The Color of Light (11 page)

“I don’t want to hear your excuses. It’s not even drawn well. I taught at NYU. They’re undergrad, and let me tell you, every one of them is farther along than you are.”

Tessa could almost hear her friend struggling with the situation. Perhaps the new teacher misunderstood. “This is figure painting,” Portia reminded her gently. “We kind of focus on the figure.”

April’s voice rose sharply. “Don’t tell me what class I’m in,” she snapped. “I know
exactly
what class I’m in. I have a show opening at O.K. Solomon in a month. Do you? Stop questioning my methods or learn how to type, because if you keep painting like this, you’re going to need it.”

There was an awkward, disbelieving silence.

“So…when you say, ‘get the background in,’ you mean, you want us to include the junk on the shelves?” David said slowly. “The easels? Coffee cups? People’s coats? The garbage can?”

“Or make something up, I don’t care. Just get something down.” She moved on.

Tessa turned around to sympathize with Portia, but she couldn’t, or wouldn’t, meet her gaze. She wore a dazed expression and her cheeks were highly colored, as if she had just been slapped.

“Portia,” she whispered fiercely. “Don’t listen to her. She’s a monster.”

She threw her brush down and walked quickly out of the room. Tessa looked to David, but he just lifted his hands into the air.
I don’t know what to do either.

Tessa followed her out to the hallway, but she had vanished. Reluctantly, she returned to class as if it were a prison sentence, waited for her turn to be pilloried.

“All right, kids.” April was saying. Several of the students in their class were over thirty, but it seemed to be her favored expression for addressing
them. “Now you know what I expect from you. I’m not going to continue critiquing today’s’ work, because as far as I can tell, it’s all one big brown mess. Let’s dethrone ‘The Figure.’ I don’t want you to treat the model any differently than the walls, or the coat hooks, or a Snapple bottle, or the sink. Go look at the work of Edwin Dickinson to see what I mean. See you next week.”

Class was dismissed. The shuffle of feet, chairs scraping the floor. The sound of knives scraping down palettes, turpentine cans snapped closed, rattle of brushes dropped in the sink for cleaning.

April beckoned to Tessa in the far corner of the room where she had stowed her gear. “That was a little rough,” she conceded, stuffing her papers into her bag and slipping on her supple, expensive-looking jacket. “Sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind. Like an intervention. They might not appreciate it now, but in time it will make them better artists. You’ll see.” She gave her a bright smile, patted her shoulder. “I can’t believe you’re my monitor! I’m going to call Lucian right now to tell him.”

Tessa managed a fake smile, nodded. Why didn’t she go already? She was still there, looking at her thoughtfully. “Are you working tonight? Because, if you’re not, I could really use your help. I’m always on the lookout for good assistants. And we’re going to a show uptown tonight, we wouldn’t even be in your way.”

There was a sick feeling in her stomach. No, no, a thousand times no. She would starve first. “Sorry,” she said. “I have plans.”

“Oh, well.” April said, throwing her pocketbook over her shoulder. “Another time. This is going to be so much fun!” And then she was gone, leaving a cloud of Calvin Klein’s
Obsession
in her wake.

There was a moment of silence.

“That is one crazy bitch,” stated Graham. “And I should know. I’ve dated a lot of crazy bitches.”

“She’s not a teacher, she’s a bully,” said Harker, with a kind of awe. “She uses words the way other people use knives. How do you know her, Tess?”

“Friend of my boss,” she replied grimly.

“Did you find Portia?” said David.

“No. She was already gone.”

“Maybe she went back to the studio.”

Rachel was dressed in street clothes, leaving for the day. She sought out Tessa. “I’m going to the office to tell them I don’t want to model for her,” she said matter-of-factly. “I can live with the pornographic poses. It’s the negative energy she’s putting out that makes me uncomfortable. Sorry.”

Like a whirlwind, Portia was back, picking up her supplies. Her long, narrow face was impossibly pink. Even her hair seemed furious, blond hairs snapping loose from her tight bun. As she slammed her paints into her box, she appeared to be holding back turbulent emotions with great difficulty.

“I’m sorry.” said Tessa, touching her arm. “So sorry.”

“Why?” Uncharacteristically biting off the words. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I didn’t do anything at all,” she said regretfully. “I should have told her she couldn’t talk to you that way.”

