Art Class is not so easy

Damien’s naked body held such promise. Probably in his mid twenties, he looked firm and taut. He reclined on the floor propped up on his elbow, a small bicep bulging, one exquisite leg outstretched along the ground, the other knee bent casually. Leonardo di Caprio hair flopped over his eyes. He was looking blankly past me, his eyes accepting only the wall behind. He was indifferent. Limp.

I glanced around the room. The girl in front was sketching furiously. Possessed. Intense. Her thick rimmed glasses had travelled down her nose as the charcoal scratched at her pad. I gazed back to Damien and tried to drink him in. His skin was the colour of a creamy latte.  He was a perfect ornament. A perfect form. I could not blame the model this time.

I wanted my eyes to converse with my hands, to record what I saw with the charcoal. I wanted to generate art but my  charcoal was lifeless. As I observed him, I spun the charcoal absently on my fore finger and it fell to the ground, breaking in two. I felt the room shift. The artists remained focussed, still sketching, but the stillness of their attention had been coarsely interrupted, and their bodies shifted slightly in their seats. They wriggled and readjusted their weight; some looked briefly towards the noise; they all went back to their craft. Damien was staring at me now. Still blank and indifferent. Only his eyes had moved.

At that moment, our instructor rang a small bell. The exercise was over. Damien came to life and sat up smiling at the group. He stretched and pulled on a robe. The ruffle of paper as people set down their pads was a torment. I had drawn nothing again.