“This is completely the most bogus, unbelievably stupid art class I’ve ever taken. And I’ve been through elementary school, mind you, where we made clay pots out of Play Dough, for chrissake. But I guess some people just enjoy this shit, don’t they?”
Maria’s expression softened. Her mouth smiled, though her eyes were still glazed over with pronounced boredom and bother. Sarah self-consciously leaned closer to her painting, her hard work carefully incorporated in miniscule gradations and textures. Still, she peered through thick-framed glasses at Maria, her bony fingers quivering, clutching a brush.
“Oh, Sarah, you’re so good at this! That looks wonderful!” False enthusiasm drove Maria’s voice high.
“Th-thanks, Maria. Yours looks good too.” Nope. It sucked, actually. Maria’s still life really sucked. All of the apples appeared to have endured some sort of abuse, the cherries might as well have been bullets, and the bowl was practically hexagonal.
“Oh, shut up!” Maria teased with a swipe of a paint-free hand. She unpacked her winning smile for the frizzy-haired freshman. “This is probably so easy for you. Like, you’ll be done in three minutes. Can you fix mine for me? I really need to text Ross, I’m sure it wouldn’t be an issue at all…”
“I…I…” Sarah tried to disappear into the easel, her stick-like limbs fusing into the wooden legs. “Okay.”
Sarah spent the remainder of the period yelling very loudly in her head as she doctored demented apples, ugly cherries, and the faulty bowl, giving the whole enchilada a facelift with careful brushstrokes. Maria left class just as upset. Sleeping, with her face pressed into her backpack, smudged her eyeliner quite awfully.
A week later, the painting class was instructed in impressionism.
The open window let spring flow into the room. Usual art classroom mustiness of charcoal and acrylic paint was overshadowed by cut grass and an otherworldly sweet perfume from the flowering trees. Sarah took the easel as far away from Maria as possible. She immersed herself in light and shadow and detail and form.
“Hey Sarah, can you do me a favor? I have some history homework I need to finish, I legit might fail this class. And I really can’t do that, can I?”
No, she can’t, she’s dealing with college and her boyfriend and being fashionable and popular and whatever. No time for art class, I guess. Art class is all I have, anyway. Four more years of high school, no one really talks to me, I dress like a garage sale with knobby knees. Maria flashed a toothpaste commercial smile.
“Just let me know if it’s not okay, like, I really need to do history work.” Her blank canvass fell next to Sarah’s on the easel.
“Um.” Sarah’s voice was as gummy and useless as paint tubes left uncapped.
“Thanks, you’re the best!” Maria gushed over her shoulder as she scurried back to her desk.
Sarah finished the paintings, and almost yelped when she realized the prettier piece was on the canvass marked Maria Reynolds. She wanted to throw it out the window, but was afraid of making a bad impression so early in her high school art career.
The year continued, with twice as much painting for scheming, spiteful Sarah and a whole bunch of sleeping, texting, and study hall for Maria. With finals fast approaching, the art teacher unveiled the final unit of painting: watercolors.
Sarah cherished the sharpness and control she could attain with the flat-edged brush. She adored the dreamy washes spread across the spongy page with the fan brush. She completed her assignment in minutes that melted away- sure, she wasn’t all that great at talking or being much more than a wallflower, how did it matter? Sarah’s lovely watercolor was of horses in a pasture.
“Heeeeeeey Sarah, I really suck at watercolors.” Maria’s painting was of a small, fluffy dog in an orange kiddie pool. Sarah scrubbed the fur of the dog roughly, grinding the color into the soft paper aggressively. She sighed, gazed at the calendar, gazed into the serious eyes of Vincent Van Gogh’s laminated, wall-bound portrait, and thought about being as insignificant as a poster on the wall.
And finally, it was here: the ultimate project of the year. What does art mean to you?
“You know the drill,” smirked Maria.
Maria, mere weeks from graduation, seemed gravitationally attracted to her desk. She ignored everything and everyone in the bogus, bogus art class, save a smile for little diligent Sarah.
Sometime between the surrealism painting and the portrait watercolors, Sarah found the meaning of art to her. Her paintings were all the guts she didn’t have, all of her boldest colors that she was too pale to show.
Sarah submitted two paintings:
An abstract, vibrant bird of paradise hatching from an egg with thick-framed glasses.
A replica of the poster hanging on the wall behind Maria’s seat: Picasso’s Guernica, about the horror of the Spanish Civil War.
Good luck explaining that one, thought Sarah, as she placed the paintings on the drying rack for eventual grading. Little colorful brushstrokes covered her palms, like feathers of a vengeful bird.
