by Allan, Gilli
‘Lost it,’ Liz said.
‘Me too’, echoed Fran proudly, as if it had been an entirely deliberate and rational decision.
Michael added, ‘I didn’t really believe it was going to be a proper anatomy lesson with a bloody skeleton. Shit!’
‘I’m not going to make you draw the skeleton. We have got a model, Sam, to draw, or even paint if you want to. She’s on her way and should be here any moment. But I’m sorry, I can’t give you the same pose for the duration of the lesson. I’ve gone to the trouble of bringing in Oscar, so I am going to teach anatomy. What you do,’ he looked at his watch, ‘for the next two hours and fifty minutes, is up to you.’
When Sam arrived a few minutes later, with many apologies, the lesson properly began. The class moved to their easels, tables, or donkeys and got out their materials. Sam was a lot younger, slimmer, and fitter than Tilly, Dom thought, with curly brown hair that was twisted into a coiled plait hanging at the nape of her neck. At Stefan’s request she lifted her plait and pinned it up. A fuzz of escaping hair made a hazy cloud around her face. Dom’s gaze moved lower; her bush was equally thick and abundant. He felt a disturbing stirring – not something that usually happened to him. He turned away, wishing his T-shirt was longer and baggier.
‘For the artist, a knowledge of what is known as “surface anatomy” is a tool to understand the figure,’ Stefan said. ‘The basis, of course, is the skeleton. It is the geology of the body. All human evolution is in the skeleton.’ He turned Sam round and talked about the major skeletal structures. ‘When you’re drawing the figure, an understanding of the skeleton gives you the main axes of the body. But overlaying the skeleton, allowing it to move, are the muscles. We only have a morning so I’m going to be very general and not burden you with names. There are too many and they overlay and crisscross one another …’
He pointed out the more obvious muscle groups on Sam. He drew simplified diagrams on the whiteboard. Between them, he and Oscar demonstrated the articulation of different joints. Stefan pointed out the knobby landmarks where the ligaments anchored the muscles to the skeletal frame. First asking her permission to touch, he lifted Sam’s arm and rotated it at the shoulder – ‘a ball and socket joint, like the hips,’ he said. Dom noticed her bushy armpits. ‘The elbow is a simple hinge joint – it only bends one way.’ Stefan bent her arm at the elbow. ‘So how can we do that?’ He twisted her forearm and looked at the surrounding faces. No one answered. ‘It’s because the muscles wrap around the arm. Groups of muscles work in antagonistic tension, pulling against one another in order to achieve the extraordinarily complex range of movement the body is capable of.’
‘And you learnt all this at art school,’ Liz asked. ‘It’s more than I did. When I was there it was the “Nobody can teach you art” period. How the tutors justified their job description and taking their salaries at the end of the month, I don’t know. More important than displaying ability was what you said about your art. I got sick of being asked why I’d done something, or what it meant! Forget anatomy, we hardly did any life drawing.’
Stefan looked pained. ‘It was like banging your head against a brick wall, wasn’t it? I apologise in retrospect. For most of the second half of the twentieth century, the teaching of art was grossly misguided. The concept of learning a craft was abandoned. Would anyone attempt to teach a musical instrument to degree level without the student first learning to read music?’ Dom could hear anger in his raised voice. But then Stefan dragged his hand down over his face and shook his head.
‘Of course I didn’t do anatomy as a fine art undergraduate in the UK. It wasn’t until I went to the States, to the Graduate School of Figurative Art. If you want the full-on, pre-1960s art education experience, that’s where you should go. It has the rigour which art education in this country has lacked for too long. Fortunately, it appears some of that rigour is coming back. We shall see. I’ll be interested to get an overview of what the experience is like for a student going through the system now.’ He caught Dominic’s eye. ‘But there were a lot of us, those who went to art college in the latter decades of the last century, who were let down by the trendy ideas of the time.’
‘Sounds like you’re a bit of a traditionalist.’
‘In some ways I am. At GSFA, we spent hours, day after day, refining our craft. We studied the old masters. All day, every day, we drew and painted from life models, as well as from casts of classical busts and torsos. We studied art history and learnt perspective. And yes, we also studied anatomy and drew skeletons; I even attended a dissection. Getting a scholarship was the best thing that’s ever happened to me.’
