Drawing Nudes While Making Other Plans

Chapter 1

I am not late. I am absolutely not late. I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks and my heart beating at an unnaturally fast pace and I want to tell the fifty people who are turning to look at me that I was fifteen minutes early for the bus. That I planned it all out. That it wasn’t my fault the bus came late, which meant I missed the early train, which meant that the time buffer I set up for things like finding the correct entrance to the Art School was no longer in play. I want to tell them that as thankful as I am for GPS – and believe me, I am overwhelmingly thankful – I still got lost walking from the back entrance to the gallery space where the induction had already begun.

Well, maybe I don’t want to tell them that bit.

The fact is, I made it. I travelled to the Australian Art School. By myself. So, even though my face feels hot to touch, and my heart is racing, and I have unnaturally sweaty pits, I am proud of myself. But can I tell any of that to the fifty-odd students gathered in this sandstone building? No. No, I cannot. To them I am late and already out of place.

I try not to wish Emmaline was with me. My sister would have wrapped her arm around me and won everyone over with her massive smile and a big wave. But she is not here.

By the door is what looks to be an abandoned welcome table. It holds a single information folder. Mine. A sticky label reading Cleo Markson has been placed just under the Australian Art School logo.

I have clearly missed the introduction of the woman up the front. But her slides tell me her name is Rachael Ramirez and I am pretty sure my letter of invitation was signed by her. Further confirmation I am in the right spot. Not that I need it, but I’m pleased to have remembered the program organiser’s name. I grab my info pack and attempt to scout out a place to sit.

Before becoming home to the Art School, the sandstone buildings here used to house prisoners. According to my research, aka last night’s stress googling, the building that serves as the gallery/meeting point/induction space is the old prison chapel. I’m surprised that, despite its repurposing, the gallery is still filled with old church pews. Let me tell you, a pew is not the latecomer’s best friend.

Don’t get me wrong, pews are almost works of art themselves, but everyone probably arrived on time in prison chapel days and I’m sure they filed in in a very orderly manner and no one had to worry themselves about things like where to sit. Sure, life would have been tough, but working out the optimal seating plan was probably not up there in the list of troubles.

My choice of seats is limited. There looks to be a spacious spot up front, but there is no way on God’s green earth I am about to make my way up there, so I scoot into the nearest opening I can find.

It’s not until I sit that I realise my chosen spot is not really a spot at all. It’s more like . . . half of a spot. And yet I can’t bear to get up and draw attention to myself again.

I perch on the edge of the seat and cross my legs. Maybe balancing on one arse cheek will take up less room.

I try to concentrate on Rachael Ramirez’s welcome speech. ‘We are so very proud to provide this opportunity, not just to students from our Sydney schools but also to those from further afield. The human body is to be celebrated. In its variety, it is a thing of beauty. Out there, our differences may separate us, but here we believe that the body should be what unites us, what connects us.’ At this she raises her arms, slotting her fingers together so her hands are now linked. A physical demonstration of what she is talking about. ‘During this summer workshop we will focus on the naked form, using it as inspiration to create art, to build skills, to learn new techniques, to experiment and to create lasting connections. We are stripping back and building up, carving, sculpting, sketching and finding the truth that’s buried beneath.’

I manage to stifle my snort with a little cough. I’ve obviously been at a public school too long. Get it together, Cleo. You are not a thirteen-year-old boy, I tell myself sternly. If you can’t hear the word naked or stripping without laughing, you’re certainly not going to be able to make it through four weeks of drawing nudes.

My one-butt-cheek seat perch is a mistake. I can’t maintain it. It’s not a comfortable position and I figure I’m already crowding my neighbour, so I give in and slide back on the pew so I can rest against it. My back is hunched into a u shape and my shoulders are now squished against my neighbour’s. My thigh is pressed against his and I am all too aware that this proximity with a stranger is not normally socially acceptable.

