Dante' s Muse
Observers of a Miracle
"You're body," Dante said as he paced in front of the risers, "is not simply a mecca for artistic ideas. It is the Grand Central Station of your creativity. Let your body spark, and let it burn. Let the flames overtake you."
This speech was considered natural inside Dante's classroom. For, once you entered, it was like another world completely. All distractions were thrown aside, all conversation came to an abrupt halt. It wasn't just that Dante was the instructor, and we as students were there to listen to him. It was that he was God, and we were worshiping at his feet in some sort of paganistic ritual.
"Do not ever put down one of your own ideas, for it is usually the ones that we cast aside that have the potential to change the world." Here his eyes took on a dark, sort of glinting sheen. He looked right at me. "And that is the purpose of the artist. To change the world."
A shudder ran down my spine. A chill swept through my insides. To change the world. Every artist's dream. I want to change the world. I want to, what was the word he used yesterday? Oh yes. I want to portray my views of the anagogic universe.
Dante was crossing the room now, going behind his podium. He walked with a limp, not very noticeable, but it was there. Bending at the waist, he dug around for something out of our view. Dante was a fan of suspense. Whether it was on what he thought of your painting, or if it was just him waiting a couple seconds before telling you what time class started the next day, he always paused, just to let that anxiety set in. So naturally, we all sat in the risers, craning our necks to see what object of interest he was about to bring forth.
After a few moments, Dante straightened out, an easel in his hand, along with a pencil. He silently brought them to the very center of the room and set the easel up. "Alright, I want you to observe closely. I am going to sketch one. All I want for you to do, is clear your mind, and watch, alright?"
And that was that. He began to sketch, the pencil moving across the paper in smooth, fluid movements. I fell in love with the scratching noise as graphite made its mark, as reality became a visual before his very eyes. And the way Dante looked. I might have fallen in love with that too. His expression was of purest concentration, as if everything had blurred into shadows except for his subject. I didn't know what it was, because I stared at him, and he never seemed to look up once. His art made his world, and his world was there on the paper. We no longer mattered. We were no longer students; we were observers of a miracle.
Five minutes. Ten minutes. Fifteen minutes.
Twenty minutes. Thirty minutes. Forty minutes.
An hour. An hour and a half.
No one spoke. No one uttered a single sound, as if breaking through the surrealness that was him creating a picture would just shatter the world. Not even Stupid, Stupid Boy, who had dared to return to class today. Every one of us shared the same mirrored expression: awe. When Dante drew, he created this atmosphere where there was so little air that we all just got a little bit light-headed and high. That scratching of his pencil became like the twenty-seven, twenty-eight including Dante's, heartbeats.
Scratch-scratch, scratch-scratch, scratch-scratch.
Dante finally looked up. His face was somber as he ran his hand through his electric mop of hair. "Now, will someone please explain what I have just done."
"You drew a picture," the girl next to Stupid, Stupid Boy said, I'd be willing to bet a million bucks that they're dating.
Dante scowled. "Drawing a picture," he scoffed, "Hardly."
I flexed my legs a little, stiff after sitting still for so long. "You ignored us," I mumbled, a little peeved. What kind of question was that anyway? He was obviously drawing, what more was there?
"What was that?"
I glanced up, raising my eyebrows. He was looking at me, pure childish excitement etched into his tan skin. Because I was tired, and more than a little annoyed that I'd just wasted ninety minutes of my time, I stood up. "I said you ignored us. What was the point of that, just watching you draw something? What are we supposed to learn from that?"
He clapped his hand on his thigh and began pacing excitedly across the room. "Yes, yes, that's exactly what I did!" he shouted, his voice loud with animated fervor. "I ignored you. I forgot about my audience, and I simply concentrated on the art."
More and more people were getting annoyed by now, their peeved murmurs creating a low roar of complaints. "But how does that teach us?" I called out.
"It teaches you the basic foundation of art, that is forgetting. Forget your surroundings. Forget the noises. Forget people. Focus on your art, and only on your art. Do not let anything get in the way!"
