The Model's Face
Photo by Daian Gan from Pexels.
Evan Rosenau
The Model’s Face
The hall was still dark as the sun rose opposite the south-facing windows. Cassius’ eyelids fluttered as he awoke from his brief slumber.
“Class, we shall begin what we started yesterday!” the professor bellowed, causing his voice to permeate every corner of the sprawling room. Aaro was his name. The prism of colors along every wall seemed to amplify his message, each almost gaining saturation as he spoke. Even though he was not in the center of the room, instead pacing between the eclectic collection of tables and single desks, the plants crawling the walls and tumbling from the ceiling seemed to frame him perfectly, as if he were made to preach the day’s lesson.
He began discussing the many intricacies of the work to be done, lecturing for what Cassius thought to be eighty-four minutes, but was only from five to six am. Aaro delved into the emotions colors evoke, which are universal to all people. He discussed how they can be used to convey the feelings of a person, which is what the artists would be practicing today. Through his morning fog, Cassius caught only the doors opening as Aaro introduced their model.
As the sound of the professor’s voice halted its rhythmic march, Cassius reached to grab a new pencil, feeling the sharp point of graphite ready to be used. As others joined him, their bubble gum pink erasers blinded him, their color glowing in the morning light.
Somewhat estranged in a far corner, Cassius began to trace the model in his mind. Before his eyes, sharp, rigid lines draped themselves perfectly along the model’s features. The others, however, had already begun with their pencils, which created an orchestra of squeaks and scratches, sketching nearly perfect recreations of their subject.
After some time, Cassius began with his pencil as well, glancing up to determine how far along the others were. They had already begun with their paints, warm pigments of peach and salmon layered to capture the warmth of the model’s skin, paired with marrons to capture the mysteries of their face. Cassius, however, felt unprepared to deal with such a permanent medium. As such, he continued with his endless scribbling and erasing. His eraser was now nearly half its original size, the bubble gum pink now blackened. Its remains created a texture irritating enough to get on one’s last nerve, but Cassius ignored how it pinched against his arm. His brain did not even register the stimulation through the fog, which remained from his earlier daze.
The sun had moved high, nearly to its climax, before Cassius was content with the work he had begun to produce. He took a deep breath and decided it was time to add color. However, he could not locate his paints. He began tantalizingly searching, his hips hinging like a door as he searched high and low. He hoped to find a yellow as energetic as the light that still came in from the wall of floor to ceiling windows, to pair with a pastel blue as serene as the sky drowning the wall. Regardless, he did not make it long before the professor decided it was time to move on.
“Class, we shall now counsel one another. Give some advice to those around you.”
Cassius made no move to show he had heard the instructions, but the artist next to him did, and with some enthusiasm; she nearly knocked over her desk as she catapulted out of her seat. Her name was Thyia, and when Cassius checked, he saw she had already added a plethora of hues to her canvas. Despite the monochromatic state of his own sketch, Thyia regarded it with the same enthusiasm, as bright as a star, excitedly pointing out the detail in Cassius’ fine thatching, remarking on the potential it possessed. This felt wonderful for Cassius, and the haze within his mind began to clear the slightest bit as he began to imagine the rainbow he could imbue in his painting, his creativity bolstered by Thyia’s comments.
However, with this same enthusiasm, she gave him a piece of criticism: the model’s facial structure was a bit off, his emotions not properly captured. She thought some warm corals would help. When she said it, her voice dropped a little, and it did not have as quick a rhythm as when she had complimented him. Cassius noticed this, causing the fog to thicken once again. Despite her speaking kindly, Thyia’s admirable intentions did not penetrate the wall of mist now consuming Cassius’ senses; only the denotation of her words reached him. He could no longer see through the blur at the edges of his vision, only the annoying itch of eraser scraps reached him, pestering him even more as he sprinted in circles of anxiety.
