When I’m not modeling, I play the cello, my first love. As wonderful as it would have been to land a permanent gig in a symphony orchestra or in musical theater, it’s never happened. I’ve auditioned hundreds of times, but never get the nod. A few of us from the conservatory started playing together thirty years ago and they eventually became my family. Our string quartet plays at two masses every Sunday at St. Hedwig’s plus rehearsals on Tuesday nights, as well as, the odd wedding or funeral. And I work as a soloist at a bar mitzvah every so often. I keep my weekday job at the art school my little secret. I’m afraid Father Keenan might be scandalized, titillated, or both.
I peek out of my little door and watch the new crop of kids stroll in alone or in groups of two or three. They look like such babies; it’s hard to believe they’re college students. Over the years they’ve changed, become less prudish and freer somehow, but on the first day they’re all a little nervous.
I sit down and read another chapter of Stranger in a Strange Land by Heinlein. The new century is such a confusing time for everyone. I wonder how it’ll all shake out, with the new war, technology, pandemics, global warming. It’s a lot to ponder. I hear Donahue hobble out and begin his spiel.
“Good morning. I’m Mr. Donahue and this is freshman drawing for Section D. To answer your first question: I had polio as a kid, and I can’t walk without my crutches. I’m used to it. It’s not a big deal. This year we’ll be doing a lot of figure drawing. I see everyone has newsprint pads and soft pencils or charcoal.” He looks around at the assembled group beaming. “You’re going to use a lot of paper this year. This is just the first of many pads you’ll be buying. You have to draw a lot of bodies of all different shapes and sizes to understand what you’re seeing and learn to depict the human figure.”
I love listening to Donahue talk. He’s had a rough life between the polio and his family troubles. He’s shared his story of growing up with family members in jail intermittently – his dad for burglary, his brother for manslaughter and his sister for receiving stolen goods. But he sees only beauty. He put himself through art school playing pool and poker, so I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, but he’s a wonderful artist. Sometimes he draws me during class and gives me the sketches. I can look at them as my visual history from a svelte young woman to my present middle-aged rounded self. He still looks at me the same way though, with kindness. I love that.
Suzanne C Martinez 