Read Online Love Is a Four Letter Word by Claire Calman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Claire Calman
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now that she was there. The noticeboardâs list of classes for that evening offered Be Your Own Accountant (who could resist?); Italian/Intermediate (possibly interesting, but she hadnât yet progressed much past grazie and spaghetti al pesto and Alessandra would be bound to go on about it and correct her pronunciation); Polish Folk-Dancing (checked watch: class nearly finished); and Life Drawing/All levels (starting in 30 seconds). Probably not many men, but she would enjoy herself anyway, and she neednât tell anyone; she hadnât sat in an actual class since sheâd been at art school but she had loved that complete absorption in the task. When she drew, she was entirely focused, her concentration lasered into looking, really seeing, and interpreting her three-dimensional vision into two dimensions. She hurtled along the corridors, trying to find the right room. Why did these places always have peculiar names or numbers for rooms? The one she wanted was called WG4, but there didnât seem to be a WG1, 2 or 3.
She finally tracked it down in an annexe and leapt into the room in the middle of the tutorâs introductory blurb. He said they must all call him JT and ask as many questions as they liked. Despite the fact that the tutor insisted on calling himself by initials, he seemed to be OK. âErm â¦?â Bella found herself saying to avoid using JT, which sounded like a cleaning product or a megalomaniac boss who thought he was beingchummy with his staff. How could anyone say âCall me JTâ and not sound embarrassed? âErmâ suggested they all start with a quick fifteen-minute study before moving on to a longer pose.
The model disrobed and moved into a standing position, leaning forward with his leg on a chair. There, she was getting to be with a naked man after all, and without any of that awful awkwardness. No having to laugh at laborious puns, no discovering he thought foreplay meant ten minutes of energetic rummaging in her pubes, no cystitis, no having to introduce him to her mother. Marvellous.
Bella rootled in her bag for the stubby end of a pencil. How odd it was, she thought; as soon as you really started to look, to draw, you no longer saw a naked person. The model became simply a skeleton overlaid with flesh, a collection of volumes and planes, areas of light and shadow. If only she could reduce people to this simplicity the rest of the time: the angle of a leg, the curve of a shoulder, the weight of hand on hip. It wasnât that drawing was easy â far from it; how would she manage to convey that foreshortened foot, for a start, without it appearing deformed? And do his dangly bits without making them look like chicken giblets? But if you really looked, you did start to learn, you did get better at making sense of it. You could make some personal interpretation that was akin to the reality. Yet you could live on the planet for a thousand years â well, thirty-three, but she bet it didnât get any easier â and still find other people, and yourself, a total mystery. She dismissed the thought as fruitless, focused her attention on the model and lost herself in drawing.
When it was time for the modelâs break, Bella noticed the room around her, the other people in the class, as if she had awoken from a trance, forms coming intofocus. Blinked as if the lights had been switched on suddenly. Found it hard to speak for a moment or two, her head still filled with pictures, shapes. Saw the words as symbols in her mind first before she could translate them into sounds, the letters only abstract lines and curves for a second as if they were pictures rather than meaningful language. Drawing was rather like being in love, she decided, the completeness of it, no need for anything else.
She was aware of a presence at her left shoulder. JT, checking her progress. He nodded, approving.
âI take it youâre not exactly a beginner,â he
She finally tracked it down in an annexe and leapt into the room in the middle of the tutorâs introductory blurb. He said they must all call him JT and ask as many questions as they liked. Despite the fact that the tutor insisted on calling himself by initials, he seemed to be OK. âErm â¦?â Bella found herself saying to avoid using JT, which sounded like a cleaning product or a megalomaniac boss who thought he was beingchummy with his staff. How could anyone say âCall me JTâ and not sound embarrassed? âErmâ suggested they all start with a quick fifteen-minute study before moving on to a longer pose.
The model disrobed and moved into a standing position, leaning forward with his leg on a chair. There, she was getting to be with a naked man after all, and without any of that awful awkwardness. No having to laugh at laborious puns, no discovering he thought foreplay meant ten minutes of energetic rummaging in her pubes, no cystitis, no having to introduce him to her mother. Marvellous.
Bella rootled in her bag for the stubby end of a pencil. How odd it was, she thought; as soon as you really started to look, to draw, you no longer saw a naked person. The model became simply a skeleton overlaid with flesh, a collection of volumes and planes, areas of light and shadow. If only she could reduce people to this simplicity the rest of the time: the angle of a leg, the curve of a shoulder, the weight of hand on hip. It wasnât that drawing was easy â far from it; how would she manage to convey that foreshortened foot, for a start, without it appearing deformed? And do his dangly bits without making them look like chicken giblets? But if you really looked, you did start to learn, you did get better at making sense of it. You could make some personal interpretation that was akin to the reality. Yet you could live on the planet for a thousand years â well, thirty-three, but she bet it didnât get any easier â and still find other people, and yourself, a total mystery. She dismissed the thought as fruitless, focused her attention on the model and lost herself in drawing.
When it was time for the modelâs break, Bella noticed the room around her, the other people in the class, as if she had awoken from a trance, forms coming intofocus. Blinked as if the lights had been switched on suddenly. Found it hard to speak for a moment or two, her head still filled with pictures, shapes. Saw the words as symbols in her mind first before she could translate them into sounds, the letters only abstract lines and curves for a second as if they were pictures rather than meaningful language. Drawing was rather like being in love, she decided, the completeness of it, no need for anything else.
She was aware of a presence at her left shoulder. JT, checking her progress. He nodded, approving.
âI take it youâre not exactly a beginner,â he
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