I try to focus on Rachael, but the heat slowly building in my thigh is absolutely distracting. In these close quarters, turning my head to offer my neighbour an apology half smile feels like an invasion of privacy. I can’t see his face, but I can see his legs. He’s wearing loose-fitting dark grey pants and I can see a glimpse of olive skin above his white Nike kicks. Out of the corner of my eye I can just make out a slightly oversized white tee with a Thrills logo to the left. He has a chunky brown watchband on his left wrist and muscular forearms. His welcome packet sits on his lap. His name might be Matt? I can only see the start of it. Matthew? Matteo? Mattholemew? No, that’s not even a real name. I don’t think.

Oh my gosh. Focus!

I force my attention back to the front. I am determined this workshop will be a good way to spend my Christmas holidays. My art teacher selected me out of our year 11 visual art class.

‘This is a wonderful opportunity for you, Cleo,’ she said. ‘You will learn so much, really develop as an artist. This will increase your confidence too. I think this could guide your major work.’

I found out later that I wasn’t Miss Saidi’s first choice. I wasn’t surprised. I probably would have picked Yasmin Lin first too. She is topping the class. If anyone can get a Band 6 in visual arts it’s her, but funnily enough she doesn’t even care; she just creates for the joy of it. It’s like she enters this zone when she paints, headphones in, only focused on what’s in front of her. So confident in the choices she is making. I always feel jealous when I see her in this kind of flow. It’s not necessarily her skill I want but the degree of certainty with which she holds her brush and makes her mark. Like she knows what she wants and will just go for it. Unlike me. I second-guess every stroke. Is this right? Does it look good? Will this shade work? I’m overly self-conscious. Utterly indecisive. In art and in life. So, while Yasmin would have thrived here, the best I can hope for from the program is direction. Whatever. I am certainly in need of direction. And something different to do over these remaining four weeks of summer holidays, as my parents keep reminding me.

Once Rachael Ramirez finishes her speech, we are invited to exit the gallery/meeting point/induction space/ old prison chapel for a morning tea served outside. I reach down to grab my bag and take a moment to shove my welcome pack in. I’ve got a long trip home and the reading material will be a great distraction.

I turn to speak to Matt/Matthew/Matteo. I want to apologise for squishing in next to him. It will be good to meet someone, seeing as I literally know no one here. ‘Hey. I’m sorry for the squishy intro –’ I start to say to Matt/Matthew/Matteo standing and turning finally to face him. But all I see is his back. He has unfolded himself from his place next to me and is making his way to the door.

Thanks so much for giving me a second of your time to introduce yourself before running away.

I’m not sure why I’m so bugged by the fact that he has just left me hanging after our weirdly intimate pew moment. But I feel irrationally bothered. Mum would tell me to move on. That it’s not all about me, that I just need to brush it off, like it feels he did to me. Water off a duck’s back and all that. It’s not that it’s bad advice but give me a minute to apologise. We may have shared a very uncomfortable fifteen minutes, but it’s not like I have leprosy.

I make the important decision not to chase Matt/ Matthew/Matteo like some loser desperate for someone to talk to, and follow the group outside. Bag over my shoulder, I head towards the morning tea table while some of the other students start to chat. I focus on my food selection so I won’t have to work out who to have an awkward conversation with.

It’s an impressive spread. My stomach grumbles and I am reminded that it was dark out when I last ate. I select an apple Danish and a caramel slice and place them on top of a serviette in my hand. I shuffle through the other students to the tea and coffee table.

‘Urgh, International Roast,’ a girl grumbles. ‘Are they trying to poison us on our first day? Hard pass.’ She puts her cup back down.

I take a very non-recyclable cup and reach for the tea bags. ‘It’s times like these I’m glad I don’t drink coffee,’ I say, thankful that someone has chosen to talk to me, or at least talk in the vicinity of me.

‘What? No coffee?’ she asks. ‘No, not really.’

‘Not even when it’s been a late night, and you’ve been up putting the finishing touches on your photographic essay and then your baby brother wakes you at 5.30 am because he wants to play?’

‘That sounds weirdly specific, but still no.’ Also, thank you for talking to me so I don’t have to work out who to talk to. I don’t say the last bit out loud.

‘What if it was a really great flat white?’ ‘Nope.’

‘A latte? Skinny cap? Long black? Macchiato?’

