9. Pucking Art #2
“So?” I insist when his answer to my question is a glare. “I mean, your perception of shapes is interesting. That’s definitely a square, but it’s also a blob. Are those smudges there and there intentional, or did you have trouble with the paint?”
A muscle pops in Keene’s perfect jaw.
“It’s not abstract art.” He says tersely. “That’s a portrait of Poonani.” He crosses his arms over his chest, and for a second my brain short circuits.
I can’t take my eyes off of the way his big biceps bulge and the corded muscles in his forearm make the tattoos that decorate his skin jump. He has several tattoos on his lower arms, but my attention is attracted by one in particular. It’s a playing card. An ace of hearts that’s lit on fire.
I snap out of my lust-induced daze when Keene clears his throat. “That’s supposed to be a cat?”
There’s no hiding the shock in my voice as I take one step back to reevaluate the black, smudged object on Keene’s canvas.
“Yes, it’s Poonani.” His jaw grinds so hard that I’m surprised all his white, perfect teeth don’t shatter. “Can’t you see? Those are her ears and that’s her tail.”
I look at the biggest smudges that seem to veer away from the main shape, but still fail to see a cat. “Are you sure this isn’t intended as abstract art?”
Keene’s grip on the paintbrush still in his hand is so hard that I expect it to snap in his hands. “Positive.”
Ok. “Can I ask you why you decided to paint Poonani again when you got an F the first time?”
His knuckles turn white, but rather than breaking the paintbrush, Keene paints a big X across his artwork.
“Did you and Professor Cantucci set out to make my life hell?” he barks. “I’m doing my best, but it doesn’t seem enough. This was supposed to be an easy class, and now I might not graduate on time because of it.”
He’s furious, but I know he isn’t really mad at me. He’s just frustrated and stressed by the fact that he’s failing that class.
I don’t take his reaction personally. Helping him pass his class is my job, and I need to find a way to get Keene to connect with whatever he puts on canvas from now on.
“Ok.” I exhale, my hands on my hips as I think about how I can help him. “It’s safe to say that drawing isn’t your strongest skill. And your technique with paint is nonexistent.”
Keene barks out a laugh. “Jeez, thank you. Don’t sugarcoat it to spare my feelings. If it helps, I thought that class was all theory. I had no idea I would have to paint.”
There’s a hint of hurt beneath his snarky tone, and I remind myself that Keene and I are supposed to be on a truce.
“I’m not trying to berate your skills or lack thereof.” I say as gently as I can muster. “But if you want to pass that class, we have some work to do. Since drawing isn’t one of your natural talents, maybe we should focus on abstract art, rather than trying to create figurative art.”
He nods, his ice-blue eyes fixed on his canvas.
“Sure. Then, that portrait of Poonani is abstract. Cubism, like you said earlier. Cantucci can’t argue with abstract, right? That’s why you think I should switch.”
“Ha. Good try.” I snort. “I’m afraid it doesn’t work like that. Professor Cantucci can totally argue with abstract, and she will. If you turn in that painting as your extra credit, you’re going to get another F.”
Keene’s broad shoulders sag at my words. “Then I guess I’m fucking screwed.”
My hand flies to his biceps before I even realize that I’m touching him. His skin is silky smooth and warm over the hard steel of his muscles. “That’s what I’m here for. We’re going to figure it out together.”
I walk to the front of the room, facing all the people who came to tonight’s workshop. “Thank you all for coming.” I address everyone. “Those of you who need extra credit have done a great job. Let me know what Professor Cantucci thinks when you come back next week. This is it for tonight.”
There’s a chorus of thank you and goodbyes as everyone leaves.
“Where are you going?” I stop Keene when he walks past me, headed to the door.
“You said the class was over.” He argues.
I walk around him, putting myself between him and the door. “The class is over for the people who have something to show Cantucci tomorrow. You don’t. So you’re going to stay, and we’re going to work on something else.”
Keene runs a big hand through his dark hair. “Just when I thought this night couldn’t get any more exhausting. I could try to work on something at home, Bex. I don’t want to keep you here past your shift. Unless the university pays you overtime.”
“I’m paid for another hour to make sure the art supplies are put back where they belong and the classroom is left ready for tomorrow morning’s workshop. You can work while I tidy up.”
He hangs his head, resigned to his fate.
“Fine. But just so you know, if I can’t turn that in and call it abstract art, I have no idea what I can do to impress Cantucci.
Isn’t abstract art something that looks nothing like the object it portrays?
Or something weird like a banana hanging over a toilet? ”
“That last example is more post-modern art or pop art, even. And yes, you’re correct that abstract art reinvents the object it portrays. The artist’s imagination elaborates the subject more into a concept, rather than an exact visual representation of it.”
Keene attempts to sell me his black square blob one last time. “But if that’s the case, can’t I say that’s how I see Poonani?”
“Come with me and let’s look at your painting again.
” I encourage him to follow me back to his easel.
“Even if it takes a lot of imagination to see a cat in there, the reason it doesn’t work is that it’s just a vague shape.
Now that I look at it more closely, I can see two green dots.
Are they supposed to be Poonani’s eyes?”
Keene nods. “Yeah.”
“Ok. So, the issue is that if you want to try to paint abstract art, you need to reimagine your subject, see it through a lens that isn’t reality.
You can come up with a concept, or since you’re a beginner, you could reinvent Poonani based on your feelings for her.
How does your cat make you feel? Maybe even how do you think she feels about you?
Based on that, is that how you would paint her? ”
He shakes his head. “Fuck, no. I can see what you mean. That could be the representation of my feelings for Poonani if I were a psycho, or a serial killer.”
“You said that.” I snort. “But I actually agree. So now that we got that down, let’s begin imagining how those feelings would look on canvas. Would your portrait still be mostly black?”
The corners of his lips tip up in the beginning of a smile. Keene’s gaze softens as he thinks about his beloved pet. “No, definitely not.”
“So what colors would you use to paint those feelings?”
He thinks about the answer for a couple of seconds. “They would be warm colors. Something that shows love, and trust. Respect. Maybe yellow and orange. Pink? But she also calms me down when I’m stressed, so something cooler, like blue?”
I smile. “Yes. Those are excellent starting points. Let’s also decide on a technique. Paintbrushes aren’t the only things you can use to do this. We need this to really convey how much Poonani means to you, and a few brushstrokes of color will hardly be enough.”
He looks confused. “Ok. But if not a paintbrush, how am I going to paint?”
I think about it for a second. “What’s another thing you love other than Poonani?”
“Hockey,” he says easily.
My eyes go to the Cove Knights duffel bag still in his hand. “Then let’s take a look inside your bag.”