For the Love of Art Pt. 02

The feel of full lips revving my blood dissipated. I tuned into reality and saw ornate french doors opening. Mr. Ryne stood in the doorway, the white flurries of a winter wonderland becoming terrible. The timbre of frost and Christmas cheers shrank away from his image, until the only commonality to remain was the cold burrs in his desolate eyes.

My heart pounded. Should the man get it in his head to give me another "hands on" lesson, I was confident something inside of me would bend irreparably. And I was confident he would love it that way.

I gave Becky a reassuring smile. "I'll call when I'm done?"

She offered a nod, but I had a feeling she was no longer with me as she appraised the art teacher.

And so it began.

When I stepped out of the warm haven of her Chevy, I felt as though I were stepping into a personalized frigid enclosure. To my surprise, Becky didn't linger, her infatuation with punctuality moving her to meet Brandon early. Thus leaving me standing, wrapped in the black belted fleece, hands shoved in pockets, a little bag of supplies hanging from my wrist.

"Miss Larson."

The deepest breath could not prepare me for round two. I turned and looked to him with what I hoped was a determined, enthusiastic expression. A grateful pupil prepared to soak up all knowledge offered. "Mr. Ryne, thank you so much for doing this."

Cyan eyes were studious, lips favoring neither frown nor smile. He wore a black turtleneck today, plush and perfectly appropriate for winter, inky midnight curls interrupting the direct path of his gaze, until a hand ushered them back. Such obedient hair. "It's no trouble. Come in then?"

Right. I gave one last look around me, noting how far removed from civilization this sliver of land was. Okay, yes, it was only half of a mile off grid. But it felt and appeared impossibly rural.

Inside, a wave of comfortable warmth enveloped me. Not one, but three fireplaces sat in what I could only assume was the living room, black and white swirled marble brackets framing them. Each were lit and crackling softly, their flames brightening burgundy polished floors. Cream chaises and loungers were orchestrated tastefully before them, silver and white furs placed beneath glass coffee table sets. I was trying to discern what animal produced such a stark rug when Mr. Ryne's voice sounded right behind me.

"Your coat." He had a gallant hand held out for it, his visage entirely vacant of anything telling. Perhaps he wasn't reliving the ignited event of that day, like I was.

Meanwhile, I placed my bag of supplies down carefully, as though any abrupt motion would shred an invisible armistice between us and the cool, collected man before me would digress into the one I remembered. But as I handed the fleece over, feeling bare and exposed without it, he merely turned and placed it onto a coat rack housing one other trench.

I mustered a smile. "Thank you."

It wasn't returned. The ominous gleam of need I'd been searching for now shadowed his eyes. Abysmal hunger. His mouth tightened into a grim line, stricken. I didn't need to look to know his right hand had jerked, the middle finger twitching. A habit of his I'd noted the last week of class, only triggered whenever he seemed to be utterly displeased by something I'd done. As always, I wasn't sure what it was this time.

"You have a lovely home," I acknowledged quietly, a means to unravel whatever gossamer web he thought to gradually entangle me in with his gaze.

"You are aware we are to be painting?" he asked, the question easily dismissing my compliment.

Then I understood the source of his ire. My clothing. I wanted to justify myself instantly, project the sob story of my glamorous roommate who insisted I adorn myself to her standard. The frown claiming his lips said I was already beyond redemption.

I refrained from a sigh. "They won't interfere with the lesson."

He crossed his arms, never a good thing. One brow raised, he somehow managed to look both perturbed and intrigued. "And what is the lesson for today?"

"Well, I don't know. You-"

"Leave it at that. You don't know. But one might assume common sense would move you to dress appropriately." He was turning to walk away, expecting me to follow, but with my grade already submitted to the system and with evidence of it, it occurred to me whatever grudge he had with me . . . I didn't have to accept it.

I stood my ground, searching with a silent prayer for a polite way to tell him he could kiss my ass if he thought to berate me so passionately for not dressing to his expectations. "Sir, I understood entirely we were to be painting." Not really. "If I get dirty, so be it. But would it hurt to . . ." What resolve I'd found skittered someplace off the charts. I had started off strong, but insisting he 'lightened up' suddenly felt equal to actually telling him to kiss my ass.