I am not a coffee person. These sound like something between made-up words and racial profiles. I don’t say this out loud either. ‘I don’t know what they are. Are you making up words, or are we still talking about coffee? I really don’t like coffee,’ I say.

She laughs.

‘I don’t understand it, but fair enough. I’m Remi.’

Do we shake hands in this situation? I’m not sure. My hands are too full.

I mime shaking her hand with my refreshment pile. ‘I’m Cleo.’

‘Nice to meet you, Cleo.’

I focus on Remi. Her black hair is clipped in a short funky bob and blue eyeliner artfully adorns the crinkled corners of her eyes.

‘So, what’s your go-to coffee order?’ I ask.

‘The classic flat white for sure. I’ll never say no to a flat white. But if you asked my mum, she would say I’m a latte,’ Remi says. I must look like I don’t get it. ‘Like, I’m a lot, aye? A latte? Sorry, terrible joke. That’s what happens when I’m forced to operate without sufficient refreshment.’ I laugh. If we hadn’t had this interaction, I’m not sure

I would have worked up the nerve to talk to Remi. She gives off an alternative vibe that I’m not sure I fit with. Like I’m the Target to her Glebe Markets. And yet here she is chatting to me, making awful dad jokes.

‘So,’ I say, looking for another topic of conversation, ‘Do you know anyone here?’

I blow on my tea, knowing it will still be too hot to drink. I attempt to take a bite of my pastry. But it is perched on top of my serviette, placed directly on the upturned palm of my hand. I really need to be holding the food in a pincer-like grip. The way I am holding it makes me think that I will look like a dog eating its breakfast if I start to snack on it. I’ll have to drink the tea first. Keep it together, Cleo.

‘I actually don’t know anyone here,’ says Remi. She sounds surprised and I raise my eyebrow as if to question her. She waves her hand at me like she is brushing off my reaction. ‘I’ve done a few art workshops over the last couple of years. More week-long programs, rather than four-week ones. It’s often a similar crowd.’ She looks around the people. ‘But yeah, this looks like a fresh group.’

‘It’s not the sort of thing I’m used to going to,’ I volunteer.

‘No?’

‘I guess Oxford Street is not my usual stomping ground,’ I say, my voice rising at the end so it sounds like I’m asking a question, even though I don’t mean to. I quickly realise what I’ve said could sound offensive. ‘I’m just not from around here. It took almost two hours to get here. I’m from Camden. It’s semirural.’ Why did I say the last bit?

Remi laughs and I know I haven’t offended her. ‘Isn’t Camden in England?’

I nod. ‘Yep, and in New South Wales. And probably a bunch of other places.’

‘I’ve been to Camden.’ A deeper voice from behind me joins our conversation. I wonder if I am supposed to be impressed that someone knows of the town in which I live. I am about to make a snippy comment but the body belonging to the voice steps closer.

‘I’m Lachlan,’ the body says. ‘I played rugby there . . . last winter, it must have been, not that long ago.’

Lachlan is marginally taller than me. His blond hair is curly but worn short. He looks like a footy player. Strong. Like he could bench press me. Not that I want him to. I don’t think? I don’t know why I imagined that. I guess I don’t not want him to, either.

‘So do you have cows?’ he asks.

I pull myself together and try a joke. ‘Only half ones, we’re semirural.’ Oh my gosh, that was awful. Why did I say that? I push on before anyone can comment on my terrible pun. ‘Tell me where you guys are from while I figure out how to eat my morning tea.’

I sound more confident than I feel.

Without asking, Lachlan reaches over and takes my tea out of my hand. His fingers skim mine in the exchange. ‘Let me help you with that,’ he says with a wink.

It’s a bold move and I am impressed with his confidence. I smile by way of thanks as he continues. ‘I’m from Caringbah. How about you . . .’ He flashes a smile at Remi, waiting for her to fill in the blank.

‘Remi,’ she says. ‘I live in Bexley.’

‘Nice to meet you, Remi from Bexley,’ Lachlan swaps the tea into his left hand and shakes Remi’s hand with his right. ‘And from Camden is . . .’

