Happy That It's Not True (18 page)

              “Uh yeah—someone told me about this class.  To tell you the truth, I can’t even draw a straight line.” Priscilla said.

              “I can’t draw a straight line either—I would need a ruler for that,” Diego chuckled.

              “All I can draw are stick figures.”

              “Mind if I draw on your paper?”

              “Sure.”

              Diego took a pencil and scribbled circular shapes.  “This is a gesture drawing; this will help loosen you up.  It’s not supposed to look like anything, but it trains you to see—and to draw what you see.  Try it.  Just look at the model—you don’t even have to look at the paper.  Just feel the shapes with your eyes and the tip of your pencil.”

              Diego gave the pencil to Priscilla and walked away to make a lap around the class, looking over shoulders—pleased by some drawings, alarmed by others.  “If you’re new to all this, I hope you really enjoy this experience.  I hope that it will taste sweet to you, and leave you thirsting for more.”  Diego paused to nod knowingly at Cara.

              “Someone once said that drawing is a discipline of awareness.  Have you noticed that the model is a masterpiece of light and shadow?  Do you see her as an extension of yourself?”  Diego raised his brows.

              “The world wants us to believe that we’re all somehow different, that some people are better than others because of their wealth or education or skills or talents or ethnicity or some form of outward appearance.  No es verdad.  It’s not true at all.  We’re all the same.”

              “Some people are crazy,” said one of the students.

              “Yes, for some, madness waits in the cover of night to tear the soul to pieces.  But you shouldn’t be so quick to judge.  One day madness might come looking for you,” Diego smiled.

              “I hope not.”

              “Carl Jung once said that we all carry a shadow—that if you don’t bring it up to the surface, it becomes blacker and blacker.  I think that’s why it’s so important to create—to get out all the madness, before it consumes us.”

              “I think some people are just plain evil.”

              “The argument never ends.  Genetics, environment, freewill, predestination—I could be wrong, but I still believe we’re all basically the same.  We’re all very different, of course.  But we’re all the same.  What a paradox.”

              Diego smirked and tilted his head to show that it wasn’t important to him if anyone accepted his point of view.  “So, again I ask—do you see this model as an extension of yourself?  Try to identify with this model.  You may not realize it, but she’s telling a story.  Ask yourself, is she tired?  Has she recently fallen in love?  Or are her perceptions clouded by heartbreak?  Has she given up searching for answers?  Has she lost her faith?  Could she have father issues?  Is she afraid?  Is she content with the simple and fleeting pleasures of life, but wondering if perhaps there is a little bit more to living?  Ask yourself, is she a little bit like you?”

              As Diego was circling the class, he came to Cara’s easel and whispered, “Off to a good start.  You’re capturing her essence.”  Cara smiled.  Finishing his circle, Diego pulled a stool next to Priscilla and sat down.

              “Would it make you nervous if I sat here next to you?” Diego whispered.

              Priscilla smiled.  “No—I guess I need the special attention.  I have no idea what I’m doing.”

              “Well—you’re probably very good at something that I’m not good at.  What do you do?”

              “I’m a programmer.”

              “Oh—I used to be in that line of work.”

              “Really, doing what?”

              “Information design—I was more like a permanent consultant for a tech company.”

              “Ah—so you were one of those people that would think up things for me to do.”

              “Yeah, that’s pretty much it—I would tell management how things should look and feel—draw up a few diagrams and hand over the keys to a project manager, who would probably hand the work over to someone like you.”

              “So—I do all the work and you get paid probably an obscene amount of money.”  Priscilla glared at Diego with playful incredulity.

              “I know, and you’re the one with all the skills and talent.  I can’t program worth a damn.”

              “How could you live with yourself?” Priscilla smiled.

              “Well—everything catches up with you sooner or later.  My life felt empty and meaningless, and that’s why I became a teacher.”  

              “Sounds like you were on top of the world.  I don’t think that would be too bad.”

              “I guess there’re a plenty of people who don’t mind getting paid a lot of money for doing nothing—while some people work very hard, even risking their lives.  I’m not expecting too many things to make sense in this life.”

              “Like me coming to a drawing class.”

              “Actually, for someone that says they can only draw stick figures—you’re not doing so badly.”

              “Really?”

              “Yeah—see—you’ve rendered a figure that’s solid—three dimensional—nice movement.  Looks like stuff I’ve seen in museums.”

              Priscilla laughed.  “So, you’re saying my work is so bad that it looks like modern art—”

              Diego smiled.  “Modern art—conceptual art, whatever you want to call it—all it is—is people who are very smart and get bored easily.  So they push back boundaries.  Sometimes the best art is art that challenges and confuses you a little.”

              “Oh—I don’t understand art,” Priscilla laughed.

              “I barely understand it myself,” Diego grinned.  “But for what it’s worth, that’s actually a very good gesture drawing.  Alberto Giacometti would be envious.”

              The hour seemed like an eternity for the model that had to hold still—her muscles burning with stiffness.  For Cara, time seemed too short, and like a child, she didn’t want to leave the playground.  The model covered herself with her robe, and Diego walked with her around the class so she could see the drawings.  She smiled and nodded, pleased with her likeness being transformed into the ineffable.  After she was gone, Diego returned to be with Priscilla.  As Cara and the other students were leaving the class, Diego and Priscilla continued talking.  Cara was satisfied with what appeared to be a blossoming friendship.  She walked out into a quiet night, delighted with the dramas and pleasures that life had to offer.

