A couple of weeks ago, I attended a drawing class. It’s something I’ve been wanting to try for years, basically ever since I had to choose between art and music at school aged 15 (due to timetabling reasons) and chose music. I’ve always suspected I’d love drawing and would relish the opportunity to have a proper go. I’ve modelled for countless artists over the last decade but have been keen to try my hand at the other side, and signed up to the mailing list of a local artist, planning to go when my diary aligned with his class, which happened a couple of weeks ago.
When I pulled up outside the artist’s studio for the group class and the door opened for me, I was startled by the artist who welcomed me in… He was utterly dreamy, twinkly and greeted me with what felt like possible excitement. The class was really fun. I was terrible at rendering the model’s portrait at first but got gradually better under his tuition; I managed not to faint at his biceps when he stood close to demonstrate (who knew artists had biceps?) and listened, rapt, to his not-from-round-here accent. We made shy conversation (well, he was fine, in his element, telling me about measurements and how to line things up on paper; I was shy, obedient, enthusiastic). The small class was mostly conducted in silence (pity the model who later told me he passed the time by counting) and so all flirting had to be minimal and understated; touching knees as he showed me what he would do differently, small questions about my week/life/interests, a slight bit of flusterment on his part when I asked about the paintings of his that lined the walls. Continue reading
– Best Self: I think I’m going to have a boyfriend again.
– Worst self: Um, terrible idea.
– Best self: Why?
– Worst Self: You might die.
– Best self: I’m hardly going to die.
– Worst self: You were so miserable last time, remember.
– Best self: Only because he was the wrong man for me. Another man – the right one – will make me happy. Or keep me happy, because I’m already happy.
– Worst self: Sounds horrifically claustrophobic to me. You’d be locked in to being whoever you are when you meet him. Won’t be able to change or develop. Sounds hellish, actually. That panic in your throat right now; you know you’d hate it.
– Best self: Not true. He might be someone who is interested in learning and self development and who I can have interesting conversations with. In fact he almost certainly will be, otherwise I won’t be attracted to him in the first place.
– Worst self: You’d have to meet his family. Continue reading
Finding a book you can be happy with is exactly the same as finding a lover.
First, you assume there will be serendipity. You go to all the right places; you see what covers take your fancy. The lighting is all wrong in a supermarket (and you are not swayed by ‘3 for 2’) and it’s hard to read in a club; you hope, then, for recommendation by a mutual friend. Your friends think very hard for you (they are happily committed to their books; they can’t wait to meet the book you eventually decide upon), perhaps even suggest a name or two, but the hope is short lived and your friends find your taste unpredictable.
You sift through memories, then, of all the books you’ve read in the past (some will multiply this number by seven, some will divide; there is a certain pride reserved for those who have taken years to read one single book), and think about what exactly you would like to be different (or the same), this time. Some people slip up here, and re-read previous tomes; this never ends well and if you once were together and then decided to part, each shrinking backward, then warning horns should be blaring; the readerly experience cannot un-yellow in absence alone. That is basic fact. Continue reading
Ah, dating, that awful, brilliant, awful thing…
I don’t ever want to be a heartbreaker. I’ve had my heart ‘broken’ (let’s say temporarily bruised/punched/squashed) a couple of times. It’s horrific to be on the other side of things, alternatively, and I have even taken breaks from dating in the past purely because I can’t deal with the guilt I’ve felt at being the one to turn someone else down (I know how I want to feel about the person I end up with, and I would rather not accept less). Feeling less for someone else than they feel for you is an awful feeling and communication of that fact is a delicate moment (and I know exactly how painful it is to be on the other side of it). Continue reading