While Yamouni ladles paint back into the bottle with a palette knife, he wipes the worst of it from the floor and slouches off to take a seat at the back of the room. He acts like he doesn’t care about getting into trouble, but we’ve all seen his dad go off at the footy and no one would want to cross that guy – always gripping Pete by the back of the neck; I think it’s meant to be affection, but it looks more like intimidation to me.
Alison puts up her hand. ‘Are we doing finger painting?’
‘Yes, but not like when you were in kindergarten,’ says Yamouni. ‘This is a meditative exploration of colour.’
I sigh: meditative finger painting. I don’t suppose da Vinci ever had to put up with crap like this.
Yamouni instructs us in a low, lulling voice.
‘The object isn’t to make an image, but to experience the colour – just move it around the paper and see what it has to say to you.’
Laughter mixed with groans of disgust swells as our fingers come in contact with the paint’s sticky smoothness.
‘Shh, that’s it, well done. Work slowly, slow as you can. Shh, no talking.’ She walks around, standing near the Herbs, who are laughing the most. ‘Take a deep breath,’ she says. ‘That’s right. Breathing in, breathing out. Long slow breaths. Keep working. Colour is far more valuable than gold. If you take the time to get to know it, to listen to its secrets. Some of humanity’s greatest artists have loved this colour – Van Gogh, Monet, Picasso . . .’
It’s deep, the blue – and as I work it slowly over the page and the smattering of sniggers settles into quiet, I follow Yamouni’s instructions to listen to my breathing: in and out. Moving the blue, there’s a sense of expanding space, like a dark ocean or an evening sky. Or even what’s behind the sky – the swirling cosmos that has no edges, no end. There’s something fearful about the thought of a blue infinity, like you could fall into it and disappear; or be swept into it like the blue of great waves engulfing a ship.
Yamouni says, ‘The palette is breath to the artist. Shh, that’s right,’ and the fear passes into a feeling of freedom, like flying, and the blue is serene.
At last she says, ‘Bring what you’re doing to a close and wash up.’ Noise erupts and kids threaten each other with sticky blue hands. Over the bustle she says, ‘Next week, I want to have a quick warm-up and get into our bodies before we start the class.’
Up the back, big Mark swears quite loudly, but Yamouni ignores it.
‘If you can do the tables and get the paper set up in less than five minutes, everyone who participates gets a handmade chocolate.’
‘Is that safe?’ The class stares at Alison, who rarely says anything, ever. Red falls over her face like a mottled shadow. Trust Al to be worried about safety in the face of chocolate – she’s more like her mother than I thought.
‘Guaranteed nut-wheat-egg-free and not made on any machinery at all. Anyone allergic to sugar? Lactose?
I don’t have any medical forms for those, so as long as I don’t lace them with arsenic, I think we’ll be fine. Now off you go and as they say in the classics: Be careful out there.’
‘What classic is that?’
‘Hill Street Blues.’
Alison blushes into her beetroot hues and looks worried, as if her Year Twelve ENTER score might depend on knowing the reference. Trung pats her arm and says, ‘I’ve never heard of it either.’
Yamouni breathes a light laugh. ‘Don’t worry. You weren’t meant to get it. It was my dad’s favourite cop show in the ’80s. He used to say it and I say it now for my own amusement.’
It gives me a shock, to think of a teacher having a ‘dad’ and private amusements. I try to picture Sutcliff as a child with parents, but it’s not possible.
Keek comes around for dinner and to play 500 with me against Mum and Mrs T. Yiayia is passionate about 500. All her children and most of their partners play, they pull out card tables and turn her lounge room into a 500 frenzy. When we were little, Alison and I had lined up with Mrs T’s grandchildren, running through the maze as fast as we could without bumping the flimsy tables. Being yelled at by the Theopopolouses wasn’t anything like being yelled at by my mum.
‘Did you like school, Yiayia?’ I follow Mum’s lead with my only trump, the Jack of Hearts.
Yiayia makes a smug face, says, ‘Beat that!’ and lays down the Joker. ‘I love school.’ She leans back to fold her card-hand on her belly and stare into space. ‘I love it with all my heart and soul. And my shoes – oh my God, such beautiful school shoes.’ She sits up and examines her cards. ‘But they made me leave at the end of Grade Six.’