The rush of longing always experienced when Stefan described his feelings about art, and his New York experience in particular, flooded through Dom. It was what he wanted more than anything. If he could have that, it should be easy to give up the other stuff. Dom shook his head. Nothing was worth trading for that chance. But this was how he always felt in the light of day, when he was at one or other of Stefan’s classes, the solid conviction that what he was doing was worth something. Harder to hold on to that sense of value at night, when temptation lured him.
Dominic looked down at his feet. These extremes of mood were always with him. ‘Get used to it,’ Stefan had said. ‘That’s life. If you want to be an artist, you must learn to handle the ups and the downs. It’s not the easy option. Get apprenticed as a plumber if you want guaranteed work, a regular pay packet, and no existential angst.’ Dominic wasn’t sure what existential angst was, but it made him laugh anyway. He looked up. That woman, the one with the tinsel, was staring at him again. What was her problem?
By the coffee break, Dom’s head was teeming with information about bones and joints and muscles. He’d followed Stefan’s instructions – a linear study of the model, showing the primary bones, followed by another drawing, on which he’d indicated the main muscle groups with swirling convex whirls. Now, on a coffee break, everyone vacated the room. He’d fantasised that Sam wouldn’t go; perhaps she was shy and would rather not join in with the rest of them. But he saw how eagerly she rushed to pull on her stretchy dress, grab her shoulder bag, and leave the room with the others, giggling when Michael guessed her star sign as he held the door open for her. How lame was that as a chat-up line?
Only he stayed behind and while he drank from a can, he began to look through some of the books he’d helped Stefan bring in. Some were on anatomy for the artist. Others were on individual artists. Michelangelo, Leonardo Da Vinci, and Durer. The George Stubbs book included drawings of the anatomy of the horse.
He didn’t know how long he’d been going through them, slowly turning the pages, when someone came back into the room. He didn’t look round. He assumed it was Stefan. He hoped it was Sam.
‘These are phenomenal,’ he said. ‘It makes me feel like giving up now. I’ll never be even a quarter as good as these guys.’
‘We all feel like that.’
An icy paralysis gripped him. He recognised the perfume. Fran was standing behind him, hands on hips, still with the tinsel looped around her shoulders.
‘I’d guess most of the work reproduced there was done when the artists were a great deal older than you.’
Dom sank his hands into his pockets. His shoulders lifted. He said nothing. ‘You’re how old?’ she went on.
He swallowed. ‘Seventeen.’
‘There you are, you’ve a few years yet. Time to develop and improve. I’m sure you will, you’ve got the talent.’ Her smile broadened. A sick, churning sensation started in his gut. ‘I was looking at your shirt in the lesson,’ she said. Suddenly convinced she’d spotted his boner, he dipped his head; his hair swung forward, curtaining his warm cheeks. ‘I’ve been trying to read the logo.’
Dom looked up, puzzled.
‘At first I thought it was just a Celtic design, but then I saw the tour dates down the back and realised it was a band’s name. But it’s so stylised I can’t make it out.’ She seemed
to be waiting.
‘Um … it’s Enslaved.’
‘Oh. Right.’ She nodded and smiled, but her blank eyes let on she’d never heard of them. ‘You’ve been to one of their concerts. Which one?’ She moved behind him and read the list of dates from the back of the shirt. ‘The Underworld, Camden?’ she eventually said.
Dom shook his head. The band had played venues in Europe on that tour. Camden was the only UK date. ‘I haven’t seen them, I got the shirt off the internet.’
‘Oh. I can’t say I’ve ever really been into heavy metal myself, but I expect you enjoy the theatricality. Ozzy Osbourne is a hoot, isn’t he?’ Dom sighed inwardly, but said nothing. ‘Do you like Black Sabbath?’ she continued, though her voice tailed off, as if suddenly aware she was digging a hole for herself.
‘The Sabbath were good … in their time.’
She laughed, ‘Oh, they were already a part of rock history in my day. It’s amazing Ozzy’s still around, given his lifestyle.’
