I will miss Art lessons.
The little alcove at the multi-purpose block which is barely existent to the rest of the school population, and possibly what all us Art people have used as a convenient cubby hole for the dumping of schoolbags / non-Art related materials at one point or another. Or at least I'm always guilty of that.
And where I spend 6 hours each week on most weeks.
I have that exclusive Art Room key tag.
I really ought to spend more time in there, even though the current atmosphere's so stifling and tension-filled. Everyone's stressed and flustered over their Art coursework, we don't bother to sweep the floor clean of scrap paper and leaves that the wind blows in, and it smells permanently of Rachel's sticky but chic-sounding venetian turpentine. And occasionally my biodegradable turpentine.
But I will miss the people.
Imagine two practically grown men discussing the fluffiness of clouds, with one holding claim to the name 'Alphonsus Alfonsus [insert surname]'. An elongated male crammed into a chair that's seemingly too small and hunched over what seems to be a silvery print. But no, it's his pencil work. And yet another leaning back in his chair working little figurines out of blu-tac with nimble fingers. He puffs beautiful smoke rings. And the one with the charred face who uses black marker as eyeliner and lipstick and manages to merge Van Gogh with modern-day graphic design. He fingers the hole in his sock when stressed.
Then we have the girl with a paint-splattered uniform and her hair in matching ribbons - possibly the only symbol of Art being in existence in CJ. And then the seemingly most matured, sensible one who gets everything merticulously done on time. Her buddy does the most ingenious work of art using makeup, and now, a stained glass installation. Always so unique. One sits quietly, slitting at paper with long delicate fingers - pianist fingers, I think they're called - and possesses a surreal singing voice. The other paints organic foods, talks about scarcifying them and condemns piracy. A tiny female who epitomises feminity does patient detailed repeated drawings in different mediums, and her firecracker friend white-glues tissue paper and does the coolest decopages. Riproar laughter penetrates, and the red-faced one displays her paper-eating skills. Paper from Burger King tastes the best. The glossy MOE booklet cover can only be sucked on, and not eaten. The ever-knowing, motherly [this sounds odd, but its the feeling I get] one chides her while she sketches skin with tissue-paper folds. The last one takes awhile to acknowledge. She's in her little orchid world and glides on air.
The fair-headed one walks in. Are you list'ning to me, she says. We pretend to.
I need permanent visual records of all these. Holga, hurry up fly here.
10:41:00 pm