I was not swayed by this lesson. Not even remotely. I wasn't busting my ass downtown to pay for a class where we just watched our unbalanced teacher draw us a pretty picture. I wanted to do something. I wanted to learn.
Class dismissed. Angry murmurs of students unsatisfied by the lecture. Dante still pacing, his eyes wild with unhidden pleasure.
"You get it, yes?" he said to me.
"I'm sorry?" In his frenzied rush, his accent was suddenly thick and almost impossible to understand.
"You understood the point I was trying to get across! You understood what I was doing, how I blocked all of you out! You got it."
I sort of lingered near the door, trying to convey my wish to leave. Not that he wasn't an okay guy...just a little, um, overly-passionate. "Listen, man....I really admire your love of art, I do. And you're a good teacher. But it's just, I can't really afford to sit in a class where we don't, you know, actually do art."
He looked let down. Absolutely down-trodden. "Are you dropping out?"
"No. Not dropping out. But I don't know how many of these classes I can afford..."
"Free tuition."
"What?"
"I'll give you free tuition if you do two things for me," Dante rushed on, his eyes alighted with an idea.
I sort of shuffled on my feet, considering the offer. Free tuition, that would be amazing. "What would I have to do?"
"Clean up after class. Wash brushes, tables, put away the easels."
"Done."
He looked up, pondering me. Like he was trying to get some insight as to what my answer would be to his next question. "I'd also like you to sit for some of my portraits. I'd like to draw you, Frank."
This surprised me. "Draw me? Why?"
Dante walked over to the easel he'd drawn upon with such undisturbed concentration before. He turned it, and I was met with a mirror image. Of myself.
"Wow," I muttered, staring at myself. Same shaggy hair, same tiny freckle on my right cheekbone. "Wow. That's...Dante, that's amazing."
"I know, I know," he grinned, "And I want to do more. A series. Will you sit for me?"
I was thinking, free tuition. I was thinking, just sitting for some guy to draw me. I was thinking, maybe a little extra teaching for free.
"Yeah, okay. You've got yourself a deal."
So I had free tuition. And Dante had a subject.
This speech was considered natural inside Dante's classroom. For, once you entered, it was like another world completely. All distractions were thrown aside, all conversation came to an abrupt halt. It wasn't just that Dante was the instructor, and we as students were there to listen to him. It was that he was God, and we were worshiping at his feet in some sort of paganistic ritual.
"Do not ever put down one of your own ideas, for it is usually the ones that we cast aside that have the potential to change the world." Here his eyes took on a dark, sort of glinting sheen. He looked right at me. "And that is the purpose of the artist. To change the world."
A shudder ran down my spine. A chill swept through my insides. To change the world. Every artist's dream. I want to change the world. I want to, what was the word he used yesterday? Oh yes. I want to portray my views of the anagogic universe.
Dante was crossing the room now, going behind his podium. He walked with a limp, not very noticeable, but it was there. Bending at the waist, he dug around for something out of our view. Dante was a fan of suspense. Whether it was on what he thought of your painting, or if it was just him waiting a couple seconds before telling you what time class started the next day, he always paused, just to let that anxiety set in. So naturally, we all sat in the risers, craning our necks to see what object of interest he was about to bring forth.
After a few moments, Dante straightened out, an easel in his hand, along with a pencil. He silently brought them to the very center of the room and set the easel up. "Alright, I want you to observe closely. I am going to sketch one. All I want for you to do, is clear your mind, and watch, alright?"
And that was that. He began to sketch, the pencil moving across the paper in smooth, fluid movements. I fell in love with the scratching noise as graphite made its mark, as reality became a visual before his very eyes. And the way Dante looked. I might have fallen in love with that too. His expression was of purest concentration, as if everything had blurred into shadows except for his subject. I didn't know what it was, because I stared at him, and he never seemed to look up once. His art made his world, and his world was there on the paper. We no longer mattered. We were no longer students; we were observers of a miracle.
Five minutes. Ten minutes. Fifteen minutes.