Portia stopped throwing her things into her art box. “Tessa,” she said. “Don’t blame yourself. She took us all by surprise. Anyway, she’s right. I do need to focus more on composition. She just said it in a jaw-droppingly inappropriate, unacceptable, inexcusable way. So I went to the office and transferred out of her class.”

“You can do that?” said one of the sculptors. “Out of my way.”

There was a hasty exodus to the office. In an instant the room emptied out. A handful of students remained. “Why are you still here?” demanded Portia. “Go, now. If we all walk out of her class together, we make a powerful statement about who we are and what we want from this school.”

Ben shrugged. “I’m a sculptor. What do I care what she says about my composition? I just need a body in front of me.”

But in Clayton’s pale eyes burned the fire of a zealot, and he gave Portia a dazzling smile when he replied, “You know, I think I’ll do just fine here, thank you.”

“Tessa.” But Tessa wouldn’t meet her gaze, she was focusing her attention on wiping paint off of her brushes. “What are you doing here? Run, do not walk, to the office and transfer to Geoff Anderson’s class. There are a few openings left.”

“I can’t,” she said abruptly. “I can’t transfer. I’m the monitor. I need the work-study hours. Also,” she hung her head, ashamed even as she formed
the words, “April is Lucian’s new best friend. What would he think if I transferred out after the first day?”

Portia didn’t give a damn what Lucian thought. “I really don’t think this is a good idea,” she said carefully.

“I’ll be fine. She has to make nice to me if she wants to stay in Lucian’s good graces.”

“What about you, David?”

David was wiping his palette down with turpentine. “Nah, I think I’ll stick around for the Clayton and April fireworks extravaganza,” he said. “Even if it is detrimental to both my education and my self-esteem.”

“Should be good,” Graham said. “I’m in.”

“You people are insane,” said Portia firmly as she lifted her bucket of paints to her shoulder. “I will not be responsible for repairing any damage, emotional or otherwise. Tessa, are we still on for tonight?”

“Is today Friday?” In the turmoil of the past week, she had lost track.

“Yeah.” said David. “Can you still whip up lamb tagine with your arm bandaged up like that?”

Tessa flexed her wrist up and down. It felt tight, the skin stretched to the limit. “Maybe we should make it next week.”

Groans of disappointment all around. “Aw, Tessa. It’s not Friday night without your challah,” said Ben.

“I can’t get through the week without your
kreplach,”
added David.

“You are not the first man to tell me that.”

“Please?” Clayton pleaded. “I’ll pick up the Manishewitz.”

“I’m going over to the Green Market in Union Square. I’ll bring fruit,” Portia volunteered.

“All right.” Tessa gave in. She liked having friends over for Shabbos dinner. “See you at seven. But no Manishewitz, Clayton. I’m not kidding. And if I hear one more obsessive crack about vampires, you go home.”

She picked up the space heaters and headed for the office. It was already twelve o’clock. She was going to have to hurry if her bread was going to be baked before sundown.

8

T
he challahs were warm and doughy, the lamb fell off the bone. Tessa made
kiddush
over a very nice George Duboeuf Clayton picked out that came highly recommended by the knowledgeable fellow at Crossroads on 14th Street. The artists filed into her kitchen to wash hands, then waited respectfully for her to make the blessing over the bread before they tore it to pieces and washed it down with Clayton’s Beaujolais.

The tagine, scented with cinnamon and cardamom, fell apart at the touch of a spoon. Tessa’s current roommate, a French Moroccan NYU business student, pressed her slice of challah to her nose to savor the aroma before devouring it. She kissed her fingers, flicked them in the air.
“Magnifique,”
she told her. “Better than in Paris.”

The men followed her every move as she shoveled food into her mouth with shameless pleasure, licking her fingers, oohing and ahhing and mmming with gustatory abandon.

She pulled a last piece of challah off of the loaf, swiped it across her plate and swallowed it.
“Bon,”
she announced, pushing away from the table and embracing Tessa on both cheeks. “Good
Shabbat.
I am going to see Daniel. I will see you later.” She smoothed her glossy hair behind her ear, tossed her leather knapsack and tennis racquet over her shoulder and bounded off like a panther, slamming the door behind her.

“You can stop drooling now,” said Tessa. “She won’t be back till tomorrow.”