He zeroed in on this hesitation like a vulture, having stopped in his tracks to turn and dare me to complete the sentence. Dare him to conform for me as opposed to the other way around.

My confidence abandoned me.

"Go on," he murmured, the scathing challenge seething beneath the cool deliverance of the two words.

He was close to me again, drawing me into the nebula of dark things, clouding my judgement and pitching my heart into a fit. The mystifying lilts of winter nights and mint wove around me, the scent all too familiar. I looked away, scrambling for words. When I found them, I cursed at how apologetic they sounded. "I-I don't know. You didn't like how I showed up to your class before. I thought this was an improvement." Yes, I distinctly remember him comparing me to a degenerate from the streets.

To my surprise, he looked at me a moment, then sighed, the degradation in his eyes replaced with a strange acceptance, forgiveness even. He motioned me to follow. I hesitated only a moment, not certain if I could tally this as a win or loss. Seeing as wins were a bit scarce on my end, I allowed myself the pity point.

He led me down down a case of stairs and through halls inexplicably barren for a man whose life was drowned in art. The walls were an edgy red, wood siding dividing their middle and leading the way down the never-ending corridor. The further we traversed into his den, the deeper the reality set in. Alone. Nothing but my meek defense and anxiety ridden resolve was in place to moderate the unfolding of the day's event.

We had to have passed five closed doors before we reached the sixth, which lay slightly ajar. He stepped inside, giving me an expectant look.

You're reading too much into this. This was no more than an art session. What occurred between us before had been strictly in the realm of tutelage. Said the naive part of me.

Once in the room, I knew immediately, today's course required absolutely nothing hands-on. Perhaps 'room' was the incorrect terminology. What lay before me was an art gallery riddled in grandeur imperfections. A spacious sea of linoleum floors, the far back wall lined with gold-gilted mirrors, reflecting the art pieces scattered throughout the gallery. Buckets of paint ruled the room, brushes strewn about carelessly. Showcases stood adjacent to the mass, Chinas and decorated porcelain enamels protected behind the glass. Pictures and easels sat covered in white tarp, rows of canvas blocks leaned against the far back wall, exposed paintings of black and white and colored intricacies was obviously shuffled back into the clutter to make room for our work space.

On one side of the bare clearing was an empty easel, stool, collection of paints and brushes and sketchbooks. On the other side of the room was also an empty easel, stool, and a . . . poncho. Underneath each easel was more white tarp, though I couldn't see why he would bother when the room was already a splattered mess. I wasn't asking questions. I started to walk towards the cleared easel to set down my supplies.

"Other one," Mr. Ryne corrected.

"Oh." I looked to the workstation shrined with utensils and mediums. I guess I would be observing him as he worked? Just as well. In classes, he seldom allowed us to witness him in action beyond meager demonstrations. His focal had always been geared towards self-extraction. Having his students work from their own mind's eye.

The rumination vanished once I got to the easel and spied three things that made me want to swoon. One, an assortment of top quality charcoal hardly used, water resistant German paint containers questionably sealed, but most of all . . . Faber Castell's full water colors kit. Or, remnants of it. They were laying around dispassionately.

"W-why would you leave them around like this?" I demanded at once, hurrying to collect them and tuck them into the home of their plush leather kit. I shook my head. "Cambridge always has these out of stock, and to get the full kit in the states? You can forget it." It cost around four hundred dollars.

I was examining the smooth gold polish of the violet pencil when I decided to look up just in time to see Mr. Ryne with an expression I had never seen on him before: awe. Or maybe it was adoration. Either way, I had to glance behind me to see if maybe he was star-gazing at an old art piece of his, but everything on this side of the room was covered. I looked back to him, suddenly out of my comfort zone. "What?"

His gaze flickered to the pencil in my hand, the kit, the canvas, then back to me. It occurred to me then, he hadn't given me permission to go tidying up his work space and fawning over his sets. I gently but quickly put the materials back in their place, flustered.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to mess up any, uh, order you had."

But he was shaking his head, stepping closer. "Have you ever used them?"

I blinked, then looked back to the pencils and dusting brushes. I was ashamed to admit that I lived vicariously through YouTube tutorials. Instead, I gave the easy cover, "They're expensive."

