In Search of Picasso

You didn’t say anything about a nude model!” my sister whispered to me, her hushed voice a mixture of both shock and delight. It was the very first night of Sculpting. , a Continuing Education course offered at the local high school, a stone’s throw from our Stuyvesant Town, NYC apartment.  I always loved the idea of learning something new and was certain a sculpting class would allow my long-time artistic aspirations, to at last become reality. And in only six weeks!

As the male sitting model, introduced by our teacher as “Roberto,” entered the classroom, a deafening silence filled the air. Clad in a beige, unassuming robe, he circled the packed room three times, then stopped abruptly front and center, his eyes flashing boldly. As if waiting a lifetime for this one moment of fame, he slowly untied the bathrobe and, in one flagrant and grandiose display, tossed it to the floor. Audible gasps filled the air, followed by scattered applause. My sister, clearly, was not the only one unprepared for a live show.

We soon became accustomed to the unclothed Roberto who greeted us each Wednesday night at 6PM with nothing more than a stony expression, a far cry from the theatrics of his first evening’s performance. During those two hours of class, which at times seemed endless, I kneaded and molded, kneaded and molded, my brow furrowed deep in concentration, in a futile attempt to give some semblance to the shape of a human torso.  But alas, after my third class I realized downtrodden, that sculpting rather than allowing joy and artistic expression, instead left me with a throbbing headache.

At the close of each class, we would gingerly place paper towels, soaked in warm water around our sculpture to keep it pliable for the following week, then retire it to the security of the classroom closet.  As I surveyed the work of the other student’s sculptures neatly lined up on the shelf, I felt a pang of envy. Every single one of them, even in their elementary stages of creation, exceeded mine in both talent and appearance. Arms that looked like arms and a head anatomically correct, resembling man, rather than beast.

On more than one occasion, entering that taunting closet before the start of class, I shamefully entertained the idea of “accidentally” taking one of the more attractive sculptures off the shelf and claiming it as my own.

To add fuel to the fire, my sister who always claimed she disliked art and had only joined the class “as a favor to me,” excelled in Sculpting and profusely thanked me for helping her discover this new found passion. “Why you are a natural!” lauded our teacher as she stood beside my sister’s desk one evening, admiring her work. Then glancing at mine with a grim expression, she nodded her head wordlessly and proceeded up the aisle.

At the end of our final class, I dejectedly stared at the object before me, six weeks in the making, its distorted arms reaching out to me, as if in solace. The teacher announced we could reclaim our piece the following afternoon, though I knew in my heart,  I would not return, opting rather to leave my sad sculpture and the memories of Sculpting class, tucked away in that closet forever.  

My sister, on the other hand, proudly positioned her prized sculpture in the foyer of her apartment. She awoke one morning, three months later, to find the arm broken off.  She swears her husband Kevin, who to this day vehemently denies the childish deed, the villain. A cruel payback after she was unable to accompany him to a cocktail party on the very same evening as her Sculpting Class, Section 2 was to begin.

As for me, I have just signed up for my next Continuing Ed Class, a course on Handwriting Analysis. Taking Pen to hand, rather than clay.

Picasso would no doubt, be pleased.