Read Online Life Drawing for Beginners by Roisin Meaney - Free Book Online
Authors: Roisin Meaney
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they must wish for an ending, even the worst of all possible endings—for wouldn’t that be better than this terrible limbo into which they’d all been plunged?
But whatever they felt for and about James, whatever dark places their thoughts about him might bring them, they were still Charlie’s grandparents, and she needed them in her life. They needed each other, with Charlie their only remaining link to Frances. So James had agreed to the monthly Sunday lunches, even though the visit now involved a round trip of over two hundred miles. But the first one had been successful, if only from Charlie’s point of view.
His parents-in-law had both been perfectly polite, of course, and Maud had pressed more roast lamb on James, and a second helping of blackberry and apple crumble afterwards. But the strain had been there, he’d felt it in the lightning glances that passed occasionally between the older couple, in the small pauses between remarks, in the forced element of their laughter.
Happily, Charlie had been oblivious to any tension. Throughout the visit she’d chattered to her grandparents, answering their questions about school and friends and the new house. She’d fallen asleep in the car on the way home, and James had watched his daughter’s face in the rearview mirror and seen, with a familiar pang, her mother’s high cheekbones and pointed chin.
Now, driving the mile or so to Carrickbawn Senior College, James felt a growing sense of dread. He hadn’t a clue how to draw, and he had no wish to learn. For the second time he considered absconding from the whole business, driving to a pub and sitting with a drink and the evening paper for two hours. What would anyone care, who would even know except himself and the other people in the class, perfect strangers whose opinion didn’t matter a damn to him?
But he’d signed up and paid, and he’d bought the pencils and charcoal, the sketch pad and the putty rubber. He may as well give it a go, at least once. If it was as bad as he was anticipating, he need never return.
He turned into the college car park at twenty-seven minutes past seven precisely.
—————
Zarek was looking forward to his first life drawing class in Ireland. He wondered if there would be any difference between these classes and the ones he’d taken at home. He supposed a nude body was a nude body, whatever the nationality—although he had yet to see what a naked Irish body looked like—and the rules for drawing the human form must surely be the same the world over. Still, it would be interesting to see how this teacher, whose name he’d forgotten, would approach the subject. He hoped his English wouldn’t let him down.
Although he couldn’t remember her name, the teacher had made a good first impression on him. Her flowing, colorful clothes, her generous, womanly build told him that here was a person who, like himself, enjoyed the sensual, the visual, the beautiful. Of course he had to acknowledge that she was no great beauty herself, at least not in the popular, physical sense.
Attractive certainly though, with her fresh, unlined skin, and brown hair whose curls gleamed with rich, red lights—did he imagine it, or did all Irish people have some red in their hair?—and eyes the color of caramel.
Her personality was appealing too. Her friendliness was tempered with a touching hesitancy; her instincts, Zarek felt sure, tending towards helpfulness. She would make a good teacher, she would guide rather than steer. Her criticism would be kindly meant, and constructive.
He took his jacket from its hook and lifted his satchel onto his shoulder as the apartment door opened and one of his flat mates appeared.
“I have a horrible day,” Pilar said, dropping her bag to the floor and yanking off her hat. “I kill that woman if I work for her one more week.” She unzipped her jacket, glaring at Zarek. “You know what she say me today? She say I eat too much biscuits. Plenty money,
But whatever they felt for and about James, whatever dark places their thoughts about him might bring them, they were still Charlie’s grandparents, and she needed them in her life. They needed each other, with Charlie their only remaining link to Frances. So James had agreed to the monthly Sunday lunches, even though the visit now involved a round trip of over two hundred miles. But the first one had been successful, if only from Charlie’s point of view.
His parents-in-law had both been perfectly polite, of course, and Maud had pressed more roast lamb on James, and a second helping of blackberry and apple crumble afterwards. But the strain had been there, he’d felt it in the lightning glances that passed occasionally between the older couple, in the small pauses between remarks, in the forced element of their laughter.
Happily, Charlie had been oblivious to any tension. Throughout the visit she’d chattered to her grandparents, answering their questions about school and friends and the new house. She’d fallen asleep in the car on the way home, and James had watched his daughter’s face in the rearview mirror and seen, with a familiar pang, her mother’s high cheekbones and pointed chin.
Now, driving the mile or so to Carrickbawn Senior College, James felt a growing sense of dread. He hadn’t a clue how to draw, and he had no wish to learn. For the second time he considered absconding from the whole business, driving to a pub and sitting with a drink and the evening paper for two hours. What would anyone care, who would even know except himself and the other people in the class, perfect strangers whose opinion didn’t matter a damn to him?
But he’d signed up and paid, and he’d bought the pencils and charcoal, the sketch pad and the putty rubber. He may as well give it a go, at least once. If it was as bad as he was anticipating, he need never return.
He turned into the college car park at twenty-seven minutes past seven precisely.
—————
Zarek was looking forward to his first life drawing class in Ireland. He wondered if there would be any difference between these classes and the ones he’d taken at home. He supposed a nude body was a nude body, whatever the nationality—although he had yet to see what a naked Irish body looked like—and the rules for drawing the human form must surely be the same the world over. Still, it would be interesting to see how this teacher, whose name he’d forgotten, would approach the subject. He hoped his English wouldn’t let him down.
Although he couldn’t remember her name, the teacher had made a good first impression on him. Her flowing, colorful clothes, her generous, womanly build told him that here was a person who, like himself, enjoyed the sensual, the visual, the beautiful. Of course he had to acknowledge that she was no great beauty herself, at least not in the popular, physical sense.
Attractive certainly though, with her fresh, unlined skin, and brown hair whose curls gleamed with rich, red lights—did he imagine it, or did all Irish people have some red in their hair?—and eyes the color of caramel.
Her personality was appealing too. Her friendliness was tempered with a touching hesitancy; her instincts, Zarek felt sure, tending towards helpfulness. She would make a good teacher, she would guide rather than steer. Her criticism would be kindly meant, and constructive.
He took his jacket from its hook and lifted his satchel onto his shoulder as the apartment door opened and one of his flat mates appeared.
“I have a horrible day,” Pilar said, dropping her bag to the floor and yanking off her hat. “I kill that woman if I work for her one more week.” She unzipped her jacket, glaring at Zarek. “You know what she say me today? She say I eat too much biscuits. Plenty money,
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