‘Who made you leave?’ says Mum, collecting the trick for their growing pile.
‘Everybody. In my village, no girls went past Grade Six. I was lucky my father sent me to school at all.’
‘What did you do when you left?’
‘I work for Mr Andreadis in his bakery.’ A smile creeps over her. ‘And then I met my Theo. Now, come on – take that!’ and she leads the 7 of Clubs. She must be sure Mum can win it with a trump.
She’s right. They flog us.
‘Don’t worry,’ says Yiayia, happy to win, nodding toward Keek, ‘he still has his training wheels.’
After the game we walk down to the local kiddies park. Keek is against slaving for a handmade chocolate. ‘It’s weird,’ he says.
‘She’s . . .’ What can I say to Keek about a teacher who talks about paint as if it were as valuable as gold, or air. ‘I dunno.’
We sit on a strange seesaw-bugs-on-a-spring installation at the park. ‘I’ve got Ratshit for Home Group,’ Keek complains.
Good old Mr Radshaw. Every year at assembly he tells the same ‘how does a mathematician pick his nose?’ joke.
‘You told me that already,’ I say. ‘However, I feel sorry for you and accept that it’s worth complaining about twice. How are his hairs going?’
‘Still tufting out of every orifice, thank you.’
‘Who else is in your Home Group?’
‘It’s full of footy heroes like Jason Eldrich and that stupid Robbo. Robbo, ug ug. Lisa Dalboni’s all right. And Cho is cool.’
I bounce. ‘Cho has so got the hots for you.’
Keek stubs out his smoke and flicks it into the bushes. ‘She does not. You’re just jealous because she’s a good rider and you’re completely hopeless.’
I point to his abandoned cigarette butt. ‘Some little kid could find that and eat it and die.’
‘Right, Mum.’
‘It’s poisoning the earth. Pick it up and put it in the bin.’
‘Thanks for that, Mum.’
I have to get off the springy bug and punch him before he’ll do what I tell him.
We sit there for a while, seesawing.
‘Rob Marcello’s a good footballer,’ I say.
‘I can’t believe you like football, Clover. It’s something I’ve always found very disappointing about you.’
‘And he’s very good-looking.’
Keek reacts like I’ve offered him snot to eat. ‘Robbo? If you like the hairy Neanderthal look.’
‘Just because someone has reached puberty doesn’t mean they’re Neanderthal.’
‘Are you serious? That’s not puberty – the guy has to shave his neck.
’ ‘Unlike some boys who don’t have to shave at all.’
‘I don’t want to be hairy. I don’t want to shave, either. Rob Marcello has to shave his forehead.’
‘His nose.’
‘His eyelids.’
‘Behind his knees.’
‘His gums.’
We roll about at this hilarity.
‘Anyway,’ I say. ‘I think he’s going out with Sage, or it might be Parsley.’
‘So you do like him?’ Keek practically throws himself off the seesaw in disgust, which makes my bug hit the ground hard. I’m bounced off, half-annoyed and half-laughing.
‘Good one.’ I reach out a hand to demand help. He takes it and I pu
ll myself up and brush off the tanbark. ‘We’d better get back. School tomorrow and we don’t want mother freaking out.’
‘Yeah – wanna make sure you get your beauty sleep for Robbo.
’ ‘Don’t be a dick.’
‘Robbo.’
‘I’ll kill you.’
‘Robbo. Robbo. Robbo.’
I give up trying to catch him long before he peels off to his place.
Chocolate is good bait but it takes us seven minutes and twenty-three seconds to arrange the tables in the art room because stubborn and obese Mark Creswell sits on a table and refuses to budge. He has a bag of mini Mars Bars and offers to share them with those who join his rebellion. In the end, we band together and move him and his table, protest and all. We get our chocolates for teamwork. They’re good.
Mark burrows in and says, ‘I’m not getting up.’
Yamouni leaves him there, but throws him encouraging glances while she gathers us into a circle. I feel sorry for Trung Nguyên and Alison Larder; the dickiest pair in class, shoved along by the pecking order to stand next to the teacher. Trung’s second-generation Vietnamese Australian, but whenever he says anything, idiots like Pete Tsaparis act surprised that he’s got an Australian accent.
