Page 34 of Painting Celia

She chose to sit on the floor, one knee up across her body, and sank her head onto it. Her arm lay limply at her side, trailing onto the ground.

“That’s good,” he said. “Really good.”

“Thanks,” she said, her voice muffled.

The quiet sounds of brush on canvas came to her, but she concentrated on her task. Sadness, Celia. Pretend. Do what sad people do.

“Come see,” he said, far sooner than she expected.

She stood and became herself again, quiet and composed. León gave her a questioning sidelong glance as she walked back. Why?

She came to look and was astonished. It was her! The bare black lines were practically a caricature—every minute detail definitely her, despite being so simple. He was so talented. She’d never achieve this level of painting, not ever.

She sneaked a look at him and caught him doing the same.

Back to the canvas! “Is this what you meant by painting lines last time?”

He shifted to his other foot beside her.

“No, you did exactly as I asked then. This is a figure study, different from what we did.” He looked at the canvas, shaking his head slightly. “I was going to give you some pointers about expressing emotion physically, but you don’t need them.”

He exhaled hard. Was he unhappy about that?

“Okay. It’s your turn,” he said. “I’ll watch, and you copy this study. Just do the lines the same way as I did.”

Yeah, right. “I’m not as good as you, León. I can’t replicate that.”

“Humor me.”

She gave it a shot, aware of him judging her the whole time. The brush trembled in her fingers a little. He shook his head as the line of black wavered.

“Here, this is an old trick.” He turned the canvas upside down, so the lines lost human meanings and looked more random. “Now, paint that pose again, down here. Paint exactly what you see.”

She gave it another shot, a little less nervous this time. When she finished, León reversed the canvas again, and she was surprised to see how much closer she’d gotten. Her little figure actually looked sad.

“Why has no teacher ever shown me that?” she asked. “That’s amazing.”

“I guess it depends on the teacher. Some just teach things like shading and musculature. We’ve got to work on your visual honesty. Emotions don’t come from shading. They come from the human body, the heart, the sensations you get when you feel them.”

He pointed to the line he’d painted of her arm, trailing to the ground.

“This line is numb, hopeless, empty. It’s frail. Weak. You held the pose beautifully. Did you feel sad when you did it?”

She shook her head. “Not really. I sort of imagine things, a story where I would feel the way I’m supposed to.”

He scowled faintly. What was she doing wrong?

He cleared his throat. “Your first try with the brush,” he said, “you were aware of how an arm should look. You made it heavier here at the top, which makes it look tense. The elbow is bent a little more. It gives it more purpose and less weakness. But on your second try, you just painted with your eyes. You didn’t make an arm. You made the line.”

She saw what he meant. But… “How do I use this in a real painting? I’m just copying you.”

“For now. But we’ll practice painting what you see, not what you think you see. And then we’ll talk about what you really saw and why it works.”

It was all so abstract, though he made it sound reasonable. He was challenging what she thought painting was. Something to practice! Wheels turned in her head, taking in the new rules.

“How do you feel right now?” he asked. Celia turned to face him, a little startled to find him focused on her with those dark eyes again, his body turned to her, his head lowered to make direct eye contact.

“Excited,” she admitted. “It’s new.”

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