Thyia continued on to commend Cassius for the professionalism showcased by his piece, her voice bouncy and light once more, but he still could not hear her. She stopped abruptly, her eyes as wide as a doe’s, peering expectantly toward Cassius.
“Cassius? Cassius?” Thyia asked. “That was all I had to say about your sketch. I was hoping you could give me some feedback as well?”
Only then did his fog thin a little, allowing him to blink a few times before he responded. Regardless, he had very little to say. Thyia had done a wonderful job after all, and he was still too focused on the changes to be made to the model’s face. Cassius blinked once more, appearing to take great care in examining her painting, but the fog still did not allow him to see completely. Even so, he could not leave without helping Thyia a little, so he listed all the good things he saw in her painting: the reds blazed as bright as a forest fire, the blues were as vibrant as the Mediterranean, the oranges mirrored the colors of a setting sun. When he viewed the painting, it filled him with a sense of life. However, this was overridden by a yearning to capture that same life within his painting. Thyia regarded his comments the same as she did everything else, with great enthusiasm. Her ears perked up, and her voice was brighter than ever, its amplitudes almost painful to Cassius’ ears. Her gray eyes twinkled with interest, while her lips rattled off questions, her brain wanting to dig deeper into Cassius’ thoughts. Against his wishes, the two had begun to chat. However, Thyia did the majority of the talking.
Nonetheless, after some time, both decided to get back to work, Thyia’s lips pursed, her face set with planned determination. Cassius, on the other hand, began wildly scribbling and erasing, scribbling and erasing, grinding down both the eraser and pencil tip until they were nearly flat. He took a breath, sharpened his pencil, which his nails had formed divots in, and began again. He did not look up for hours, losing track of time as he tried again and again to capture even the slightest essence of the model’s face as Thyia had described it to him: rich with life and full of mystery, carrying the secrets of a life well lived. He needed to get his sketch a little bit more detailed before he could add the color Thyia had recommended. As he had almost used up all of his pencil, leaving both the eraser and tip near flat, he decided it was time to add paints.
However, he once again could not find them. He knew he could ask one of the other students where they got theirs, but all of them were dutifully laboring away at their works, and he did not want to interrupt them. His empathy made him a statue, frozen in his seat.
Not to mention, Thyia had left, having completed a gorgeous painting. She had made only a few minor adjustments after the two’s discussion. A few of the others glanced up at him with curious looks, since he had kept on with his pencil, even as the sun’s light drew saturation from the colors around the room. Despite their obvious concern, none had moved to help him. A few had even left, paying him no more than a glance as they went hurriedly to their next class. However, when Cassius glanced over at their workspaces, he discovered they had left before finishing their works. He examined the canvases carefully, curious as to how they could leave their paintings in such raw states.
In particular, one caught his eye. Its passionate reds and authoritative blues were thrown so hastily on the canvas that they remained wet, having bled together the slightest bit. The paint itself was not properly stirred, which left pigment to harden in clumps, giving the canvas a strange topography. Nonetheless, somehow, despite the unfinished state of the piece, it was still beautiful. Cassius yearned once again for his painting to capture even a sliver of the beauty he saw.
Fueled by the hues of his peer, he began searching again for creams to bring him some peace and pinks to add some playfulness to his painting. However, the fog within his mind still had not cleared completely. As such, he struggled not only to find the paints but to see at all. Yet he continued to search, thinking back to where he had seen the colors before. However, the fog made it difficult for him to recall anything clearly.
After searching for an eternity, he decided he needed a second to try to clear his head. By this time, however, no one was left in the classroom, leaving him alone as the sun continued to fall from its place in the sky. He knew it was time to leave, yet something hidden beneath the fog kept him there, searching, needing to find at least a green to give him some hope. In spite of his determination, occasionally, flashes of black clouded his vision, his will now beaten and scattered, similar to the eraser’s remnants which still littered his desk. Quickly, this black began to take over his brain. He struggled to keep his lids afloat, but once more, he fell asleep, still trying desperately to capture the heart of the model’s face.
