Armed with water colours and a paintbrush, the writer reminisces how he fell in love with more than colours one school year!
Through the whole of last year, I had been secretly admiring her. This year, to my delight, we had been seated together. I could see her eyes shine brightly through her spectacles as the art teacher announced we would no longer be using crayons, starting this year.
She seemed to be excited about using water colours. She had always been good at drawing. Even before the art class would begin, her palette was out, free of any paint which she had used the last time. The water colour box sat next to the palette, then came the tube colours and the bottle colours! Next to the colours, a small steel bowl would be kept in which she would carefully pour water.
Since I already had a crush on her, I used to find her intimidating. Her army of different colours did not help matters much! My own colour collection comprised a small colour box with just six colours and a half-pencil sized brush, and was no match for hers. As the art teacher would arrive and give us an assignment (an option between object drawing, a village scene or “my favourite festival”), me and most of the boys would go about the job with little interest, however she was a girl possessed. The big drawing book would be opened. A pencil would be produced and she sketched the outline of the drawing with much concentration. The right hand would keep drawing, while the left hand managed everything else: propping up the spectacles with a finger before the lenses fell low or flicking away the strands of “boy-cut” hair.
As the drawing was completed, the teacher would be consulted regarding the drawing and the colours to be used for painting and then she would set about the task. Safely tucked away in the bag, came an assortment of brushes. When I had asked her, she had told me that the brush sizes were different and she used a brush, depending on the drawing. Her painting style was in contrast to her usual careful self. When she’d draw with the pencil, she’d be careful about measuring and would give attention to every detail. While painting, it was a completely different her. Swift, audacious strokes of the brush would attack the sheet. Generally gentle, it was a bad decision to interrupt her when she drew. When I did, she would almost snap at me, only to return to the painting. The brush seemed to be guided by a supernatural force as it dipped the right colours, went to the sheet and left beautiful swirls, strokes and spirals. Then it would be quickly cleansed in the steel water bowl, only to return to the colour box for the next round of ammunition. Amazed and in awe, I would set my pencil and brush aside to watch the poetry in motion. With the last few strokes coming on, there would be a crowd around our bench, with all her friends coming over to see the new masterpiece and suddenly, without warning she would stop and hold the piece up with a bright grin, signalling the completion of the drawing.
The teacher would come over and praise the drawing and I’d try my best not to show the mess that I had created. The bell would ring and she would carefully keep her painting supplies inside the bag, cleaning away any mess she may have created. We both then waited for the next art class.