‘Right,’ says Yamouni. ‘Time to get into our bodies and wake up, ready for the class. We’re going to play the clap-your-name game.’
‘Are you serious?’ It’s Thyme, her eyes sliding their challenge between Yamouni and Rosemary Daniels. Rosemary’s eyes slide to Pete, who sneers.
Yamouni says, ‘Not in the slightest bit.’
Thyme is crusty with scorn. ‘What?’
‘I mean I’m not in the slightest bit serious, Ellen – it’s just a thing.’ Yamouni shrugs. ‘It’s just a thing I want you to do.’
Thyme looks to Rosemary, who crosses her arms and says, ‘Why should we?’
Yamouni smiles as if Rosemary’s challenge makes her happy. ‘Well, if you don’t, you’ll never know.’
‘Know what?’ asks Mark Creswell. I’m not even sure he meant to, because he looks surprised to have spoken.
Yamouni glances over to him and nods. ‘Where it might lead us.’ She looks around the circle. ‘What are you afraid of? You know, if you want to make art, real art, you have to learn to know fear and make it your friend. Anyone heard of the saying “Feel the fear and do it anyway”?’
I feel hot tears, but won’t let them out.
Pete and a couple of the boys swell as if menace can prove they aren’t scared of anything.
‘This is crap,’ says Thyme. She stares at Rosemary, daring her to do something.
Yamouni gestures as if she’s offering something invisible. ‘Thanks, Ellen,’ she says. ‘I forget how odd I seem to most people.’ She turns to the group. ‘It’s my way, a bit of not-schoolishness and not intended to make you angry or waste your time.’ Her eyes rest on each of us briefly but calmly, taking us in. ‘For a group of people to make art in one room, to truly explore what art is and where art can take us, there has to be trust. But trust doesn’t necessarily exist in the world. The older we get, the more it’s got to be built up. Won. My way works for me, but perhaps not for you, so I’m sorry about that.’
There is nothing mocking in her voice. It’s as if she means it.
‘I would like you to have a go, though,’ she says.
‘So at least you know what you’re rejecting.’
Thyme seems shocked. ‘Rosemary,’ she says. Like a password. Or a charm.
Everyone is looking between Yamouni, Rosemary and Thyme – except Pete, who says, ‘I only chose this subject cos it’s slack as,’ and gets out his mobile phone. Alison’s eyes are shut; the Larder has been red-faced for a while, simmering with whatever strange passions possess her. But Yamouni keeps her kind eyes on Thyme, who flickers between the teacher and Rosemary.
Rosemary Daniels has a way of treating people as if they’re an experiment she’s conducting. Mostly she seems only mildly curious about the outcome. She observes her friend and the new teacher. ‘Chill out, Ellen,’ she says.
I think I see a cloud form over Yamouni’s head, but she says, ‘Repeat after me,’ and claps twice. We repeat. She claps again and says, ‘Laila.’
‘Now: everyone.’
Clap, clap, ‘Laila,’ we say, her first name strange in my mouth, like some sort of transgression, and she gestures to Alison who claps twice and says, ‘Alison’.
We clap twice and repeat Alison’s name. If Yamouni is relieved, it doesn’t show. She nods to the next kid as if all is as it should be and we clap and name our way around the circle. By the time we get back to the beginning, a rhythm has taken over and the sting has gone out of it.
She makes us do it again, quicker this time, and instead of our names, any old sound at all. Whatever comes. ‘Don’t think: clap,’ she says. She doesn’t raise an eyebrow when Pete says ‘motherfucker’ for his sound and Thyme says ‘Piss.’ She just says it with the rest of us and moves on. When it comes to me, a freaky little squeak comes out and I think I might die, but everyone makes my freaky little squeak and by the second round, even Alison’s boring ‘hello’ has a laugh attached.
‘Now, bring the chairs around. You’ll need a pen and your notebooks.’
In the shuffle, Trung accidentally bumps Pete with the leg of his chair.
‘Watch it, boat-boy.’
‘Boat-boy?’ Trung looks confused. ‘I was born in Nunawading.’
Yamouni slams a heavy hardback art book on the table and I’m not the only one who jumps. ‘How dare you?’ she says, her eyes levelled squarely at Pete.