This time it’s my turn to fill in the blank. ‘I’m Cleo.’ ‘Cleo from Camden. Nice to meet you, Cleo.’

My food is in my right hand but Lachlan takes my left hand anyway and gives it a little squeeze as a makeshift handshake. It could be my imagination, but the squeeze shake lasts marginally longer than it has to. I feel my cheeks beginning to flush and try to cover it by taking a big bite of caramel slice. I have such a sweet tooth and the slice makes me think of baking afternoons with my mum and sister. I push the thought down.

‘You guys, this is delicious,’ I say, with a half-full mouth. ‘You should definitely try it.’

‘It’s that good?’ asks Remi. I nod emphatically.

‘Alright, I’m going in.’ Remi ducks away.

Lachlan doesn’t move. He passes my tea back to me. Now I only have the pastry in my hand I can hold both comfortably.

‘Thanks.’

Lachlan smiles. He looks directly at me, holding my gaze. ‘What brings Cleo from Camden here to art school?’ It’s not a loaded question and yet there are so many ways to answer it. I like art. I want to learn new techniques. This could help me get a better mark at the end of the year. I need to make some new memories. I don’t know what I want to do with my life and I hope this will help me think it through. Or the biggest and most important: the summer I wanted doesn’t exist and my parents made

1. Welcome to my life, Lachlan, take your pick!

I chew on my pastry and settle on the safest, easiest answer that’s the least likely to introduce him to my crazy.

‘Um . . . I guess my art teacher invited me and I thought it’d be fun?’

‘Me too. I’ve got this concept for my major work this year. It’s about muscle growth and development. I was going to use photographs to track a friend’s progress at the gym but my teacher wants me to dig deeper, really think about the why behind it. Consider mixing my mediums. I wasn’t even going to take art. Actually, I thought I’d drop back to ten units, but it’s surprisingly fun.’

‘Yeah, that makes sense,’ I say. I deliberately don’t mention the fact that I agree with his teacher. Conceptually it is a little basic. But who am I to judge? I’m way behind on my major work and still trying to come to terms with what it is I’m trying to do or say.

‘Never thought I’d be drawing nudes though,’ says Lachlan.

There’s a lot to like about Lachlan’s confident, laid-back energy. I can imagine he’s the sort of person at ease in all social situations.

Chatting to Remi and Lachlan is helping settle my nerves and I have almost forgotten the boy I squished next to on the pew. That is until I look over Lachlan’s shoulder and find him staring directly at me.

I look away. A girl can only deal with one new social interaction at a time.

Chapter Two

We’re directed to stand in different areas of the quad. Apparently, there are three groups of us. Those here for life drawing (me), printmakers and clay people . . . ceramicists? I think that’s the word for it. I concentrate hard to make sure I don’t walk with the wrong group. But still I’m shifting my weight from foot to foot, feeling low-level anxious that I am heading in the wrong direction. Luckily Remi is next to me. ‘Life drawing, right?’

‘You got it.’

‘Yep, all of us,’ adds Lachlan.

I breathe a sigh of relief. That would have sucked if I had to turn around and make conversation with another bunch of people.

I hate this waiting. The moments in-between. When something new is about to happen and I can’t quite imagine what will unfold. It makes me nervous. I scan the courtyard. I see a lady break away from a conversation with Rachael Ramirez. She walks in my group’s direction and suddenly, we are moving. I follow the clump of students and concentrate on where we are going. I’m going to need to find my way out again.

Room 10 will be our home during our time here and I love it the moment we walk in. Somehow it feels full of promise. There are windows all around the room, so it’s well lit and airy.

While I’m looking at the room, becoming acquainted with it, a handful of students have seized places at the easels which are placed around in a large semicircle. Each easel is turned to a chair placed in the centre of the room. I’m trying to be very adult, but I can’t quite fathom the idea that in a little while a stranger will walk into the room and strip down while we watch. It’s an odd premise.

Remi heads towards an easel in the middle of the semicircle and I follow her. Around us I can see other students starting to get comfortable. I pull my drink bottle out and take a sip. Then I put it back in my bag. I wonder if I need to get organised. It seems like a good idea. We have been instructed to bring some art materials with us and Miss Saidi helped me collect them from school before the Christmas holidays began. I have an assortment of pencils, charcoal, oil pastels and paintbrushes, and I wonder what we will work with first.