Twenty minutes. Thirty minutes. Forty minutes.
An hour. An hour and a half.
No one spoke. No one uttered a single sound, as if breaking through the surrealness that was him creating a picture would just shatter the world. Not even Stupid, Stupid Boy, who had dared to return to class today. Every one of us shared the same mirrored expression: awe. When Dante drew, he created this atmosphere where there was so little air that we all just got a little bit light-headed and high. That scratching of his pencil became like the twenty-seven, twenty-eight including Dante's, heartbeats.
Scratch-scratch, scratch-scratch, scratch-scratch.
Dante finally looked up. His face was somber as he ran his hand through his electric mop of hair. "Now, will someone please explain what I have just done."
"You drew a picture," the girl next to Stupid, Stupid Boy said, I'd be willing to bet a million bucks that they're dating.
Dante scowled. "Drawing a picture," he scoffed, "Hardly."
I flexed my legs a little, stiff after sitting still for so long. "You ignored us," I mumbled, a little peeved. What kind of question was that anyway? He was obviously drawing, what more was there?
"What was that?"
I glanced up, raising my eyebrows. He was looking at me, pure childish excitement etched into his tan skin. Because I was tired, and more than a little annoyed that I'd just wasted ninety minutes of my time, I stood up. "I said you ignored us. What was the point of that, just watching you draw something? What are we supposed to learn from that?"
He clapped his hand on his thigh and began pacing excitedly across the room. "Yes, yes, that's exactly what I did!" he shouted, his voice loud with animated fervor. "I ignored you. I forgot about my audience, and I simply concentrated on the art."
More and more people were getting annoyed by now, their peeved murmurs creating a low roar of complaints. "But how does that teach us?" I called out.
"It teaches you the basic foundation of art, that is forgetting. Forget your surroundings. Forget the noises. Forget people. Focus on your art, and only on your art. Do not let anything get in the way!"
I was not swayed by this lesson. Not even remotely. I wasn't busting my ass downtown to pay for a class where we just watched our unbalanced teacher draw us a pretty picture. I wanted to do something. I wanted to learn.
Class dismissed. Angry murmurs of students unsatisfied by the lecture. Dante still pacing, his eyes wild with unhidden pleasure.
"You get it, yes?" he said to me.
"I'm sorry?" In his frenzied rush, his accent was suddenly thick and almost impossible to understand.
"You understood the point I was trying to get across! You understood what I was doing, how I blocked all of you out! You got it."
I sort of lingered near the door, trying to convey my wish to leave. Not that he wasn't an okay guy...just a little, um, overly-passionate. "Listen, man....I really admire your love of art, I do. And you're a good teacher. But it's just, I can't really afford to sit in a class where we don't, you know, actually do art."
He looked let down. Absolutely down-trodden. "Are you dropping out?"
"No. Not dropping out. But I don't know how many of these classes I can afford..."
"Free tuition."
"What?"
"I'll give you free tuition if you do two things for me," Dante rushed on, his eyes alighted with an idea.
I sort of shuffled on my feet, considering the offer. Free tuition, that would be amazing. "What would I have to do?"
"Clean up after class. Wash brushes, tables, put away the easels."
"Done."
He looked up, pondering me. Like he was trying to get some insight as to what my answer would be to his next question. "I'd also like you to sit for some of my portraits. I'd like to draw you, Frank."
This surprised me. "Draw me? Why?"
Dante walked over to the easel he'd drawn upon with such undisturbed concentration before. He turned it, and I was met with a mirror image. Of myself.
"Wow," I muttered, staring at myself. Same shaggy hair, same tiny freckle on my right cheekbone. "Wow. That's...Dante, that's amazing."
"I know, I know," he grinned, "And I want to do more. A series. Will you sit for me?"
I was thinking, free tuition. I was thinking, just sitting for some guy to draw me. I was thinking, maybe a little extra teaching for free.
"Yeah, okay. You've got yourself a deal."
So I had free tuition. And Dante had a subject.