"They are," he agreed. The course of discussion changed. "Today's lesson will be easy: create what your heart desires. Sit. Go nuts."

Huh? I stared at him, then to the indicated easel. "I'm not watching you work?"

His brows creased. "You never were."

At the risk of appearing too dumbfounded, I studied the space again, then concluded, "But you obviously had something more precise set out for us."

"Change of plan. Do as you please for today, anything you see and need, you have at your disposal. If you need me," he pointed to the empty work space. "I will be over there, painting a masterpiece."

Did this mean . . . I had all of this fine material to myself? I suppressed the threat of a giddy smile, keeping my face blank. I nodded. "If that's what you would like." As if it wasn't what I wanted.

"Hm," was his answer, but otherwise, he migrated to his aforementioned work space and wasted no time setting up for his 'master piece'. I had a feeling he knew just how thrilled I was to have accepted the offer of tutoring.

An hour or five may have passed, but I wouldn't know, the gallery being windowless. Even so, the time had progressed with my slowly losing myself in the eclipsing window panes of the image I had chosen. I remained in awe by the smooth glide of the charcoal, the obedience to pressure the medium yielded. The only persisting problem was the the anchor of the left visual window pane. Grey tones were supposed to seep into the central focus of the canvas, but the menagerie of color spills refused to adhere to the angles I wanted, no matter which way I turned the easel. I'd even attempted the blind contour line as a premise, nearly ruining the entire thing.

"Troubles?"

I jumped, heart thrashing in my ears as I looked up at Mr. Ryne. He was studying my monstrosity with . . . intrigue? When had he approached? More importantly, why did that shard of approval have my stomach and chest swelling with happiness over his interest?

Nevertheless, I gave a reluctant nod. I by no means expected to be as good as him in any area of the arts so soon, but this didn't stop my pride from disapproving of assistance.

He pulled up a low-backed chair, settling it a personable distance beside me. This was all it took for any hope of concentrating to dive out the window.

"Your wrist is too stiff," he started, not bothering asking where I was having complications. "Loosen your hold on the charcoal, use your upper arm and leave the rest up to drag."

Drag. It was a familiar term he made up himself that the students loved. It was a basic freestyle approach, the stress of punctual marks all in the upper arm, having bled out to free control by the time the movement reached the wrist. It was such an obvious suggestion, but I should have known to do this. Really, it was no wonder he grew infuriated that last day of class. Had I not learned nothing from him?

I tried hid method. I failed. The mark was too heavy, too dark. "Sorry." I erased, resisting a sigh.

"You're fine. Try again."

I did and made the same mistake.

He held his hand out in front of me. I looked at it, then swallowed my disappointment as I dropped the charcoal in his waiting hand. He placed a clean canvas over mine and demonstrated; it was flawless.

"This is all practice. Meaningless really. Try again, exactly as I did, and don't be so conscientious of mistakes. It stiffens your movement."

I knew he was right, I did. But still . . . "I don't want to waste quality charcoal."

He sounded offended. "You can waste as much as you desire, Miss Larson." Hearing the overdose of passion in his own voice, he cleared his throat and shifted, moving aside his demonstration. "I want you to succeed, is what I mean. If you continue to attempt first-time perfection, you will mess up again and again, thus wasting my time."

His point was made. Still, I remembered freshman year, how diligent I was with all of my material. As the saying went, Mama always said money didn't grow on trees, and what better proof than my barely affording the art supplies needed for the basic core classes. Now, for him to come along and encourage me to waste away everything?

With a sigh, I put aside the idea of depletion, instead imagining the charcoal in abundance. I then mimicked his arch while adhering to my end goal, gliding lightly left, right, then applying pressure. I sat back, assessed. It was—

"Perfect," Mr. Ryne acknowledged.

Though even as he said this, upon further analysis, it wasn't. The corners were giving the impression of too much effulgence, contradicting the lighting's angle terminal. I gritted my teeth at the dumb canvas. It needed to be erased. I should start from scratch, I decided.

The eraser never made it to the canvas.