I reach down and get my drink bottle out of my bag again, but leave it at my feet wishing I had a proper table to put my things on.

Maybe if I get my pencil case out it might help me feel ready? I reach down again and take it out. The pencil case looks too big to fit on the edge of the easel so I put it back into my bag and sit up. Remi has a much smaller, neater case and as she rests hers on the edge of the easel, she looks ready. I wonder if my pencil case will fit. I guess it’s worth a try? I attempt to balance it on the tiny shelf, but it looks like it’s going to fall. Its base is too wide. I hold my hands in front of it, just in case. When it stays put, I breathe a sigh of relief, then worry about the time I wasted focusing on my pencil case. But I know the problem’s not really the pencil case. It’s this damn in-between time. It’s always the moment before the new thing happens that I feel it the most.

I look around the room and see others talking quietly

to each other. Some kids look at their phones. Some sit straight, ready for the class. There is a nervous energy and it surprises me to realise that I am not the only person who is feeling uncertain. We are all waiting to see what will happen, waiting to be told what to do.

The woman who has led us here clears her throat. She is small, a little soft around the edges and has tight grey curls. Once she has our attention she smiles and begins. ‘Welcome one and all to life drawing. I’m Betty Kenwood and no I am not your model.’ This gains a few laughs. ‘This is a wonderful program we have for you over the next few weeks. It is lovely to have so many fresh faces. You will be learning a lot during this time. It may surprise you that when you walk out you will not be the same person who walked in. Now to set some ground rules. Working as we do at the easels brings with it many benefits. One of those is seeing each other’s work. This may, or may not, be something you feel comfortable with. Let me remind you, we are all on our own art journeys. We all bring to this room different experiences, different skills, different giftings. It should go without saying but I’m going to say it anyway, we will be kind to one another. We will be sharing a lot over this time and it’s important that this is a space everyone is happy to be in.’

She looks around the room. There are smiles and nods.

‘Good. We are diving straight in this morning and our focus will be on loosening up, relaxing our strokes, building up our confidence. We need to feel at ease to work without thinking, without worrying.’

I feel like she is talking directly to me.

‘We will work on some quicker sketches first, so prepare to get messy. Our model will hold her poses for two minutes to begin with, and to ease you in she will keep some layers on. Now without further ado, let me introduce you to Nerida, our first beautiful model.’

Nerida walks in smiling at everyone. She gives us some waves and takes her position on the stool in the middle of our semicircle. Nerida looks to be just older than my mum, but as comfortable as my mum is in her skin, she is nothing compared to the free spirit in front of us. Nerida’s hair looks to be transitioning from a warm copper colour into a grey. She is wearing a flowing floral gown which she slides down to reveal shoulders and upper torso. Under her gown I note that she is still wearing a bra and underwear.

‘If you don’t have your sketchbooks already out, do that now and I’d like you to get out some charcoal to work with,’ says Betty. ‘It is difficult to keep things neat with charcoal, which is why we are beginning with it. Please give yourself permission to create some chaos on the page. Remember, Nerida will hold each pose for only two minutes and our aim is to work quickly, turning off our minds and just letting our eyes and hands do the work. When I work like this, I almost spend more time looking up than looking at my page.’ Betty pauses and looks around at us. ‘Now if everyone is ready, we will get started.’

Nerida leans forwards, elbows on her knees, chin cupped in her hands. Her robe slides further down her back. We begin.

I feel movement around me, I can hear soft, fast scratches of charcoal on paper. I have the charcoal in my hand and immediately feel like it is all over me. Charcoal is like germs. Spread from surface to surface with a mere touch. I may be behind but I’m already messy.

I look to my left. Remi is halfway through her sketch. She has started at Nerida’s head and is working down. Her strokes seem lightning fast. On my other side, Lachlan has marked in the stool first and is working out from there. I swallow the ball of worry that is sitting in the back of my throat.