Dom shrugged. He’d meant what he’d said; they had been good, but Black Sabbath was the only metal band most old people seemed to have heard of, and to have Ozzy Osbourne trundled out every time some smarmy do-gooder wanted to butter him up was an embarrassment. It was almost as if he was expected to excuse and justify the notoriety of the OTT has-been.
‘So, Enslaved? I admit I’ve never heard of them.’ If she’d claimed she had, he’d not have believed her. ‘Any good?’
‘They’re good, I’ve got them on my iPhone.’ Why would he wear the shirt if he didn’t rate the band? ‘But they’re not a new band. Don’t like much recent …’
‘Who else?’
What did she mean?
‘Who else do you like? Who else have you got on your iPhone?’ she elaborated. He puffed his cheeks and scratched his nose. OK. She’d asked …
‘Falkenbach, Summoning, Finntroll, Blind Guardian, Judas Priest.’ He could have gone on, but had apparently come up with one band she had heard of.
‘Judas Priest! Oh, yes! They’re good.’
He didn’t believe her. If her knowledge went any further than the band’s name, he’d have been surprised. To trip her up he considered asking which was her favourite Priest album, or her opinion of Tim “Ripper” Owens – the singer who’d temporarily replaced the one and only Rob Halford at the turn of the millennium. But what was the point? It would only prolong the agony.
‘Which school do you go to? Bridgeway?’
Momentarily fazed by the change of subject, it took a second or two for him to notice she hadn’t had him down as a grammar school boy. ‘Er … I don’t,’ he said, then added, ‘Didn’t go to school round here. I went to The Cloister.’ Her eyes widened. He’d picked the poshest school he could think of in Painchester. Dom began a sideways shuffle, away from the overpowering stink of her perfume, her flapping eyelashes, and her bulgy, freckled cleavage. Soon he’d be able to make some excuse and escape.
‘You went …? Sorry, I assumed you were still at school, and doing your art A-level here. I think some of the Bridgeway kids do that.’
‘No. I’m doing the OCN, same as you. I do all three of Stefan’s classes.’
‘Three?’
‘Life drawing isn’t the only subject he teaches. Means I should get all the credits I need to get into Access next September.’
‘Good, good for you. Excellent, well done. I hope you’re successful.’ Fran twirled the end of her tinsel, as if giving herself time to think. ‘You’ve definitely got the talent. And … have you friends who’ll be going there with you … a girlfriend, perhaps?’ A growing volume of noise outside – footsteps, chatter – interrupted the painful interrogation. The door was flung open. The volume turned up on the voices and laughter. ‘I don’t suppose … are you coming for Christmas lunch with the rest of us after the lesson?’ Fran persisted doggedly.
‘You’ve got to hear this one, Fran,’ Liz called out as she entered the room. Fran turned her head and Dominic sidestepped away from her. ‘Michael’s been telling jokes; I deeply disapprove. Very un-politically correct but very funny!’
As he regained his spot beside his easel, Dom exhaled with relief. He’d been close to telling the stupid tart he was gay. That would have shut her up.
Chapter Fourteen - Dory
‘Who’s teacher’s pet then?’
‘What on earth do you mean, Fran?’
‘Come on. You were sucking up to him! “Ooh, I don’t understand. Tell me that thing about …” what was it? … “Tell me that thing about antagonistic tension again”.’ Loaded down with bags of art equipment and rolled-up drawings, they stood in the car park. The length of star-dotted tinsel was still tossed like a feather boa around Fran’s neck, defusing the initial impact of her irritation. Fleetingly, the pear drops aroma of fixative wafted around them.
‘You’re making it up, I never said that.’
Fran raised her eyebrows incredulously. ‘So tell me, what is it you two keep getting into secret huddles about?’
‘What are you on about? Stefan talks to everyone in the class.’
‘Lowered voices, heads together …?’
‘You’re being paranoid!’
Dory recalled how he’d squatted at her side, as he’d begun to whenever he got to her. The corners of his mouth curved up a little as he studied the naked girl in the centre of the room. Instead of following his gaze, she’d glanced at his face in profile, noting the line of his jaw, more exaggerated than hidden under the short, stubbly beard. For the first time she noticed that his dark hair had red in it. The light from the window illuminated the deep mahogany strands.