Pete is embarrassed. ‘What? My dad reckons all—’
‘Wake up,’ she snaps. ‘You’d better learn some respect. I won’t have racism in this room.’ She sweeps her fiery eyes over us. ‘Do you understand me?’ She turns back to Pete. ‘Apologise.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Sorry, who?’
Pete tenses his reddening jaw and I hope this doesn’t have an ugly backlash. ‘Sorry, Trung.’
By the end of the week, she has us doing the hokey-pokey. The Herbs roll their eyes and Pete flat out refuses, but it’s hysterical, and dangerous when we hold hands and surge into the centre shouting ‘Whoa, the hokey-pokey’ but Yamouni manages to keep going and people pull each other up from being crushed and no one dies.
And that is that. Every art class starts with stupidity. Mark sits and watches us do weirder and weirder things: standing in a circle as close to each other as we can be, and shuffling in closer and closer until we can sit on each other’s knees, balanced. All crossing the circle at the same time with our eyes closed and not sticking our elbows out. Playing crazy games with lots of clapping and making eye contact and yelling things like ‘peepo’ at each other. We have to mark ourselves off on the roll and not cheat. The Herbs are her pets. Even Thyme, who doesn’t like anybody.
I love Yamouni. But it’s not just because she talks about trust and truth and beauty and art and nature and humanity and purpose and transformation as if they actually matter in the universe. And it isn’t her enthusiasm for doing weird stuff that makes her the best art teacher I’ve ever had – I’ve had spectacularly enthusiastic teachers before and they mostly make you want to chuck. It’s because on that second day she never even considered confiscating Mark’s Mars Bars, or charging him with premeditated disruption, or sending him off to be punished.
And she looks at him, right at him – Mark Creswell – which few humans ever do, and she smiles. Genuinely. Repeatedly. It’s compelling. When Pete bails to Woodwork, Mark gets up and joins our ‘warm ups’. He moves his body and no one laughs. I think we all feel the miracle.
As the year goes on, she shows us how to create depth with light and shade, and master the drawn line with texture and dimension – and she helps me turn the darkness that pours from my soul into form and colour and shape. She patiently explains how to get the perspective right, making us practise how the masters did it.
Michelangelo, da Vinci – taking elements of their work, just small studies, and helping us replicate them, encouraging us to interpret and adapt them in our own time, if we want to.
‘Why do we have to do all this old shit?’ asks Parsley in a fit of frustration.
‘Because they’ve already found answers to the problems you can’t yet even conceive, my dear.’
‘So?’
‘So, when you discover what the problems are, you’ll also discover you have the solutions.’
Parsley drops her brush on her tray and says, ‘I’m going to the toilet.’
Yamouni looks over my shoulder. ‘May I?’ she says and, when I nod, with the smallest flick of the brush, tames the shape and brings it closer to where it needs to go. ‘More shade, here.’
I spend most of my lunchtimes in her art room, sometimes alone, but often with Alison Larder. We rarely speak. Alison’s painting a to-scale reproduction of Van Gogh’s sunflowers that she’s working out with maths. It’s getting so good, I’m convinced she’s going to be a forger.
Yamouni has managed to organise us a couple of couches for the art room and when it rains, Keek comes and reads. I like it when he sits there, reading, but today he closes his book and comes over to my painting. ‘I liked it better before you did all that stuff.’
He waves vaguely at the canvas.
‘Gee, thanks.’
Yamouni arrives to do something at her desk and he disappears.
I’ve chosen Hieronymus Bosch for my major art-history assignment and I’ve been leafing through a giant book on him that I borrowed from the library, full of colour plates of his work depicting medieval life, and darker things. It’s rubbing off. The background of my painting is a watercolour experiment of the primary-colour work we’ve continued in class, but I’ve fallen in love with the storytelling in Bosch’s paintings, the macabre yet beautiful little details – he might have been a religious nut who believed in eternal damnation, but at least he was saying something. What do I want to say? At the moment it’s a bunch of vaguely medieval characters falling into or climbing out of a fiery abyss that’s less hell and more red splodge. Keek’s right, it’s not working: it’s a mess. A heavy sigh escapes me, embarrassingly audible.
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