Just begin, I tell myself.

I assess Nerida. I’ll start with her head, I think. I look up again. Yes, the top is a good place to start. I trace an oval on my paper. Okay, working down. Her neck, no maybe I should fill in her hair. I look at her hair. Okay, time to start shading it in. I’m about to start when Betty claps her hands and I momentarily wonder who Betty is applauding. Then Nerida stands.

Shit.

My first drawing only has one shape on it. Paper rustles around me as everyone turns to their second page. Nerida rests both hands on her hips. A new pose. Her gown is open and we see her whole body. The person to the left of Remi is beginning to mark out the negative space around Nerida. Yeah, okay. That’s a good idea.

But is that a good idea? I still think I need to start at the top and work down. I mark out Nerida’s head. Great. This sketch looks exactly like my previous one. An oval. I could call it Oval on a White Page no. 2. But that’s probably not quite what we are going for here. I need to keep drawing, but I can feel my heart racing. I am so far out of my depth here.

Before I capture anything else, Betty claps her hands again and Nerida moves into her third pose. She places her hands on the stool, keeps her arms straight and steps back slightly. I can’t even reuse my paper because her head is at a different height. What is wrong with me? Why can’t I just start?

Betty, who has been circling the room, stops behind me. My heart picks up again. I don’t think I can do this. I can’t draw with her behind me.

Betty comes in close.

‘You just need to start, don’t worry about the outcome,’ she whispers to me.

I don’t really know how to respond. I nod my head and stare at my blank paper some more. Then after a moment Betty claps her hands again, ‘Some great work, everyone,’ she says, addressing the whole group. ‘I would like us to loosen up even more. I don’t want you to be afraid, I don’t want you to be stiff. Let’s draw this pose again. This time without looking at your page. In fact, let’s really make a mess. We’re not going to look at our page, we’re not going to look at all. For this round everyone will draw with their eyes closed.’ I can hear the collective intake of breath. ‘It doesn’t matter what it looks like. I want to impress this on you. Give yourself permission to let loose. Take one more look . . . Now, eyes closed and draw.’

I follow her instruction.

In my mind I picture Nerida, her weight over the stool, legs straight. Then I follow Betty’s advice. Eyes closed; I draw. I lift my charcoal to the paper. I mark out her head, then draw a line for her spine, following it all the way to her toes. I add her arms without worrying whether they meet her shoulders or not. I add the stool then head back up her body to add her hair.

When Betty claps her hands this time, I open my eyes to the sound of soft giggles and whispered exclamations. The page in front of me is no longer empty. My oval series has come to an end. As expected, my page is a mess. Nerida’s hair does not frame her face as I imagined I was drawing it. It doesn’t even sit like a mop on top of her head. It hovers about ten centimetres off her head, like a strange thought bubble depicting a sour mood. I sneak a look at Remi’s easel beside me. She catches my eye and winks. In Remi’s sketch Nerida has inherited a carpet of chest hair. Remi mimes brushing invisible chest hair. Laughter rises in me, catching me by surprise.

I look at my work again. It is a mess, there’s no mistaking that, but my first long line, Nerida’s spine, has been drawn with a confidence that belies my experience.

Betty circles the room. ‘Yes!’ she cries out. ‘This is what I want. Let’s do it one more time.’

Nerida stands tall again, her arms stretched long and crossed above her head. I take in her pose, the angles she creates. This time I am ready. I close my eyes and press the charcoal to the page. In my mind I hold the image of Nerida and as I draw, I imagine transferring it to the page. This is an easier pose and I decide not to lift my hand from the page. I try to add details as I go and when Betty claps her hands, I am excited to open my eyes. On my page Nerida now stretches long, the length of her legs, torso and arms all elongated in an exaggerated manner. It is 100% not realistic and yet, I kinda like it. Next to me, Remi gives me a smile. ‘Hey, that one really works.’

The warmth of something like pride fills me.

‘Thanks. I really loved the second one you did, your shading is incredible.’

Remi smiles at this compliment and as I raise my charcoal ready for the next pose, I realise that this class might not be so traumatic, that it could in fact be sort of wonderful.