The smell of the art supplies wafts through the air: oil paint, solvent, chalk pastel, graphite… the works. The lighting is perfect; I can see all of my lines, and scratches. The murmur of teenagers is floating through the room, but that is not what I am concerned with. A still-life is the center of the room. Some students admiring its structure. The easels are positioned around the space, with creativity dancing around, to get a glance at the perfect angle, or the perfect vase. Electronics are set out. Music blasting through wires, into eardrums, tuning out anything that can distract the ideas and focus from entering the space. The room is alive, yet quiet, focused, and still. The screen is down, for no apparent reason. The whiteboard is filled with notes for the other classes. The drip of the sink every few minutes reminds me of my reality: where I am sitting.
I cannot concentrate on anything but the piece that I am working on. I’ve been working for hours and hours; I’m not going to give up now. I have a vision, and I will not allow it to fall short. People must glance and understand the emotion: a memory, long past.
As my pastel glides across the page, progress is being made. Strong shapes, to strong corners. Strong corners, to filled innards. Filled innards, to a solid object. My creation is coming to life; with a few minutes of nurturing, it should be alive and well. There is not room for error and no time to spare. I can see everything coming together.
As I make my last swipe, I can see the image. I can feel the memories. As I take a step back, I know that I have done my job. Relief and joy washes over me. The final product is turned in, and pride rushes in. Although not perfect, it is the best I have in me. The imperfections make it my own creation.
The sink is running, water flowing through my hands, the soap bubbles, and creates a sanitary feeling. It is done. Everything is put away.
Now the ultimate question: what should be my next creation?