Drawing Nudes While Making Other Plans, page 1
About the Book
‘A vivid sense of place pulses through this novel with a heartfelt core and a glimpse of how imagination can illuminate truth and connect us to others.’
Melina Marchetta
Plan for the perfect summer before year 12:
1. Do a life-drawing course at the Australian Art School.
(Try not to freak out the first time you have to draw a naked man)
2. Find your friends.
(Your real ones)
3. First kiss?!
(Only if it’s with the right person)
4. Try not to wish your sister was still here.
(Impossible!)
A warm and funny novel about finding yourself . . . in a room full of strangers, drawing naked people.
To Paul, who finally read my book.
CONTENTS
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
Plan for your Final Year of School
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Imprint
Plan for your Final Year of School
By Emmaline Markson, for Cleo Markson
I’ve started year 12 and here’s what I’ve learnt so far. You won’t need this plan right away, but I hope it will help when you get there.
1. Choose subjects you like, bonus points if you are good at them.
2. Listen in class. This feels a little obvious, but you’d be surprised at the number of classmates I’ve seen disappointed with results when they’ve literally paid no attention.
3. Study. It’s a boring one, but important. Depending on where I end up, I’ll help if I can, except for art, obviously. Unless you want suggestions on the best ways to draw stick figures or worms. I reckon I’m pretty good at both.
4. Keep your life in balance. I’ve made comments about the school stuff, but you have to balance it out with everything else. So, with that in mind: a) Continue swimming.
b) Get a job and start saving.
c) Start to build your social life!!!
5. To help with 4c: find your friends. Your real ones.
6. In your free time, try some new things. My suggestions are as follows: – Explore Sydney a little more.
– Go to a party, if you haven’t done that already. (I know it’s not your usual scene, but it’s a rite of passage – and remember 4c!)
– First kiss?! Who knows, maybe by the time you hit year 12 this will already have already happened? (I hope so, but if not, here is my quick pep talk … You said you can’t comprehend anyone liking you enough to stick their tongue down your throat
– your words, not mine – but maybe you need to be ready? Despite what you think, you ARE very likeable!! And so is kissing. For more details see my very useful ‘Plan for First Kisses’.)
7. Work out what you want to do when you finish year 12.
You got this, Cleo! It’s going to be great.
Chapter One
I am not late. I am absolutely not late. I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks and my heart beating at an unnaturally fast pace and I want to tell the fifty people who are turning to look at me that I was fifteen minutes early for the bus. That I planned it all out. That it wasn’t my fault the bus came late, which meant I missed the early train, which meant that the time buffer I set up for things like finding the correct entrance to the Art School was no longer in play. I want to tell them that as thankful as I am for GPS – and believe me, I am overwhelmingly thankful – I still got lost walking from the back entrance to the gallery space where the induction had already begun.
Well, maybe I don’t want to tell them that bit.
The fact is, I made it. I travelled to the Australian Art School. By myself. So, even though my face feels hot to touch, and my heart is racing, and I have unnaturally sweaty pits, I am proud of myself. But can I tell any of that to the fifty-odd students gathered in this sandstone building? No. No, I cannot. To them I am late and already out of place.
I try not to wish Emmaline was with me. My sister would have wrapped her arm around me and won everyone over with her massive smile and a big wave. But she is not here.
By the door is what looks to be an abandoned welcome table. It holds a single information folder. Mine. A sticky label reading Cleo Markson has been placed just under the Australian Art School logo.
I have clearly missed the introduction of the woman up the front. But her slides tell me her name is Rachael Ramirez and I am pretty sure my letter of invitation was signed by her. Further confirmation I am in the right spot. Not that I need it, but I’m pleased to have remembered the program organiser’s name. I grab my info pack and attempt to scout out a place to sit.
Before becoming home to the Art School, the sandstone buildings here used to house prisoners. According to my research, aka last night’s stress googling, the building that serves as the gallery/meeting point/induction space is the old prison chapel. I’m surprised that, despite its repurposing, the gallery is still filled with old church pews.
Let me tell you, a pew is not the latecomer’s best friend. Don’t get me wrong, pews are almost works of art themselves, but everyone probably arrived on time in prison chapel days and I’m sure they filed in in a very orderly manner and no one had to worry themselves about things like where to sit. Sure, life would have been tough, but working out the optimal seating plan was probably not up there in the list of troubles.
My choice of seats is limited. There looks to be a spacious spot up front, but there is no way on God’s green earth I am about to make my way up there, so I scoot into the nearest opening I can find.
It’s not until I sit that I realise my chosen spot is not really a spot at all. It’s more like … half of a spot. And yet I can’t bear to get up and draw attention to myself again.
I perch on the edge of the seat and cross my legs. Maybe balancing on one arse cheek will take up less room.
I try to concentrate on Rachael Ramirez’s welcome speech.
