On Wednesday evening, with a box of leftover cupcakes and a belly full of nerves, I show up a little late for Josh’s class. Glancing around the room, I count five students of varying ages sitting on stools in a circle. Each one has their own easel and a table covered with art supplies and a small stack of magazines. It’s a far more informal setup than I was expecting, and the atmosphere is welcoming and airy.
“Good evening, Emerson.” Josh’s deep voice draws my gaze to the front of the room, and I’m completely disarmed by his warm smile. As he closes the distance between us, my heart beats faster. “Welcome,” he says when he’s only a few feet away. “I was hoping to see you here tonight.”
I hand him the cupcakes. “I didn’t want to show up empty-handed.”
“Thank you.” He takes the box, and I try not to flinch when his fingers brush over mine. “We were just about to start.”
Choosing one of the available places, I drop my bag under the table and take a seat. An older man with greying hair sits to my left, and a girl about my age with jet black hair sits to my right.
Josh claps his hands. “Okay. Let’s get started with some introductions.” He pushes off the table he was leaning against and takes a step forward. “I’ll go first.” He opens his arms wide. “I’m Josh Holland, and I’m so happy to welcome you to my class. I hope it will be, at the very least, an enjoyable life experience.” All the other students are nodding, gazing at him as if he’s some kind of god.
“Let’s see. What can I tell you about myself?” He glances at the ceiling briefly. “I’m thirty-one. I love windsurfing and my dog, Leroy, a chocolate Labrador.”
I swoon at the mention of his dog. I’ve always wanted my own dog.
“I graduated from the National Art School eight years ago, then followed that up with a teaching degree,” he says. “I’m a working artist and run a variety of workshops. Art therapy is my specialty, and I’m very passionate about it.” He clasps his hands together. “That’s a little about me.” With his eyebrows raised, he glances around the room. “I’d love it if you’d introduce yourselves and, if you’re comfortable, let us know what you hope to get out of this class.”
The lady closest to Josh pipes up. “I’m Zoey Smith,” she says. “I’m forty-four years young, and I’m doing something for myself for the first time since I got married in my early twenties and started popping out kids.” She looks tired but has a fierce edge to her voice. “I have no idea who I am anymore, and I’m hoping this class might help me with that.”
“Thanks, Zoey,” Josh says, warmly.
“Eric Daniels,” an older man says. “I’m fifty-five years old, and I’m a paediatric surgeon.” He wrings his hands on his lap.
“So you need an outlet from the stress?” Josh guesses.
He shakes his head. “My wife passed away recently.”
“I’m so sorry,” Josh says.
“Art was her passion, and I only realized that after she died.” His eyes glaze, and my chest aches. “I’m not exactly sure what I’m doing here, but I guess I’m trying to pay tribute to her? Does that make sense?”
“Absolutely. I’m glad you’re here.”
I know it’s my turn, so I take a deep breath and meet Josh’s gaze. “I’m Emerson. I’m twenty-two.” I sigh, unsure how comfortable I am divulging anything about my life. “When I was a kid, I wanted to be a famous artist, but somewhere along the way, I lost that desire.” I know exactly when it happened, but I’m definitely not sharing that.
“You’re here to find that desire again?” Josh asks, a sparkle evident in his eyes.
I sit up a little straighter. “I am.”
Josh doesn’t react verbally to my words. He maintains eye contact and, for a moment, I feel completely vulnerable. It’s an unpleasant sensation, and I rip my gaze away to look to the girl next to me, hoping she’ll take over.
Perhaps sensing my discomfort, she smiles at me, then faces the class. “I’m Brooke, and I’m twenty-three. Oh God, I’m getting old.” A few of us chuckle while the older students roll their eyes and groan. “I’m an actress.” She announces, then pushes herself off her stool to take a bow. “You probably recognise me from my role in the TV show, Cousins.”
I’ve never actually seen the show, but a few of the others appear relieved. The familiarity must’ve been bugging them.
“So why did you enrol in my class, Brooke?” Josh asks.
“I’m auditioning for a role as the muse for a depressed artist, so this is research.”
“Well that’s a first,” Josh says, chuckling. “Welcome, Brooke.” He nods to the next student. She’s an attractive older woman.
“I’m Kaye Wager,” she says. Her frameless glasses slip down her nose, and she props them up before continuing. “I was an interior designer for forty years but have been thinking about a new career.”
“Go on,” Josh says.
“I’d like to run art workshops in aged-care facilities.”
“I think that’s a wonderful idea,” Zoey says. “My mother was recently moved into a retirement home, and it can be so depressing.”
“Exactly,” Kaye says, enthusiastically. “I want to bring some colour and creativity to their lives.”
“That’s fantastic. Thanks, Kaye,” Josh says.