‘The human figure is utterly beguiling, isn’t it?’ he’d said, looking back at her, lips twitching even more towards a smile. ‘Look at the serpentine line of her body …’ His hand described the descending curve, ‘the forms cascading down like water. Just look at the enigmatic quality of the knee.’ She had looked at Sam’s knee.
‘Most of you are standing at easels,’ she now said to Fran. ‘When he gets to me he has to crouch because I’m sitting down.’
‘Methinks the lady doth protest too much.’
‘What?’ She was aware her voice had raised several octaves.
‘I’m joking!’
Only it didn’t sound like she was joking. ‘It’s a class!’ Dory said, bemused by her sister’s attitude. ‘Stefan is there to teach. Just because you don’t need teaching doesn’t mean the same is true of me. If he spends a bit more time with me, I daresay it’s because I need the most help.’
‘That’s not true and you know it.’
‘Is that a compliment? I’ve no idea how good or bad I am.’ She paused, briefly pondering that crucial decision made when she was sixteen, whether or not to follow Fran into art. Her sister’s hostile reaction – that she was being a copycat – had been one of the reasons she was persuaded to pursue another avenue. Recently, prompted by the breakdown of her relationship, she’d begun to question her decision to do science.
‘You’re in a better position to judge my artistic ability than I am,’ she continued. ‘Just because Stefan was quite encouraging this session doesn’t make me teacher’s pet. If anyone’s teacher’s pet, it’s Dominic. He spends far more time with him than with anyone else.’
For once, at the mention of the youth’s name, Fran did not adopt her soppy-eyed look and say, ‘Ah, the beautiful boy’. Instead, she frowned, and a slight stain of pink rose in her cheeks. ‘Maybe, but you came in a close second today.’
‘I don’t know what you’re complaining about, it’s not as if you want his attention. You only argue, then ignore him and do your own thing.’
‘I’m not a child! I’ve been to art school, remember?’
‘But I haven’t. Stefan’s teaching the course on the prospectus. It’s not his fault you didn’t read it.’ She didn’t want to bicker with her sister, but she was frustrated by the circularity of their conversations about the class. ‘I was bowled over by the l
esson; Stefan has a talent for explaining complicated concepts in an engaging way. It was really illuminating, the way he related the anatomy and the art. But to do the subject justice would probably require a whole term to teach.’ Dory dragged the strap of her bag further up onto her shoulder before delving into her jacket pocket for her car keys. ‘Even so, it’s given me a completely new way of thinking. Did you really get nothing from the lesson?’
‘I don’t need anatomy lessons. I may not have formally studied the subject but I understand the anatomy through studying the figure for God knows how many years. It’s like going back to the beginning when I’m already on page two hundred and fifty. I don’t want to have to rethink everything.’
Shrugging and shaking her head, Dory glanced at her watch. ‘God! Look at the time! And look at my hands, I’ve washed them but they’re still ingrained. Still, I don’t suppose the estate agent will care.’
Other students – end-of-term frisky – were emerging from the building and making for the redundant hard courts, which, fences removed, served as a car park. The sisters had arrived separately but were parked in the same row, several cars apart. Fran turned away to point the key fob and zap open her car.
‘OK. Good luck.’ Fran muttered, almost to herself. ‘You know I’d be happy to come with you …’ She tailed off with a sigh, lifted open the boot of her Mini Cooper, and dumped her bags and drawings inside.
‘But Fran …?’ Dory appealed to her sister’s back. ‘When you looked at the specifications, you were so disparaging about this house, it didn’t occur to me you’d want to come along. Anyway, you’re going for Christmas lunch with the others. You won’t want to miss that; it’ll be fun.’
‘I assumed you’d be coming too, but looking at this ludicrous house is more important to you.’
‘I am intrigued to see it. I’ll tell you later if it’s ludicrous.’
‘Lunch will probably be a damp squib,’ Fran grumbled. ‘In the old days, Sandy used to come along as well, it would be a proper Christmas outing. But your friend … old “high and mighty” Stefan … is much too serious and straight-laced.’