‘We are so very proud to provide this opportunity, not just to students from our Sydney schools but also to those from further afield. The human body is to be celebrated. In its variety, it is a thing of beauty. Out there, our differences may separate us, but here we believe that the body should be what unites us, what connects us.’ At this she raises her arms, slotting her fingers together so her hands are now linked. A physical demonstration of what she is talking about. ‘During this summer workshop we will focus on the naked form, using it as inspiration to create art, to build skills, to learn new techniques, to experiment and to create lasting connections. We are stripping back and building up, carving, sculpting, sketching and finding the truth that’s buried beneath.’
I manage to stifle my snort with a little cough. I’ve obviously been at a public school too long. Get it together, Cleo. You are not a thirteen-year-old boy, I tell myself sternly. If you can’t hear the word naked or stripping without laughing, you’re certainly not going to be able to make it through four weeks of drawing nudes.
My one-butt-cheek seat perch is a mistake. I can’t maintain it. It’s not a comfortable position and I figure I’m already crowding my neighbour, so I give in and slide back on the pew so I can rest against it. My back is hunched into a u shape and my shoulders are now squished against my neighbour’s. My thigh is pressed against his and I am all too aware that this proximity with a stranger is not normally socially acceptable.
I try to focus on Rachael, but the heat slowly building in my thigh is absolutely distracting. In these close quarters, turning my head to offer my neighbour an apology half smile feels like an invasion of privacy. I can’t see his face, but I can see his legs. He’s wearing loose-fitting dark grey pants and I can see a glimpse of olive skin above his white Nike kicks. Out of the corner of my eye I can just make out a slightly oversized white tee with a Thrills logo to the left. He has a chunky brown watchband on his left wrist and muscular forearms. His welcome packet sits on his lap. His name might be Matt? I can only see the start of it. Matthew? Matteo? Mattholemew? No, that’s not even a real name. I don’t think.
Oh my gosh. Focus!
I force my attention back to the front. I am determined this workshop will be a good way to spend my Christmas holidays. My art teacher selected me out of our year 11 visual art class.
‘This is a wonderful opportunity for you, Cleo,’ she said. ‘You will learn so much, really develop as an artist. This will increase your confidence too. I think this could guide your major work.’
I found out later that I wasn’t Miss Saidi’s first choice. I wasn’t surprised. I probably would have picked Yasmin Lin first too. She is topping the class. If anyone can get a Band 6 in visual arts it’s her, but funnily enough she doesn’t even care; she just creates for the joy of it. It’s like she enters this zone when she paints, headphones in, only focused on what’s in front of her. So confident in the choices she is making. I always feel jealous when I see her in this kind of flow. It’s not necessarily her skill I want but the degree of certainty with which she holds her brush and makes her mark. Like she knows what she wants and will just go for it. Unlike me. I second-guess every stroke. Is this right? Does it look good? Will this shade work? I’m overly self-conscious. Utterly indecisive. In art and in life. So, while Yasmin would have thrived here, the best I can hope for from the program is direction. Whatever. I am certainly in need of direction. And something different to do over these remaining four weeks of summer holidays, as my parents keep reminding me.
Once Rachael Ramirez finishes her speech, we are invited to exit the gallery/meeting point/induction space/ old prison chapel for a morning tea served outside. I reach down to grab my bag and take a moment to shove my welcome pack in. I’ve got a long trip home and the reading material will be a great distraction.
I turn to speak to Matt/Matthew/Matteo. I want to apologise for squishing in next to him. It will be good to meet someone, seeing as I literally know no one here.
‘Hey. I’m sorry for the squishy intro –’ I start to say to Matt/Matthew/Matteo standing and turning finally to face him. But all I see is his back. He has unfolded himself from his place next to me and is making his way to the door.
Thanks so much for giving me a second of your time to introduce yourself before running away.
I’m not sure why I’m so bugged by the fact that he has just left me hanging after our weirdly intimate pew moment. But I feel irrationally bothered. Mum would tell me to move on. That it’s not all about me, that I just need to brush it off, like it feels he did to me. Water off a duck’s back and all that. It’s not that it’s bad advice but give me a minute to apologise. We may have shared a very uncomfortable fifteen minutes, but it’s not like I have leprosy.
I make the important decision not to chase Matt/ Matthew/Matteo like some loser desperate for someone to talk to, and follow the group outside. Bag over my shoulder, I head towards the morning tea table while some of the other students start to chat. I focus on my food selection so I won’t have to work out who to have an awkward conversation with.
It’s an impressive spread. My stomach grumbles and I am reminded that it was dark out when I last ate. I select an apple Danish and a caramel slice and place them on top of a serviette in my hand. I shuffle through the other students to the tea and coffee table.
‘Urgh, International Roast,’ a girl grumbles. ‘Are they trying to poison us on our first day? Hard pass.’ She puts her cup back down.