The man on the other side of Brooke pipes up. “I’m Tenn, short for Tennyson. Thirty-year-old divorcee.” The way he says ‘divorcee’ through clenched teeth makes me think it’s recent and raw. “I’m a computer programmer—a career my ex-wife found unacceptable and dreary.” His shoulders drop as he takes a deep breath. “I guess I’m looking to expand my horizons and maybe become less dreary. No offense, Josh, but I’m literally doing every course I can find.”
Josh laughs. “No offense taken. Thanks for sharing with us, Tenn. I don’t think you seem dreary at all.”
Tenn shrugs. “Thanks, man.”
“Okay,” Josh says, pushing his hair behind his ears. “Creative expression is a known healer. By expressing yourself through the medium of art, you may well find many areas of your life benefit. You all have your own reasons for being here, and perhaps there’ll be reasons you’re not yet aware of. That’s what is so exciting about this class.”
Part of me wants to get up and run. As excited as I am by the thought of doing art again, I don’t need this therapy mumbo-jumbo messing with my mind.
“We’ll start off with a simple exercise.” Josh moves to his table and shuffles some paper. “It’s just an ice breaker, but it’s also fundamental to what we’re doing here,” he says, looking straight at me.
I want to glance around the room, but I can’t stop staring at Josh. His green eyes burn brightly with passion. I know that look; it’s the look of someone who loves what they do with their entire soul.
“Love and hate.” Josh passes two blank pieces of white paper to each student. “You have two minutes to express these emotions using the black ink and brushes provided.” He smiles as he hands me mine. “Use some of the time to think about the people or things that bring out these intense emotions in you. Try to channel that through the paintbrush, and let’s see what you come up with.” He moves around the room ensuring everyone’s paper is correctly attached to the easel before returning to the front of the room. “Your time starts now.”
I pick up my paintbrush and dip it in the small pot of black ink.
Love.
I know all about loving someone with all my heart, so this should be easy.
You can do this, Emerson.
The brush moves slowly across the page in soft waves. I dip the brush several more times to complete the circles that beg to be painted.
Hate.
I have experienced this emotion in spades, but I’m far more hesitant to paint it. Focusing on this emotion takes me to places I try my hardest to avoid.
Jagged lines rip across the page, and hate is done.
Josh asks us to bring our results to the front. We all place our completed pages in rows of love and hate on the large table, then take a step back.
“Who wants to tell me what’s interesting about this exercise?” he asks.
Brooke speaks up. “They’re all pretty much the same.”
Josh nods, and I go back to staring at the six very similar expressions of the strong emotions. “Love can take so many forms, but it’s typically expressed visually in very similar ways. Same with hate.”
“How cool was that?” Brooke asks, as we return to our seats. “I was sure they were going to be different.”
“Me too,” I reply.
“The next exercise involves thinking about who you are as an individual,” says Josh. “What makes you, you?” He sits on a round stool, resting his foot on the low rung. He’s wearing a loose, grey T-shirt over ripped jeans, but the way he carries himself tells me he’s athletic and fit. I can’t help wondering what he does to stay in shape.
When our eyes meet, I’m irritated that he’s smiling right at me. Does he think I was ogling him? Ugh.
“I’d like you to go through the magazines on your tables and tear out anything that appeals to you or causes any type of reaction. It doesn’t matter what it is. There’s no right or wrong.”
I pick up the first magazine and start flicking through the pages.
Who am I? I repeat the question over and over in my mind. My heart rate races when I reach the end of the first one and haven’t ripped out a single page. Trying not to panic, I reach for another magazine. Why should I be worried that I can’t relate to anything in a glossy magazine? Maybe it’s a good thing.
No one else seems to be having this problem. Pages are being ripped with abandon, and each one feels like a stab into my flailing identity.
Josh crouches down and whispers in my ear, “It’s okay, Emerson.” He rests his hand on mine, perhaps aware that I’m close to bolting.
“I don’t know who I am anymore,” I whisper.
“I’m going to help you find out. Okay?”
I nod, managing to fight back the tears and take a few deep breaths. “Thank you.”
I can’t look at him as he stands, but the light squeeze he gives my shoulder lets me know he heard me. The physical contact sets my entire body ablaze, conjuring up both the strong emotions I painted earlier.
Something fundamental inside me has begun to shift. I love Mereki with all my heart, but my life is passing me by while he slips further and further away. He always wanted me to be strong and fight for my dreams, never settling for anything less than greatness. With that thought in mind, I find myself pushing the door of the gallery open the following evening with an open mind and a hopeful heart.
“Welcome back, everyone,” Josh says in a voice that makes my heart race. “Tonight’s class is all about self-expression. What you do here is so intensely personal, and it’s a completely safe space. We are ever-changing creatures, and it’s important to listen to your inner voice. There is no one who will be more honest with you if you allow yourself to listen.”
