March 15, 2014

The Electives

          In the final semester of an English major that had seemed nothing but endless afternoon discussions of character, or fate, or motivation, I signed up for two art classes to fill out my hours.
          Literary criticism had refused to tell me how, insisting always on the moral or psychological—upon what. Looking at the syllabus for the painting class, my yearning for technique pounced on the kabbalistic vocabulary of required equipment: cadmium red, Alizarin crimson, Rose madder, Mars yellow, Titanium white, phthalo blue, linseed oil, Dammar varnish, hog hair brushes, gesso. 
          The only familiar thing on the list was Saran wrap, which had to be the inexpensive type that clung to everything.
          The large, dirty studio had the carelessness and potential of an empty stage during rehearsal—windowless, overheated. Bus carts, splattered with paint, idled like robots around the room but the easels were groupedwith something of the ghosts of their previous masters still palpable. 
          The acrid smell of turpentine quickly became a favorite of mine.