“Is this one a keeper?” asked Portia. “How long has it been?”

“Six weeks,” said Tessa. “She seems nice. What do you think, guys, does she seem nice to you?”

“I think I speak for everybody when I say, very very nice.” Ben said.

Harker fished a packet of Zig-Zag out of his breast pocket. The scent of tobacco perfumed the room.

“Hey Tess.” Harker frowned as he licked the edge of the rolling paper, twisted the cigarette tight. “I thought Jews weren’t allowed to make graven images. That’s what my Daddy said.” Harker’s father was a minister. “Isn’t it in the bible somewhere?”

“I think I’m squeaking by on a technicality,” she replied. “I’m not actually praying to the graven images.”

“I don’t think I’m allowed to, either,” added Ben. “Witnesses are pretty strict about that sort of thing.”

“You’re a Witness, huh? The door-to-door kind?” Harker flipped a hand-rolled cigarette into the corner of his mouth, a neat trick that made everybody go, “Ooooh,” in an admiring sort of way.

“That’s right. In Indianapolis, I used to go every Sunday with my mother and my auntie until I was big enough to say no.”

“How do they feel about your career choice?”

“Well…it’s not exactly a choice, is it.” Ben rubbed the stubble accumulating on his chin. “If they weren’t Witnesses, I think they’d be proud. But as it is, they don’t ask and I don’t tell.”

“So, you’ve never had a birthday party.” said David.

He shook his head matter-of-factly.

“Never dressed up like Superman for Halloween. Never been trick or treating.” said Harker.

“Never got a present on Christmas?” said Clayton. “I respect all religions, my brother, but that is harsh.”

“Would you raise your children the same way?” Tessa was curious. Ben chuckled, shaking his head. “I’m not looking to get married.”

“Why not?”

“Art is my mistress. And she is a jealous, demanding, hellbitch of a mistress.”

“Gee,” said Graham. “I’ve never actually heard anybody put it that way before. That’s kind of beautiful.”

“Look. You fall in love, you get married. Before you know it, you have a kid. If you’re a man, you have to support a family. You fellas know what
I’m talking about. So, you get a job. Nothing too grueling, maybe painting murals for Dreamland Studios, or freelance graphic design. You can still do your thing at night, on weekends. Then your wife says she’s tired of pushing the stroller around junkies passed out in doorways and using the hall closet for a second bedroom. She’s ready for a house in the burbs. So you get a better job, the kind that requires you to wear a suit and put in long hours. Before you know it, art is a hobby on weekends, slipped in there between raking the lawn, fixing the leaky faucet, fourth grade homework and little league. You tell yourself that someday you’ll get back to it.”

“That’s cheery,” said David. “I think I’ll just go into the bathroom and slit my wrists.”

Ben shrugged. “That’s just how it is. Unless you have a trust fund.”

“Hey,” said Portia. “Leave my trust fund out of it.”

Tessa poured herself more wine. “I thought only people in movies had trust funds.”

Portia leaned her willowy body back in her chair, crossed her long legs, held her glass out for a refill. “Everybody I went to school with had a trust fund. After high school they all just quit. They didn’t feel like going to college. They didn’t have to work. They waste their lives hanging out at the club, going to parties and talking about other parties they’re going to later.”

Graham said, “Where do I sign up?”

“I was in school with kids like that,” said David. “Some of them were pretty messed up.”

“So how come you’re not messed up?” Harker asked Portia.

“I just have a small trust fund.”

“Speaking of messed up,” said David. “How about that April Huffman.”

“Tessa, you’re her monitor. Did you happen to notice three sixes tattooed anywhere on her person?” Clayton was completely serious.

“Who can we tell?” asked Portia gloomily. “Who would believe us?”

“The student liaison committee,” said Tessa, lifting herself up from the table to get dessert. A little unsteady on two glasses of wine, she swayed into the small galley kitchen, returned with a pan of brownies. “They can tell Mr. Sinclair. He’d want to know.”

“I don’t think he can do anything about it,” said Graham morosely.

“Why not? It’s his damn school.”

“The board and the teachers are separate but equal,” he explained. “Turner’s the chairman of the painting department. He’s supposed to be independent of the board’s influence. This April Huffman snafu is his baby.”

“I’ll talk to him,” Portia said. “I’m sure he’ll tell her to tone it down.”