My next class was not much better and halfway through it I felt utterly worthless as I considered putting down the pencil, conceding to my shortcommings and handing it over, ready to accept what grade I was given.
I was a gutless coward who couldn't handle what people would say about me and thats why after four attempts of doing, crumbling the page into a perfect trash can paper ball, then duplicating the process all over again only to repeat the same mistakes with naif anticipation that this one woud be my megadeath to have been relinquished, therefore circumvented.
And who said wishes never came true. I snorted.
With crystal cut intensity my state of mind was purely focused on innovation and development. Like the new drug is a quantam leap in the fight against cancer.
Maybe I was being irrational and the very idea that if I did really well then that meant I belonged and while after doing this one thing I uncovered any secretly hidden treser troved abilities and could now use them to pass the semester. I would be safe, untroubled, wanted.
How splendidly mind blowing life would get for me. Like the tender aged rose-colored ground plan to first finish college and then get married and have a family. Because you couldnt suck at anything for that long without seeing results, right?
Effect and return would win over and if the good guys never gave up they too would be in the clear. Boy did I prove myself wrong on that one sparky.
Five was the experienced record breaking tally of trial error and woe. I was dead set at sparking developmental change no matter how unnatural my facial expressions looked with my tongue sticking out as I muttered words at a barely there incoherent whisper, eyes narrowed as I concentrated at not sucking too badly, brow folding over into one unmistakable thin line as I mulled the most satisfying adaption not to be altered or redone.
Simply put, capturing finess by depicting smooth fine lines did not come privy to me. There was no heads or tails about it. Drawing, for a lack of better words, was a hand-eye coordination that, for all its intents and purposes, tipped the scales from dreamer to full blown decorated exhibitionist. And I was a spectator.
While cruising through the lecture without interruption I didn't have it in me to confess art, in the generalist of terms, was a lost form I continuously grew uncultured to.
Not for the first time today the professors words fell off me like a sticky hand toy that slid down the wall instead of clinging to it as comemrcially advertised.
A legitimate artist, Mr. Honeycott was a point example of how our world shapes who we are and how we are shapes our world.
"As we fullfill our quest to enhance our natural creative abilities both our inner and outer worlds become infinately fascitnating! Life is art, and each of us is a work of art in progress." Mr. Honeycott insisted. I almost believed in the hype. Until I realized I was hopeless in that department.
"Remember, it's all about preserving the integrity of the model that you see before you." he should know. Growing up in a melting pot of cultures and religions, Mr. Honeycott learned to develop his own creative language and technique rather than study art, he set off on his journey to self-discovery at age 18.
Marked by an extreme he believed himself to be an artist who translates his intense life experiences into his paintings, sculptures, ceramic works, etchings, and lithographs. And the 2000 pieces of art he has created in the past 15 years? Well, they show us what he sees, what he thinks, what he imagines, and what he feels.
It took self discipline not to feel completely inferior by someone as succesfull as Mr. Honeycott who would be grading my stuff.
And if the other students felt totally lacking in comparison and shy about displaying their stuff, well, they didn't show it. There were portraits on walls that looked like a professional had done them with their names underneath so that eveyone would know whose was which.
A sensitive soul, Ginette Honeycott was not beyond venting his emotions through his art. And he regularly encouraged us to do the same. He praised non-conformity was the only way to be free and live life to the fullest.
"If my heart is broken because of a girlfriend or I am happy because I realize how beautiful my son is, all these emotions are translated into my canvas or sculpture. As an artist, your perogative is to communicate through art the powerful mystery of your existance with all its contradictions and drama." he liked to say.
Today he wore a loose white linen shirt with strings pulled open in the front exposing cool air to his dark curly chest hair, the tail of the over sized shirt tucked in to his leather pants that went underneath a small blue vest, and, as if he didnt have enough clothes on, his foot wear of choice were a burgundy pair of knee high boots that created a sir Lancelot medieval-esque look. On anyone else it would have seemed just plain silly.
Perhaps the reason why he could pull off such a bold outfit was the neatly trimmed beard with hard lines and black dread locks marginally dyed orange and purple on the ends that enhanced his over the top image. He wasn't bad looking. A little old but nice.
Never the less, he was a round about teacher in spite of his uniquely odd mannerisms which later I found characteristically endearing.
The objective was to capture the essence of the model. My reflection of the person who sat in the desk across form me and it was my job to conjure intense emotion onto weighted paper.
Since the assignment was 'getting to know you're neighbor', what was supposed to be a fun welcome back repotiour that jumped us into the swing of things, I was busy trying to create emphasis on Wesleys hair because I'd speculated it was the main spotlight of his overall appearance.
Shaped into large squares, individual desks were stacked into cubes of four, the corners perfectly latched together, an invisible t cross in the middle was the only telltale of where they aligned.
I had the severe disadvantage of being the only girl in a group. Nonetheless as luck would have it turn of events shifted to my favor and things balanced themselves accordingly when I got to class and saw who I would be sitting with.
Wearing a long sleeve shirt with the buttons undone showing off a large shark tooth necklace and fine black pants, Josh sits next to me drawing a rather imrpessive sketch of Mason.
I'd been keeping my eye on him when I thought he wasn't looking and I had to admit I felt stifled. Everyone else in the class seemed so in synch and I had to wonder what I could do to fit in.
Mr. Honeycott voiced extensively the importance of perceiving with the eyes how to recognize or understand skillfull art as being distinct or different because, and as he explained it, that was the only true way to gain tasteful judgement in order to discover with certainty through examination if something was good or not.
By the end of the hour I drew a portait of Wesley that did no justice. When it came down to it I was all thumb and wrist.
Josh leans in close just barely so that his broad shoulder touched mine and whistles. "Wow. You were not joking." he antagonized, making a grab for my sketch book with large fast hands, a dark twinkle of humor set in his eyes that made me believe he was just playing with me.
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