              Diego and Priscilla remained alone in the room.  After some time had passed, Diego sketched her.  Priscilla sat up straight on the stool, her posture expressing pleasure, her face radiant with adulation. 

              Diego described his old life as he drew Priscilla’s features, “...And then there was this one programmer who used to pick at his zits in his cubicle all day, and then he would show up to a meeting without realizing his face was a bloody mess.”

              “Oh no!” Priscilla laughed.

              “Try not to talk now—I’m working on your lips.  I think I’m in love with your face.”

              Priscilla widened her eyes and laughed.  “So, what—are you going to ask me out—or something?”

              “Hey—don’t move that mouth,” Diego laughed.  “That’s all right—I think it’s finished.”  He turned the drawing pad around to show Priscilla.  “Just a sketch.”

              “Oh—that doesn’t look like me—I’m not that beautiful.”

              “You’re very beautiful.”  Diego removed the drawing from its pad, rolled it up and handed it to Priscilla.  “Here—a gift from a man who is devastated by your beauty and charm.”

              “Thank you.”

              “No, thank you—it’s so nice of you—that you would stay and talk to an old guy like me.  If I were younger, I’d ask you on a date,” Diego said with a sad smile.

              “You’re not so old.”

              “If only I could—”

              Priscilla was no longer able to smile.  “What do you mean—if?”

              “I can’t.”

              Priscilla looked away, not saying anything for a while.  When she spoke again, her voice cracked, “Oh—uh—I’m sorry—I feel like an idiot.”  She unrolled the drawing, to give herself something to look at.  “Oh God.”

              “Hey,” Diego said with concern.

              “I guess I should tell you what’s going on here.  Someone I work with—someone who cares a lot about you told me to come tonight—that we might hit it off.”

              “Cara?”

              “Yeah, and—I guess I’ve made a fool out of myself.”

              “No—I’m the fool.”

              Priscilla put the drawing pad and clipboard on the stool. “All this stuff belongs to you and Cara—I’ll just leave it here.  Thanks for the drawing.”  Priscilla walked to the door and turned to look at Diego again.  “You should never do that to a woman—it’s humiliating.  No woman should ever have to feel desperate—like she’s hideous—repulsive.” 

              Diego could see her eyes swelling with tears.  “You’re beautiful,” he said.

              “You’ve made me feel like garbage.  Goodnight Diego...Diego—I’ve been thinking about your name.  It’s a beautiful name, and you’re a very handsome man—just like Cara said.  But you don’t know anything about women, or you would never do what you did tonight.  Here—you keep the drawing so you can have something to remember me by.  I don’t want that drawing to remind me of you.  I never want to think of you again.”

              After Priscilla had left, Diego studied the drawing.  In the layers of diagonal lines, drawn in a classical style, he could see the emptiness of his life.  No wife or children or grandchildren.  He felt as if he had just committed genocide, ridding the earth of the descendants of an older man and a beautiful young woman.  Once again, he had deprived himself of happiness.

...

              Diego walked down the hallway toward room 208.  He slowly opened the door trying not to disrupt the painting class in session.  As the students remained immersed in two dimensional worlds, their instructor, Ling Woo, noticed Diego looking at her.  She walked out to greet him.

              “Hey,” Ling said.

              “I just needed to see you tonight.”

              “What’s wrong?”

              “Oh, it’s not easy being me.”

              “You’re telling me,” she laughed.  “Well, you’re always there for me.  Maybe I can listen to your problems for a change.”

              “I’m all right—just needed to see a pretty face.”

              “Thanks.”

              “Go back to class.  I’ll see you tomorrow.”

              As Diego left the building and walked to his car, he thought of how he was much like a schoolboy, obsessed with one girl, piously shunning all others.  God I love that woman.  I hope she gets better.  I’d give my life to be with her.

             
One nauseated man whose eyes had been fixed on the horizon for quite some time, broke his silence.

              That’s so Hollywood.  Such complete garbage.

              What do you mean?—Asked the storyteller.

              What man behaves like that?  Men like Diego don’t exist.  A woman practically throws herself at him and he rejects her because he’s in love with another woman?  Absurd—ridiculous.  If a beautiful woman were to give me even the slightest hint of amiability, I’d be all over her like a wolf.  Believe me, I’d give it to her good. 

              The large man laughed.

              Don’t be so sure there aren’t men like Diego.  A confident man, who is familiar with life and love.  He would know that you don’t toy with young hearts.  It’s a pathetic man that is so desperate that he has no self-control. 

              The nauseated man seemed on the verge of vomiting. 

              A real man is a lover.  He is not afraid of consequences.  He risks his life in war and all things that require courage.  He takes what he needs, and if a woman allows him, she has no one to blame but herself.  A real man doesn’t obsess about feelings and heartbreak.  He does not lose sleep over his sexual conquest.  It is the woman that tempts the man with clothing and cosmetics and warmth and sensuality. 

              Is that so?—Smiled the large man.—Every woman is someone’s daughter, or perhaps a mother or sister.  Perception is everything.  For you, a woman might be a temptress.  For someone else she may be an enticement to fall in love.  Are men so different?  Don’t we also want to be loved?  You call yourself a human rights activist?  You consider yourself a fighter for a greater cause?  Where is your compassion?  Are you not aware that men also possess sensitivity?

              Sensitivity is for effeminate men.  

              It is because you are an insecure girly man that you despise the feminine.  Don’t get on my nerves or I’m going to hit you so hard you’ll be cured of your stupidity.