The Artist’s Apprentice

I was a little nervous; no, anxious more than nervous or apprehensive is a better word for the way I was feeling. After all, this was the biggest day of my life to this point and all of the art world would be looking at me, or at least my work. I was to open my showing at a prestigious New York art gallery this very evening and I just wished it was all over and everyone loved my work, that’s all. I had every reason to believe that they would, everyone always does, but I just wanted tonight to be over.

I am a 27 year old artist in oils, I am, what you would call, a prodigy and have been in the spot light before, but never to this extent. This particular galley in The City was different from the regional acclaim I was used to. As the song goes, “If I can make it here, I can make it any where,” so this is a big test. As I got out of the limo that the galley has provided for me this evening, I could not help but wonder what The Master, my mentor, would be saying right now if he were still alive. I can hear him now, “Child, you have to paint with feeling, always with feeling.” Well, I tried to.

I met him when I entered a “Talented Artists” competition back in my childhood; when I was 12 to be exact. I was the only girl in the contest and I submitted my best work. I still remember the painting, although I don’t remember what happened to it. It was of a Saint Bernard puppy, sitting on its haunches, looking over its shoulder at the viewer. I had won several prizes with it in local competitions but to actually enter it in a national contest; well some people thought that I was in a little over my head.

First prize was a four session instruction series with The Master, the most famous artist of the day in the United States, or the World for that matter, and I wanted to win this so badly. After two days of judging, I received a phone call from the contest organizer telling me that I had won first place and I was on cloud nine for the rest of the time before the actual sessions started. I traveled to Chicago to finally meet with my idol, The Master, and as I approached him with my heart beating rapidly in my chest, he managed to dash all pre-conceived images I had built up over my time of worship of this great man.

“You are the child that knows no feeling!” he spat at me in disgust. “Your silly puppy was so void of feelings it was preposterous. Don’t you feel any love for that young dog? Why can’t you paint it then? That will be my first lesson then, feelings, you must paint with feelings! Tomorrow, come back up here and be prepared to express your feelings! Now go and come back tomorrow.” With that admonition fresh in my mind, I turned and left his temporary studio as I cried my eyes out. “How could he say that I didn’t paint with feelings? I have feelings!” I thought as I slowly walked back to the hotel and my mother who was there with me.

I spent that evening brooding, instead of joyously wandering with my mother seeing the sights of the Windy City. How could this man question my feelings, my heart or my painting? What right does he have judging ME! In other words, I was a 12 year old brat, throwing a tantrum. Someone had told me that there was something that I could do to improve my art and it was the first time I had heard it. And it came from my idol.

The next morning I awoke with a sense of dread at seeing the monster again. My mother offered to go with me to his studio, but he had told me in no uncertain terms, “No one shall meet with us,” so I told her I would be okay. I reluctantly approached the temporary studio and rang the bell. “It’s open Child, I never lock it, it is always open,” he said in as cheerful of a voice as I had heard. “So you did come back to see me,” he smiled as he greeted me.

He was an old man, not older in the eyes of a 12 year old, but old. He had thinning white hair, his hands were all wrinkled and boney looking and he had trouble walking around his studio. He dressed, what do you say, “frumpy”, all disheveled, and mismatched. He looked old.

“Of course Master,” I said shyly as I walked in and started to sit on a stool.

“Don’t sit Child,” he instructed me. “I’ve decided that your first lesson is to be as my model for a painting.”

“A model, you want me to be a model for you?” I repeated incredulously. “For what painting?” I asked.

“I don’t know yet, I haven’t decided, but I want you to model for me. Now go into that room over there and change into the clothes hanging on the hanger in there. When you are ready, come on back out and we will get started,” he directed.

I let out a deep sigh of resentment and entered the room. It was more of a closet than a changing room it was so small. I found the clothes hanging from a knob attached to the wall and looked around for anything else. There was nothing in the room except the clothes; not a chair to sit on and no mirror or place to put the clothes I was wearing. I picked up the garments hanging on the knob and realized that there were just two items to put on, an outer garment and a pair of underwear. What’s going on here? Is this guy a pervert or something? If he thinks that I’m going to go out and parade around in this thing for his perverted pleasure then he has another think coming.

I sulked for a moment then picked up the dress. I held it up to look at it draping my body. My body wasn’t much to look. Being just 12 years old, I was starting my pubescent development which meant a swirling mixture of new hormones surging through my veins and strange lumps and curves starting to protrude out every where. And there was this strange little hairs that was growing out around my private area that I couldn’t make heads or tails out of. As much as I like to look at these changes in my body, I was very protective of allowing anyone else, even my mother, to see them. Now I had to make the decision as to whether to let this strange person see me in this attire.

It was not an easy choice, but my curiosity got the better of me so I stripped down to my nothings and pulled on the panties that were there and noticed that they were practically transparent. This almost was the game changer; I wouldn’t let anyone see me down there; no way! But I picked up the dress and slipped it over my head and as it settled down into place, I could feel it caress by body like it had been made to do that very thing. It clung to me like a loose fitting glove. It was deep cut in the bosom, barely covering my protruding little boobies and it snuggled tightly around my waist. Then it draped my hips and fell in its fullness down well below my knees. The fabric wasn’t see through in the slightest, but the way it was cut and the silkiness of the fabric made it accentuate every curve of my body. I felt beautiful wearing it so after much soul searching and almost a half hour, I opened the door and entered back into the studio.

The Master was seated at his easel, paint brush in hand, patiently waiting. As I came out of the changing room, he got up to inspect his creation. I stopped in front of a draped chair, thinking this was where I was suppose to model for him and waited for his visual inspection to stop. But as I waited, I could feel his narrow little, squinty eyes probe my body as if he was undressing me completely. I felt the rush of my modesty turn my flesh a pinkish tone as he circled me like I was some piece of meet waiting to be devoured. He continued to circle me, staring all the while at me. Feeling his stare on my unprotected breasts, over my hips and down my legs, I would catch a glimpse of his paint brush, clutched in his boney hand and he stroked his chin with the other.

He circled me for some period of time. It seemed like an eternity, but I was the one being visually molested. I jumped when he finally ordered me to sit in the chair and face him, taking his seat at his easel. I sat down on the draped chair as he studied my posture. Then he ordered me to turn slightly to my right. He continued to appraise the position and then he adjusted it a little more to the right. Finally he was satisfied with the angle I was sitting at, so he proceeded to visually place me in the position that he wanted; chin up, shoulders back, no shoulders slouched forward.

As he positioned me, he again began circling me as I was sitting in the chair, prodding me with his paint brush. I got a peek at it and recognized it as being a round Sable; probably a #12, with a very unusual handle. It was stocky, not tapered like regular brushes and was much shorter than any brush I had ever seen. It was about an inch or so in diameter and he would use it to position my chin, my shoulder turn or the display of my long hair.