Lulu agreed with alacrity. I think she imagines I’ll be sketching a hot young stud muffin with whom I can exchange fruity glances over an easel, and then perhaps he and I will (forgetting Randy) retire for a passionate fumble in the art supplies cupboard, so she’d be disappointed to see the rotund pensioner who props himself up in a chair for our artistic inspiration. Our model may not have washboard abs or pumped-up pectorals, but it turns out to be oddly satisfying attempting to capture the soft lines of his lived-in body for an hour. He stares calmly out of the window as if it is perfectly normal for him to be seated, naked, in front of fifteen strangers, and seems to be lost in thought. The only sounds are the swish of charcoal on paper and a quiet murmur of voices as the teacher moves from student to student. I spend a long time drawing his hands, the veins standing up on the backs of them, the broken nail on his thumb, the way his fingers splay out at the ends. The teacher compliments my careful focus, and I don’t admit to her that it’s because I’m avoiding paying close attention to the drooping geriatric genitals that I have captured instead in a vague impressionistic scribble.
What do You think about Lizzy Harrison Loses Control?
