3. Nick
NICK
A four-story brownstone with a bay window looking over Fruit Street houses the Brooklyn Heights Community Arts Center.
I’ve always loved these old townhouses, full of history and charm, and this neighborhood is especially beautiful.
Situated at the far end of the street, the arts center sits beside an architecture firm and wellness clinic, and is supported by wealthy local patrons—a lost art these days.
June meets me at the front door, looking slightly frazzled, silver hair coming loose from her mother-of-pearl barrette.
I follow her into what would have once been the parlor of this grand old home, but is now the studio for this evening’s life-drawing class.
There’s a pile of sketchbooks on a table in one corner, a row of wooden easels stacked against the exposed-brick wall, and a low velvet sofa the color of merlot in the bay window.
I watch as June attempts to drag a large pedestal into the center of the room and sigh.
Setting my bag down and shrugging off my jacket, I wordlessly take over.
“Thank you, Dr. Sweetman,” she says, flustered.
I straighten. “Just Nicholas, June. I’m not here in any official capacity.”
She moves to grab an easel, but I wave her away, setting them up around the center pedestal myself.
I’ve never taught a life-drawing class before, but the concept is not unfamiliar to me.
A live model poses in the center, and the students capture them on the page while a teacher observes and offers guidance.
I’ve already decided we’ll start with a few warm-up exercises of various simple poses, then lead into more complex shapes.
The only challenge will be getting people to relax. There’s nothing natural about staring at a naked person in the center of the room and studying their body in minute detail, but as long as the model has enough experience, it shouldn’t be an issue.
Two hours , I remind myself. Then I can get back to my syllabus and forget this damned class ever happened.
June appears, carrying a tray with several wine bottles and plastic cups, setting them on the back table beside a roll of name tags.
“Wine?” I ask, and she waves a hand, gold bangles clinking on her wrist.
“Oh, we always put wine out. It helps everyone relax.”
I frown. I’m sure it does, but no one’s drawing skills will improve with alcohol. Not to mention, if the center is struggling financially, throwing money away on wine hardly seems prudent. I open my mouth to say as much, but the sound of voices at the door has me swallowing my words.
June hands out name tags as the students file in, greeting them with enthusiasm.
There’s a shrill ring from her phone, and she thrusts the roll of name tags into my hand before stepping out to take the call.
I hover near the door, waiting as people mingle awkwardly, some taking a plastic cup from the tray, others glancing nervously around the studio.
A few people have come in pairs, chatting quietly, but most have come alone.
A good mix of men and women, I notice, and I wonder if the model is male or female. Actually…
I scan the small crowd filling the space, looking for the model, but no one steps forward. Shouldn’t they be here by now?
June appears beside me, concern etched into the grooves of her weathered face. “I’m so sorry, Nicholas,” she says in a low voice, “but it appears our model is double-booked and can’t make it.”
I blink. “Oh.” Well, that’s that, then. You can’t host a life-drawing class without a model.
June releases a resigned sigh. “We’ll have to cancel the class,” she says, a tiny quiver in her voice.
I’m ashamed to feel a rush of relief. I want to support June, really I do, but knowing I won’t have to guide a room full of people through the process of drawing a nude model makes the tight knot in my chest loosen. Besides, there’s not much I can do if the model is a no-show.
June turns to the group, wringing her hands, and the quiet chatter settles.
“Thank you so much for coming this evening, everyone,” she begins, mouth downturned.
“But I have some bad news. Our model can’t make it, which means we can’t go ahead with the class.
” A low murmur of disappointment breaks out among the group, and June adds hastily, “I’ll issue you all full refunds, of course… ”
“I can do it,” a voice says from across the room.
I turn to see a young woman, around thirty, with blunt bangs across her forehead and long dark waves spilling over her shoulders.
“Sorry?” June says, brows lifting in surprise.
The woman rises from the chair behind her easel, smiling. She’s in a cotton dress falling to just above her knees, burnt orange with ruffled sleeves.
“If you need a model for the class,” she says cheerfully, “I’m happy to do it. I mean, I’m not a model,” she adds with a chuckle, and a smattering of nervous laughter ripples around the studio.
My brow furrows. I don’t see how this will work. It was one thing when I thought I was teaching a class with an experienced model, but she won’t know how to pose, and the class will be even more awkward.
