Page 60 of Possibly Texas

“Well,” Lilly spoke, “you see, we got our painters, our sculptors—”

I looked around as she gestured, taking in the students as she pointed them out.

“—some people who like to sketch. Got some folks who like to work with clay, others with stone or metal. Oils, acrylics, charcoal…the medium finds the artist more often than not.”

“What does that mean?”

“You won’t really know what works for you until you work,” she said. “Since you’ve never really done much art before, maybe we start you out with some acrylic paints and see what happens? Maybe we can figure out what type of art you’re best suited for?”

I shrugged again. “Yeah. That sounds cool.”

“Great!” Lilly slapped my back jovially, nearly taking my breath away.

Sturdy.

“I’ll be right back,” she said.

Sturdy or not, Lilly dashed around The Pueblo as if made of feathers. She practically floated as she zipped around, grabbing a free easel, canvas, paints, and brushes. I did my best to help her set up my station on the edge of the round of grass, but I mostly let her take charge. Who was I to tell an artist how to set up an artist’s work station?

Before I knew it, the canvas was clamped onto the easel, Lilly had placed a mason jar of clear water to the side for me, and handed me a palette and brush. I stood before the easel, staring at the vast whiteness, wondering what I would be instructed to do. I’d never even attempted to paint something, but with a teacher, I couldn’t be too terrible. Right?

“Okay,” I said. “Now what?”

“Well, paint, of course.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Paint something.”

“Uh…paint what?”

“What you see,” Lilly slapped my back, nearly sending me flying into the easel, as a cackle erupted from her throat. “Specifically, paint how you see. Don’t paint this room the way it looks, paint it the way you see it. Otherwise, it’s not the best art.”

“But how?” I coughed.

“How doesn’t matter. We’re just trying to figure out what you take to,” she said. “Just start painting. See what happens. Maybe you’ll find you take to it like a duck to water.”

“Not likely,” I mumbled.

“We got a few rules around here,” Lilly crossed her arms over her broad chest. “Not being grumpier than me is one of ‘em.”

“Sorry.”

Lilly softened. “Don’t worry about the process for now, Jordan. Just paint what you see. I need to know what you can do before I can start to figure out what might be best for you.”

“It’s gonna be bad.” I cringed. “Like, really bad.”

“Art’s never bad.” Lilly grabbed me firmly by the chin and turned my head to look at her.

Typically, anyone putting their hands on me forcefully in an attempt to make me comply annoyed me. Lilly just had a way about her. I wanted desperately to ask her if she had kids. Or grandkids. She had one of those timeless faces that, although it was obvious she had experience, looked as if she could have been not old enough or old enough to have grandkids.

“Art is art because it’s a reflection of how the artist sees the world around them.”

I murmured, “Is not making fun of new students one of your rules?”

Lilly’s eyes softened considerably and she pinched my chin between her fingers.

“I’ll give you helpful critique, but I will never laugh at you.” She let go of my chin and ran her finger across her chest. “Cross my heart.”