I don’t like the sound of this. My inner voice is not to be trifled with.
Josh continues, “If you had to describe yourself, could you do it? What words would you use?”
Zoey’s hand shoots up. “Punching bag, janitor, taxi driver.” She pauses briefly. “I’ve felt like a punching bag for my family in various ways for almost two decades, and I’m so tired. But I let that happen and I don’t blame them.”
“This exercise is going to be perfect for you, Zoey,” Josh says, waving at the rest of us to gather around.
We all congregate behind Zoey. Josh sets up a blank canvas on her easel. He dips a paintbrush in the black ink and hands it to Zoey who glances around with a nervous expression. “Consider how you feel about what you just told me, and then mark the canvas to express it.”
Zoe nods and stares at the blank canvas for a few moments before, out of nowhere, her hand darts out and smacks the paintbrush against it. She sits back, drops the brush in the ink pot, and looks up at Josh. I can’t take my eyes off the dark ink blotch that’s exploded over the light background. It is strangely beautiful.
“What did you leave on the canvas?” Josh asks.
“My frustration,” Zoey replies.
“There’s more to you than this.” Again, he picks up the paintbrush and hands it to her. “Turn your frustration into something else entirely. Use colour, too, if you wish.”
He turns to the rest of us. “If anyone else wants to try this, I think it’s a very interesting exercise, but there’s no pressure.”
We all return to our stools, and I glance around at my fellow students who are eagerly reaching for their paintbrushes.
I feel Josh before I see him. His powerful presence both intimidates and excites me.
“What words would you use to describe yourself, Emerson?”
“I’d rather not use words,” I say.
“Okay. That’s good. Just mark the canvas with whatever you feel. Or leave it blank if you want to.” He squeezes my shoulder and walks away.
Closing my eyes, I allow my mind to see beyond the limited vision of my eyes, and what I see is startling.
Without thinking too much about what it means, I pick up my brush and paint a heart split down the middle.
Brooke leans across to see what I’ve done. “You have a broken heart?”
I fix my gaze on the two mirrored shapes. “I do, but I know how to fix it.”
“Go ahead and fix it then,” Josh says, approaching my workspace.
He moves to the front of the room and turns on some classical music. I don’t recognise it, but it is inspiring and non-intrusive.
My first marks are pale and hesitant. I am being a coward. I close my eyes and refocus on the canvas in my mind. When I open them, I make more confident strokes, revelling in the way the brush glides across the paper. Perhaps it’s muscle memory mixed in with a healthy dose of nostalgia, but it comes so naturally, and I can’t help wondering how I managed to turn my back on my passion for so long without completely fading away. At regular intervals, I close my eyes and float like a feather above it all like I did that day at the markets all those years ago.
By the time Josh announces our time is up, I’m staring at the very thing I’ve needed but haven’t been able to find. I shake my head, swallowing the lump in my throat. My skin starts to crawl, and a sharp pain shoots through my hand. When I glance down, I’m shocked to see that I’ve broken the paintbrush I’m holding. Rather than draw further attention to myself, I close my hand around the splintered wood and compose myself as best I can. The walls are closing in on me, and I feel lightheaded.
“Everything okay?” Josh’s voice startles me.
“Yep,” I reply.
“Will you tell me about this?” he asks, gesturing towards my canvas.
“I need to learn to fly again,” I whisper.
“You didn’t paint a broken heart, did you, Emerson?” I stare into his emerald eyes and know he gets it. “You painted wings.”
I nod slowly, gritting my teeth. “I forgot how to fly.”
“Something tells me it’s coming back to you.”
The air between us crackles with electricity, and my breath hitches, unable to deal with what’s happening.
A bell breaks us from our heated moment, and both our gazes snap to the opening door. I gasp when someone I haven’t seen in a long time appears. I feel cold all over as memories from the day I met her flood me. My breathing is laboured, and I have to hold on to my stool when I start to sway.
Josh makes a beeline for her and they hug, warmly. I don’t want to look at them for fear of recognition, but I can’t help the quick glances. My past is catching up to me.
“Everyone,” Josh says, after several minutes. “I’d like to introduce you to a very good friend of mine and the owner of this gallery, Madeleine Gibson. She’s just returned from a two-month trip to Europe.”
He then goes around the class, introducing us. I sit there frozen, but when he introduces me, I nod my head, allowing my long hair to shield my face.
“Thank you so much, Josh,” she says, warmly. “Lovely to meet you all.”
When she disappears behind a door at the back of the room, I exhale. With any luck, she won’t come back out before I leave.
“That’s all we have time for this evening,” Josh says. “Please bring in an object of your choosing next week. It can be any three-dimensional object—probably best if it isn’t anything too large.”
“Will we be drawing it?” Tennyson asks.
Josh cocks his head to the side. “You’ll just have to wait and find out.”