not one of the best in the class. Neither was mine, to be honest, but Sandra’s drawing was almost unrecognizable as fruit.
Oliver came to me next. “Lovely. You have mastered value,” he offered. I wanted to be thrilled, but after Sandra’s evaluation, his praise felt flat.
He stopped next at Kennette’s easel. He studied it much longer than the other students, standing back, then moving in close and standing back again.
“I’m not finished,” a nervous Kennette explained.
Oliver shook his head. “You have talent, Kennette,” he said with a quiet certainty but also a hint of surprise. Then he walked to the front of the class.
“He knew my name!” Kennette nearly jumped when class ended and we packed up our supplies.
“He said you have talent, which is a much bigger deal.”
“Everyone in class has talent. Your drawing is way better than mine.”
I looked at my sketch pad, then hers. I was getting better, I thought, but I was still controlled, even timid. Kennette’s work had a confidence about it.
“He’s right,” I admitted. “You’re really good.”
She shrugged. “I’m supposed to open up with your grandmother tomorrow, so I figured I’d head to the shop
“Is everything okay?” I asked.
She smiled. “Yeah. Great. How are things with you?”
“I don’t know. Okay, I guess.”
“Do you ladies have some questions?” A booming English voice rang out from the front of class.
“No, Oliver. Sorry.” I shrank next to my easel and started covering my paper with charcoal. As I did, I saw out of the corner of my eye that Sandra was moving slowly away from her easel. I watched as she picked up several pieces of vine charcoal from one of the other students and put them in her pocket. It was odd since she already had several pieces of her own, but Sandra was odd, and I added it to the list of things I needed to look into.
We were supposed to draw the fruit that was arranged on a small table in the center of the easels, but I just couldn’t make it work.
As if he knew what I was feeling, from across the room Oliver said, “Stop trying to draw the fruit. Draw the form as values. Lights and darks. See that and not the color.”
I had to laugh. It was something I heard over and over from the quilt club. To them fabric was a palette. A sometimes distracting palette. They held the fabrics at a distance and squinted, separating them into lights, mediums, and darks.
“Colors don’t matter as much as contrast,” Maggie once instructed me. “Light and shadow: that’s what’s important in an interesting quilt.”
And so it was, apparently, with fruit. As soon as I applied this quilting logic to drawing, the process became less intimidating.
“Don’t see the color,” I told myself. “See the value. The banana is light. The green apples are medium. The deep red strawberries sitting in the shadow of the bowl are dark. Simple.”
“See the sensuality in all the objects you draw. The life,” Oliver instructed as the class drew. “They are not lines; they take up space.”
I could see him walking behind each easel, nodding approval or making a suggestion. It was so important to each student that Oliver like what he or she did, and I could see the disappointment in those who didn’t hear “lovely,” his official endorsement.
When he stopped next to me, at Sandra’s easel, I couldn’t help but watch. I was hoping, stupidly, that he would hate what she had done, if only to prove that buddying up to the professor didn’t get you a free pass.
“It’s charming,” he said. “Quite a lovely interpretation. One of the best in the class.” He smiled at her and lingered near her easel. Though Sandra said nothing, she touched his arm in a way that seemed more intimate than a student and teacher should get.
I took the chance to step back from my work and glance over at Sandra’s. I’m not an art critic, but it was hardly charming—certainly not one of the best in the class. Neither was mine, to be honest, but Sandra’s drawing was almost unrecognizable as fruit.
Oliver came to me next. “Lovely. You have mastered value,” he offered. I wanted to be thrilled, but after Sandra’s evaluation, his praise felt flat.
He stopped next at Kennette’s easel. He studied it much longer than the other students, standing back, then moving in close and standing back again.
“I’m not finished,” a nervous Kennette explained.
Oliver shook his head. “You have talent, Kennette,” he said with a quiet certainty but also a hint of surprise. Then he walked to the front of the class.
“He knew my name!” Kennette nearly jumped when class ended and we packed up our supplies.
“He said you have talent, which is a much bigger deal.”
“Everyone in class has talent. Your drawing is way better than mine.”
I looked at my sketch pad, then hers. I was getting better, I thought, but I was still controlled, even timid. Kennette’s work had a confidence about it.
“He’s right,” I admitted. “You’re really good.”
She shrugged. “I’m supposed to open up with your grandmother tomorrow, so I figured I’d head to the shop
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