From the age of 11 I went to a very strange school.
The art class was held in a light room off an oval gallery. It was taught by a nun clothed in grey. Her hair was a lighter shade of grey, small strands escaped from her wimple. She had long fingers and olive hands. I remember her well, as I do the time she thought it would be good for us to see a dead nun. During class she led us to a small room where a ‘sister’ lay. A wax corpse with rosary beads twined around her clasped hands. We filed around her bed. My first experience of a dead person, my last experience of a dead nun.
I didn’t dread any class as much as I dreaded art, although I hated Latin and Piano too. Art was different. Deep down I wanted to be good at art, I wanted to create something and I wanted to be cool. At the end of term when portfolios were handed in I sighed. The hours I had spent looking out the window meant I had nothing to show.
RecentlyI turned up at an art class. I was gripped with fear. The room was light. The easels stood in an empty circle. The sound of traffic outside couldn’t drown out the sound of my thoughts, what was I doing here? We were invited to set up our easels, pick our materials and attach a sheet of paper. The masking tape stuck to my fingers and my easel slipped. I couldn’t find the space to stand, my feet seemed too large and I wanted to run. I debated whether it was more embarrassing to stay or leave. I stayed.
The eloquent teacher stood in the centre of the circle and took as on a journey. We had to respond. I looked at the chalk in my hand and willed it to the paper. Each time I picked up a colour I sighed. The next exercise was easier, all scrunching things, ripping things and yes, more masking tape.
Finally we had to draw each others portraits. I knew I was standing next to someone who could actually draw. A kindly man. A quiet man. A big man. I sat first. He drew. I closed my eyes. The tutor said it was interesting that some artists find when sitting the time passes slowly and when drawing the reverse. I could have sat all day.
Then I drew and laughed and swapped portraits and Francisco was kind and told me that he was lucky that he had an aunt that had taught him how to use charcoal. And I so wished my aunt’s had. But I thought this Sunday morning had been good and different and challenging. I wiped the chalk from my hands and binned the em, rusty shed and smiled as I thought not of care or dead nuns but of happy people in a studio in a gallery off the Finchley Road. Not exactly cool but at least I tried.
If you would like to try an art class at http://camdenartcentre.org sign up to their newsletter. Despite losing funding a new schedule will becoming soon.
P.S. I booked a series of 4 classes and for all the wrong reasons I have only made one. The last one is this Sunday- await a new masterpiece…
the unsung 