Simon Says by Elaine Marie Alphin Read Free Book Online Page A

deep-freeze), he's the perfect image of the wise and kindly older mentor who will guide young talent to success.
    "Your audition paintings were most impressive, but you still have an undisciplined approach. Very undisciplined. This often happens with artists who are self-taught—the talent and inspiration are there, but adequate training in the fundamentals is lacking. As you're a junior"—he shakes his balding head regretfully—"you'll be taking some advanced classes, of course. But I really think you'd benefit from some basics." When I don't say anything, he elaborates. "I'd like you to take Still Life, to give you precision, and Anatomy and Modeling, to give your human figures greater accuracy and better proportion."
    He glances at me across his sleek black desk slab, but I keep my mouth shut. He can put me down for any classes he likes, even introductory finger painting, if he'll just tell me where my studio is. Despite what I wrote in my application, I didn't come to Whitman expecting to be taught anything about painting. I thought Graeme Brandt was the only instructor I needed, but I expected him to teach me how to
show
my art, not how to do it better.
    "Your composition is sound," he allows. "For the advanced classes, I'd suggest Portraiture, and Landscape. How does that sound?"
    I resist the shrug that's itching to burst out, and nod. "Fine." If the landscapes hanging on his paneled walls are any example of what the advanced class teaches, I'll learn what
not
to do.
    "You'll also be taking Junior English, Government, French—I don't see any math or science on your preference sheet—"
    "I've done calculus and chemistry," I tell him. "That's more math and science than I'll probably ever need. It's on my transcript."
    "Oh." He flips the page, and his eyes light up. "I see you wanted some computer programming?"
    This time I do shrug.
Thanks for coming up with that idea, Dad. Learn to paint on a computer and see the world...
"I was thinking about doing some sort of computer graphics," I explain reluctantly. "Sort of a way to make a living, maybe."
    "Good thinking," he says, pushing up the loose sleeves on his sweater. "But you can't really fly before
you can swim." He chuckles, I guess at his hopelessly mixed metaphors. "I'll put you down for Introductory Programming. Then you'll be ready to program graphics next year."
    I take the schedule he hands me and note that Gym is a bare thirty minutes twice a week. The computer class is an hour three days, which seems like a lot of wasted time. Maybe I can learn to write a program that will give me a passing grade in the course without having to actually attend it The mornings are full of academic courses, but the afternoons are all art classes and studio time.
    "Now," Mr. Brooks says in a portentous tone, "for your studio."
    I slide the schedule into my jeans pocket and wait He opens a soundless drawer in his desk and pulls out a brass key and a sheet of paper. "Usually upperclassmen get to choose their studios in the spring, but as you're a transfer we selected one for you from what was left."
    The sheet of paper is a floor plan of the studio building, and I watch as his finger hovers over it "This one is all the way at the for end, I'm afraid, but it does have the advantage of being near the elevators, which made it easier to get your materials inside."
    I ignore his disapproving tone. I crated my paintings myself so no one could see them, but it all weighed a ton in the end. I had to send them by slow truck, and it still ate up most of my savings account.
    The studio he's pointing to looks perfect Squashed in a corner between a stairwell and the bank of elevators, it's odd-shaped—narrower at the door, with a dog-
leg corner jutting into the floor space. That's probably why no one else wanted it. But it's isolated, which suits me fine.
    "Even though it's a little smaller than the others, you've got a good north light," Mr. Brooks is saying. "And you'll