Short: Gary And Mary: The Artist and The Magic Paint Brush, Part 3.
As the F train neared Gary’s stop, the commuters began to give way to students and tourists, the dullness replaced by anticipation and excitement. And as he did every morning regardless of conditions, Gary climbed the 57th Street steps and headed north to Central Park. The routine gave him the opportunity to experience the gradual progression of the seasons through the lens of the Park. And in early June, the young light green leaves of the Maples and Elms were now giving way to the darker deep green of summer. In fact, the whole park appeared to be full of life and contrasting color, not to mention artists, performers, and excited visitors. From a bench near the Dip Archway, Gary liked to watch tourist snap selfies and reenact various movies scenes shot in front of it. And now it was 7:30 am, and Gary need to head back down 7th Avenue to class. Happy with his choices and in the moment, he stood, stretched his legs a bit and hurried back down the sidewalk to art school.
The classroom was half-full when Gary walked through the door and quickly scanned to see if he knew any of the other students. And, other than some familiar faces, the class of devoid of anyone Gary would call a friend. Then he chose an easel on the right side of the room near the back and began to unpack. On the ledge of the easel he placed his paints, thinner, cleaner, and finally his brushes. And as he set them down he heard a distinct and clear “thank you!” Not believing what he perceived Gary looked up, then around him. The pink-haired woman to his left him was glued to her phone and no one was behind him.
The previous episodes in the bodega and on the train were easily dismissed, but now Gary was hearing full words. And it disturbed him. He began to sink into his anxiety and wondered if he was losing his mind. His mother was drug counselor and he knew about auditory hallucinations- one of the many reasons he avoided alcohol and drugs. (That, and the countless horror stories his mother told around the dinner table, and at parties, and every time she pleased.) The sharpe voice of the instructor pulled Gary out of his thoughts and back into the room. “Everyone, I’m Carol Townsend and this is Basic of Oil Painting,” boomed a tall yet wide woman with curly black hair. And instantly, Gary forgot his phobia.
Over the next hour, Ms Townsend took roll, reviewed her syllabus, and answered questions. Gary’s thoughts drifted and circled back to the voice that followed him from Brooklyn to class. Then Gary looked up to notice Ms. Townsend scribbling away on the whiteboard and he tuned into her voice, something about mixing paints and mediums and canvas prep. Of course we wouldn’t paint today he nearly said aloud. He’d been the only student to unpack his tools and paints. And he felt embarrassed at being too eager. After another hour, Gary packed up and shuffled out the of classroom to regroup and mentally prepare for his figure drawing class.
