The chill of yesterday has given way to a delicious warmth as I sit on this roughhewn pine bench, chalky crushed stone beneath my feet, on the grounds of the Provincetown Art Association Museum. Waiting for art class to begin, I reflect on what a beautiful afternoon it is. Two antique Adirondack chairs, lounging beneath a century’s old oak in the courtyard, seem oddly out of place with their brilliant aquamarine paint, more Florida than Cape Cod.  I would expect a weathered rust, a chocolaty brown perhaps.  Although, as I sit here, the landscaper is trimming the Fichus hedge that wraps itself around the museum property.  Horticulture as art. Very Disney like in its’ topiary quality. The greenery is being carved into wave upon wave, like the rolling Atlantic, that great body of water hugging this town on the tip of the Cape.

I am excited but hesitant about attending art class today.  Figure drawing.  The brochure assured me that “all levels are welcome”, a nice way of saying that the Art School will take anyone’s money, even if you suck at art.  So, I signed up, naïve perhaps.  Let’s dive right in why don’t we.  Oh my.  No obligatory art class introductions to waste time here.  Before I knew it, there was a young woman stripped down to her birthday suit, and I do mean Happy Birthday!  Holy moly, yikes.  My piece of drawing charcoal was igniting with a passion for figure drawing that I didn’t know I had.  It is said that those who can’t, teach.  I believe the polar opposite is true.   Those who can, the subject matter experts, shouldn’t. Teach that is. Oft times renowned for their prowess in a particular field, they are unable to teach others what they themselves know.  It can be downright criminal in fact. More often than not, I have received instruction, sitting at the feet of the Master, who is unable to communicate even the simplest concepts of their craft.  It’s so unfortunate, because good teachers’ are truly called. They are the special few individuals who are able to articulate their subject to a wide array of students in various ways, and at varying levels. Teaching is such a noble profession, and unfortunately, grossly underestimated and underappreciated.  This very famous artist who is “teaching” this class embodies all of the lack I just mentioned. His thoughts so esoteric, his attempt to share some artistic principles so halting, that I found his communicative ineptitude endearing.  Surely this man has international stature in the art world.  Because I’m a chicken, and afraid of actually defaming a person and getting sued, I shall keep his name to myself.  But the reaction I received when I mentioned his name to several art informed “townies”, brought home the realization that he is formidable, well known, and respected.  With a reputation that precedes him, surely he doesn’t need the monies paid to the art school by secret artists like myself or the art school types who fancy themselves as having real talent.  You know the type, hanging on every syllable and fawning to get the artists approval.

The first few minutes of our drawing class were shocking to me.  I was freaking out inside while maintaining a relaxed exterior. I do not know how to draw.  Period.  There, I said it.  That’s why I’m taking a drawing class.  I have no interest in figure drawing perse’. But as a potter I thought learning to draw the human form would help me sketch my pots, considering that pots are referred to in human terms, the foot, the belly of the pot, the shoulder, etc.  Here I am in an art class of a well-known museum school, with a naked lady in front of me posed ever so art school like, with a big easel, a little piece of paper, and some drawing charcoal that I have no idea what to do with.  Should I run for the door? Admit it to everyone that I was just kidding, I don’t really want to draw.  The instructions from our teacher simply stated were, “Ok, you have ten minutes for this first pose, begin”. What? Help!! I’m lost before I’ve begun.  You must realize, I’ve never even held a piece of charcoal.  I tentatively begin my initial strokes on the paper, unsure of what I’m doing.  I feel like a five year old with a box of crayons scattered on the floor and I’m coloring outside the lines, way outside.  A few minutes pass, and my sketch is beginning to morph from what initially resembled an amoeba, to looking somewhat like the naked lady.  Our teacher is making his way from one student to the next, ut oh. Suddenly he announces, “Stop everyone, stop and come over here and look at this brand new artist’s perspective”.  Oh, here we go.  Not bad enough that I’m in over my head, but now the entire class is coming over to see my ignorance for themselves.  “You have a great eye, and a great touch, good work”.  The art class types were pissed to say the least.  Here this pretender to the throne is getting to sit at the banquet table with the King.  His brief comments filled me with pride, and brought to remembrance the flood of warmth I felt when I received even the smallest amount of attention and praise that I so longed for as a child, screaming inside “can you see me? I’m here!

As the class was winding down, after the last pose of a really good studio model was struck, I had a small body of initial charcoal sketches from my figure drawing class with a world-renowned artist.  As the days pass, I know that I have learned more than just charcoal on paper,

and the musculature of human anatomy.  My secret artist is emerging and I’m so proud of myself for saying yes to her.  Another great day, what a beautiful afternoon for and art class.