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It had been years since they’d been in a real, proper art studio. At least three years, maybe more. And at least that long since they’d drawn something for themself. They could still picture everything perfectly, knew what to look for. Their hand just did not remember how to execute.
Which is how they find themself sitting in front of a platform at a local university on a Tuesday night, waiting for a model to take a seat, sketchbook resting on their knee and charcoal rolling between their fingers. Their mind wanders as they wait. It’s frustrating to close the Triangle for a night, especially for something as pointless as this. Maybe someday they’ll hire someone who can keep the place open. They like making drinks, talking to people, handling everything themself. It’s just the rare nights like this when they actually decide to indulge that it becomes inconvenient. God forbid they have a hobby.
Their meandering train of thought is cut short by the model’s entrance. They decide to take a look at the others in here while stretching out their wrist. They’ve got a few moments as the model gets settled. It’s pretty much what they expected. Some clearly students, some clearly polishing their skills, and everyone in between.
The first pose is only two minutes. Long enough to find the gesture, not long enough to think too hard. They’ve got a few moments before their brain starts to lock onto specific anatomy, when they can actually get the gesture lines down and… they lose some of that precious time as they get distracted by the woman a few seats to their left, who seems to have already gotten the broad strokes down. There’s something about how she’s sketching; the lines are short and sharp, nearly frantic, but it’s not unclear. The shape is there, they can see the figure forming. Though, for what it’s worth, most of the others are just starting.
At least I’m not the slowest in the room. They settle back in, frustrated by the distraction, and try to forget that the shape in front of them has body parts and get back to the raw gestures. Easier said than done, especially when none of the lines actually look right. They know how to do this; they did this professionally. Shit. Everything continues to look wrong. Whatever. This is a warm-up. Just a warm-up.
It’s an excuse that almost works, though they keep getting distracted by how everyone else is approaching it. It’s not just the woman to the left (though her energy is hard to miss), it’s pretty much everyone they can see. Some people are blocking out shapes, some are overcommitting to every line, some are, like them, struggling to remember how to get the lines in the right places.
Slowly, over the hour and a half and six poses, they start to find their footing again. It’s not like riding a bike—every line still looks subtly incorrect, the perspective is off, the proportions are slightly wrong, and a dozen other issues they can point out—but it’s passable. A good start of getting the rust off. Now they just need to live in the gap between what they know it should look like and what it actually does. A gap they’re deeply familiar with from a lifetime of bouncing between hobbies and interests. Their taste always outpaced their ability.
As people start gathering their things and heading out, Riley takes a glance around the room. They’re around the middle of the pack, which should be comforting, but ends up reminding them how far they’ve fallen. They’re better than the students who’ve just learned to build bodies out of basic shapes, worse than they used to be.
Probably worse than her.
They look over to the left before they can stop themself. She’s packing up, and Riley gets just a glimpse of the last pose. It’s not perfect by any means. The perspective is a little off, the lines are maybe a bit sharp, and hands continue to be the bane of every artist’s existence. But it knew what it was. They could read the intention.
And then she looks up, and they suddenly find something very interesting on the floor to examine.
Riley, you’re nearly twenty-five years old. What are you doing?
By the time their brain catches up to the fact that they don’t need to be embarrassed, she’s gone.
Riley closes their sketchbook, puts away their charcoal, and heads out into the night. That could’ve gone better. They’re not entirely sure if they mean the sketches.