Mr. Ryne's hand curled around mine, engulfing it as he unraveled my fingers from the eraser. It was all downhill from there. The touch, by no means brief, eroded a path of chills. Etching itself against my flesh, sinking beneath it. I swallowed just barely, drawing my eyes to the hand to cradle mine, his other placing aside the tool. Once more, the decadent scent of nighttime things and winter edged mints imprisoned me. Intoxicated. How could his touch be so cool and yet the heat he threw off near suffocating?

"I said it's perfect," he admonished with no weight.

"Mr. Ryne," I began. He and I both knew perfection did not exist in the world of creativity, because it was a godless platform. No rules. Again, I was hazardously aware I was the only thing maintaining that virgin line of art lesson and . . . this.

"Hm?" A soft purr, heavy daunt. The longer I bathed in his heat, succumbed to the red spirals of his tantalizing touch, the more the window of protestation narrowed. "Hm?" he murmured again, the subtle, soft sound inquiring, asking what my choice was. He was actually giving me the choice.

Or was he?

His hand had begun to ascend and though I was motionless and staring to the easel, I felt as he leaned in closer, and then closer, until silken locks brushed my temple. I shuddered. Violently. It was a stark wash of clarity, motivating my lost tongue. "The lesson?"

The curious hand had ventured to my shoulder, leaving its path of fire mixed hoar frost. Against it all, against my vying for lessons and maintaining professionalism, I couldn't deny the need, the potent anticipation for when his fingers would rove over my unpierced ear, introducing the icy sensation to the sensitive flesh. It was my fatal flaw, my weakest point, and it was there I craved his poisonous touch.

So when his lips fluttered at tender skin, I swayed, fist digging into my knee. Only, his hand was suddenly holding mine, supporting me. At this point, I'm was fairly certain I was silently panting. The gallery had no meaning and common restraint was for the birds.

Then, a gentle stroked whisper taunted, "You like that."

I had to close my legs tight, though the damage had been done, the words causing such an ache between them that I was sure, even if I had not in fact liked it, those three words, from his lips only, had the authority to convince me otherwise. But I did like it, and some braver part of me wished for him to do it again, only this time, with his tongue.

That dream was halted when he asked, "Why is your hair tied back?" then tugged one of the buoyant curls towards him, winding it around his finger.

"It's pinned back, but you must dislike that too," I guessed, surprised by the bitterness in my tone when at my core, my muscles knotted painfully with each ticked second.

"No," he said matter-of-factly. "I like it. Nothing to obscure your image from me. Eyes, lips. Insecurities. Though, divisive and maddening your curls may be . . ." Distance entered his tone, his words making no sense.

And then he chuckled. It was the single most terrible and sensuous sound, a poignant shatter. A mirthy disturbance nesting a home beneath the skin. He knew the cage he was erecting around me, and was relishing its construction.

I needed to breathe. I needed to leave before I did something I would regret not just now, but forever. But when I made to move, only then did I realize how shaken and hollow my bones were, my legs promising that should I attempt to stand, I might topple.

It took this faintness for me to truly come to the conclusion that I was helpless in mind and body. I finally surrendered to the onslaught of pressing need, but not without asking the inevitable. The question that had been filed away until the point of no return. Which was now. "Why?" The question had nagged from the very beginning. "Why me, sir? Am I some exotic bird you consider your conquest?"

I hadn't known my original bracket of concern stemmed from my ethnicity until the words had been spoken. Dimitri Ryne was a man of artistic background, a fan of cultures and the layers beneath them. It made sense that I was singled out for this reason alone.

However, Mr. Ryne was silent for so long, I practically felt his dismay wafting from him. But when he did speak, it was not with contempt or upset, but an odd dose of passion. "The color of your skin does not define who you are, Grace."

Except, in this day and age, didn't it? Was half of my college funds not from minority scholarships? Had I not been chosen over the Caucasian girl who wanted a seat in his class, due to the University seeking diversity? Before it all even, had I not discovered my passion for art during a Black Culture Festival in high school, when the motivational speak had looked out over the sea of students and told us the world needed more African American doctors, brain surgeons, authors, artists, engineers? Too controversial. Too grayscale. There was no right answer.

Besides, I was more concerned with his usage of my first name as opposed to the comfortable, assuring 'Miss Larson'.