Pastel Class

So as one of my adventures, I signed up for a pastel class at the Brooklyn Botanic garden. Class meets every Thursday from 10:30 to 1:30. That is a lot of drawing time. I was a little nervous. I had not taken a single art class since high school and my last drawing attempt was a giant pencil sketch of Tom Petty that I hung in my college bedroom. I do love that man.

Anyway, I purchased my 24 pack of soft pastels at a local art store and borrowed a old button down shirt from Matthew to wear as a smock (just like in pre-school!) and I was ready for class.

I was a little late on the first day because I missed my bus and had to call a car to come pick me up. Luckily, things were still getting organized in the classroom when I arrived:



I take a moment to take in the class. The teacher is a woman in her 60’s named Enid with a long gray ponytail and Birkenstock sandals. She has a deep voice and pronounces my name Kor-rin even though I correct her. Next week I will have to tell her that it rhymes with Bean, that usually helps people.

Not surprisingly, the class is made up of all women. There are 16 of us all together, and as we get a board and a stool, as instructed by Enid, I glace around. There are three other attendees that are about my age. As I remember that I am 30, I guess that they are probably even younger. The rest are women in their 50’s or 60’s with a wide rage of sun hats and wheelie carts to transport their tackle boxes of art supplies and high-quality paper with “teeth” to grip the chalk. I unpack my 24 set of pastels and help myself to the free paper.

We troop out to the garden in the sweltering heat and seek shade. Enid tells us to “find a view that inspires” and I look around. We are in a very green part of the garden and the only color is a little patch of yellow flowers. They are tall like sunflowers, but very small. I set up in a shady patch and get to work. I don’t really know what I am doing but I layer colors smearing pigment with my fingers and blowing away excess chalk. There is a lot of green in my view and soon I have diminished my dark green pastel into a little nub. My hands look like they belong to the Wicked Witch of the East.

A little group of black children wearing matching bright yellow tee-shirts wonder near our drawing class. Their matching shirts identify them as a part of some summer camp. Summers in the city you often see children in a rainbow of tee-shirts getting on and off the trains in masses with adults holding the doors and yelling, “Stay together! Everyone off!” while the children continue their hand games and conversations, barely noticing the panic on the grown-up faces.

There are maybe five or six children in the group and as they pass each artist they unabashedly look over shoulders or stand in views to see the paper. “OOOh! Wow, that’s so good!” I can hear them exclaim. The adult in charge tries to keep a respectful distance, but I see her glancing back and forth from the paper to the landscape.

The little group makes their way over to me. As I am sitting on a small folding stool, their little faces are about level with mine. The tiniest girl comes right up to me.
“Oh, this is very good!” she says looking at my chalk flowers.
She has beautifully smooth skin and her dark hair pulled back into several braids that each end with a little pink barrette.
“Thank you.” I smile at her from behind my sunglasses.
“I looooove your glasses.” She almost whispers, and gently reaches out to touch the white plastic frames.
“Thank you.” I whisper back. “I love your barrettes. I used to wear some just like them when I was little.”
“Oh! Your flowers are very pretty. So beautiful.”
“Thank you. What would you draw?”
"The purple ones.” With one hand she points to a little flowering patch off to one side of me. I hadn’t even noticed. And they are beautiful. With the other hand she gently touches my shoulder as if to make sure I see them.
“Oh yes, they are pretty.”
"Alright now, don’t touch the lady!” The adult booms. “Com’on now!” She turns and leads the group away. The little one bounces off to join her friends.

The rest of the afternoon passes with growing heat and sweat dripping down onto my paper. We finally call it a day and reassemble in the air conditioning. Each of our drawings are displayed at the front of class and Enid gives a little critique. She says that mine is a very solid first stab at chalk drawing, her only critique is that the set up is too linear. But she likes the stalks of the flowers.

Something to work on next week.