“But if you only need someone you can draw,” she continues, “I don’t mind volunteering.”
June’s face lights up. “Are you sure? Then we wouldn’t have to cancel…”
“Absolutely.”
The young woman steps forward, and June’s gaze swings to me.
I inhale to protest, but when I catch the gleam of relief in her eyes, I stop.
Tempted as I may be to walk out, I could never do that to her.
She reminds me of a lovely old lady I’ve spoken to at department fundraising events—one of the few people who has made those evenings bearable—and I soften.
“Fine.” I glance at the young woman’s name tag, but it’s illegible. “And you are…”
“Zinnia.” She beams, toeing off her sandals beside the pedestal, then hesitates. “Should I be nude? I’ve never done this before, so…”
Heat rises to the back of my neck. I ignore it, adjusting my glasses.
“Traditional figure study is nude, yes,” I say stiffly, “but given this is very spur of the moment, go with whatever makes you comfortable.”
“Okay, I’ll just…” She reaches for the hem of her dress, and June’s hand shoots out.
“Let me get you a robe, dear,” she offers, but Zinnia shakes her head.
“No need.”
Then she pulls the hem of her dress over her head and tosses it aside, until she stands there in her bra and panties, grinning.
My breath stalls. I cough, turning away. I’m hit with the thought that I can’t remember the last time a woman undressed in front of me, then dismiss it immediately.
“Excellent.” June claps her hands together in delight. “You’ve saved the class, Zinnia. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” she says, as June trots merrily from the room.
When I turn back, Zinnia has climbed onto the pedestal, and I’m relieved to see she’s still in her underwear.
They’re a neutral color, so they’ll work well.
Probably better this way. She stands easily, gaze moving around the studio as everyone opens their sketchbooks.
She’s not the least bit uncomfortable or self-conscious, and I step closer, fascinated by the sweep of her cheekbone, her delicate nose, and the tiny diamond stud glinting there.
When her gaze moves to mine, I realize I’m staring.
“How do you want me?” she asks, eyes dancing.
I snap back into the moment. This is what I was afraid of. No structure. No plan. I’ll have to run this entirely off the cuff.
“Let’s start simple,” I say crisply. “Take a contrapposto stance.”
She bites her lip. “Sorry, I don’t…”
I exhale, sliding my glasses off to clean them on the hem of my shirt. This is going to take all night.
“Stand with your weight on one hip,” I explain. “We’ll start with a series of quick warm-ups, so keep up.”
“Sure thing.” She does as I ask, settling her weight into her right hip. “Tell me if I look like I’m about to fall over,” she jokes, and laughter echoes through the group.
“You’re doing great,” an older woman calls out, and a couple of people murmur their agreement.
“Right,” I say, ignoring them as I pull out my phone to time the exercise. “You’ve got two minutes to capture this pose. These first ones are simply to get your hand moving. Don’t worry about the details, just capture the shapes.”
I set the timer, watching as everyone begins scribbling. When I glance at our model again, her eyes are on me, warm and curious, and I shift uncomfortably. She’s the one in her underwear, so why do I feel exposed?
“Turn your head toward the back of the room,” I tell her when the timer goes off. “One hand on your hip.”
She does as asked without missing a beat. There’s a rustle of paper as everyone flips to a new page.
“Is my arm doing something weird?” she asks, and more laughter comes from the group.
“Not from this angle,” the same older woman assures Zinnia.
They exchange a smile, and I tear my gaze away and wander to the window to look at the street, trying to ignore the unusual sensation lodged in my chest. The timer brings me back into the moment, and I issue more instructions, guiding the group through a few longer poses, each time turning away from the woman at the center of the room.
“Take a quick break,” I tell the class, and they burst into animated chatter. I turn to Zinnia, adding, “You, too. You’ll need to hold the next pose for fifteen minutes.”
“That sounds like a challenge,” she says, eyes shimmering. They’re a warm hazel color, ringed with gold, as if someone pressed gold leaf into the iris. When I don’t respond, her smile slips a little. “Am I doing okay?”
Despite myself, I smile. “You’re doing great.” As irritating as it is to admit, she’s followed every instruction, moving confidently through a variety of poses. Not only that, she’s gotten the class to laugh and loosen up, which not everyone could manage in their underwear.