I take a very non-recyclable cup and reach for the tea bags. ‘It’s times like these I’m glad I don’t drink coffee,’ I say, thankful that someone has chosen to talk to me, or at least talk in the vicinity of me.
‘What? No coffee?’ she asks.
‘No, not really.’
‘Not even when it’s been a late night, and you’ve been up putting the finishing touches on your photographic essay and then your baby brother wakes you at 5.30 am because he wants to play?’
‘That sounds weirdly specific, but still no.’ Also, thank you for talking to me so I don’t have to work out who to talk to. I don’t say the last bit out loud.
‘What if it was a really great flat white?’
‘Nope.’
‘A latte? Skinny cap? Long black? Macchiato?’
I am not a coffee person. These sound like something between made-up words and racial profiles. I don’t say this out loud either. ‘I don’t know what they are. Are you making up words, or are we still talking about coffee? I really don’t like coffee,’ I say.
She laughs.
‘I don’t understand it, but fair enough. I’m Remi.’
Do we shake hands in this situation? I’m not sure. My hands are too full.
I mime shaking her hand with my refreshment pile. ‘I’m Cleo.’
‘Nice to meet you, Cleo.’
I focus on Remi. Her black hair is clipped in a short funky bob and blue eyeliner artfully adorns the crinkled corners of her eyes.
‘So, what’s your go-to coffee order?’ I ask.
‘The classic flat white for sure. I’ll never say no to a flat white. But if you asked my mum, she would say I’m a latte,’ Remi says. I must look like I don’t get it. ‘Like, I’m a lot, aye? A latte? Sorry, terrible joke. That’s what happens when I’m forced to operate without sufficient refreshment.’
I laugh. If we hadn’t had this interaction, I’m not sure I would have worked up the nerve to talk to Remi. She gives off an alternative vibe that I’m not sure I fit with. Like I’m the Target to her Glebe Markets. And yet here she is chatting to me, making awful dad jokes.
‘So,’ I say, looking for another topic of conversation, ‘Do you know anyone here?’
I blow on my tea, knowing it will still be too hot to drink. I attempt to take a bite of my pastry. But it is perched on top of my serviette, placed directly on the upturned palm of my hand. I really need to be holding the food in a pincer-like grip. The way I am holding it makes me think that I will look like a dog eating its breakfast if I start to snack on it. I’ll have to drink the tea first. Keep it together, Cleo.
‘I actually don’t know anyone here,’ says Remi. She sounds surprised and I raise my eyebrow as if to question her. She waves her hand at me like she is brushing off my reaction. ‘I’ve done a few art workshops over the last couple of years. More week-long programs, rather than four-week ones. It’s often a similar crowd.’ She looks around the people. ‘But yeah, this looks like a fresh group.’
‘It’s not the sort of thing I’m used to going to,’ I volunteer.
‘No?’
‘I guess Oxford Street is not my usual stomping ground,’ I say, my voice rising at the end so it sounds like I’m asking a question, even though I don’t mean to. I quickly realise what I’ve said could sound offensive. ‘I’m just not from around here. It took almost two hours to get here. I’m from Camden. It’s semirural.’ Why did I say the last bit?
Remi laughs and I know I haven’t offended her. ‘Isn’t Camden in England?’
I nod. ‘Yep, and in New South Wales. And probably a bunch of other places.’
‘I’ve been to Camden.’ A deeper voice from behind me joins our conversation. I wonder if I am supposed to be impressed that someone knows of the town in which I live. I am about to make a snippy comment but the body belonging to the voice steps closer.
‘I’m Lachlan,’ the body says. ‘I played rugby there … last winter, it must have been, not that long ago.’
Lachlan is marginally taller than me. His blond hair is curly but worn short. He looks like a footy player. Strong. Like he could bench press me. Not that I want him to. I don’t think? I don’t know why I imagined that. I guess I don’t not want him to, either.
‘So do you have cows?’ he asks.
I pull myself together and try a joke. ‘Only half ones, we’re semirural.’ Oh my gosh, that was awful. Why did I say that? I push on before anyone can comment on my terrible pun. ‘Tell me where you guys are from while I figure out how to eat my morning tea.’
I sound more confident than I feel.
Without asking, Lachlan reaches over and takes my tea out of my hand. His fingers skim mine in the exchange. ‘Let me help you with that,’ he says with a wink.
It’s a bold move and I am impressed with his confidence. I smile by way of thanks as he continues. ‘I’m from Caringbah. How about you …’ He flashes a smile at Remi, waiting for her to fill in the blank.
‘Remi,’ she says. ‘I live in Bexley.’
‘Nice to meet you, Remi from Bexley,’ Lachlan swaps the tea into his left hand and shakes Remi’s hand with his right. ‘And from Camden is …’
This time it’s my turn to fill in the blank. ‘I’m Cleo.’
