Draw Me In

DRAW ME IN

Megan
Squires

Draw
Me In

Copyright
©
2014 by Megan Squires

First
Kindle Edition: 2014

All
rights reserved.

Cover
art by Regina Wamba at
Mae I Design and
Photography

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and
incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or
dead, is entirely coincidental.

Here’s to the roses and the lilies in bloom,

You in my arms and I in your room.

A door that is locked, a key that is lost.

A bird, and a bottle, and a bed badly tossed,

And a night that is fifty years long.

-Herb Cain

CHAPTER
ONE

“
I want you to take time and walk
around. Get a sense for the light. Notice the intentional way it funnels and
curves around his body. See the slope and form of his shoulders and back and
how they
’
ve
displayed him here perfectly to accentuate and define every vein and muscle.
”

Veins.
Even his veins had an aura of life pumping through them. Five hundred years old
but pulsing with a pure human essence that withstood the test of time. Made
immortal. Not frozen in stone like some would call it, but brought to life from
that stone.

I
held up the graphite tip of my pencil in the air, drawing imaginary loops in
the space between us and the statue just ten feet away.

It
was crowded here today, especially for a Tuesday. But this was kind of
something you had to do when visiting Florence: check out the enormous naked statue
on display in the Accademia Gallery. That and consume copious amounts of
gelato, washed down by too many glasses of wine, paid for with euros tucked
away in your authentic Italian leather purse. If you were going to be a
tourist, might as well go all in.

But
today, travelers, art students and Florentines alike were huddled under
Michelangelo
’
s
David, admiring the handiwork of the creator that carved him out of the marble.
It was done the way a composer draws out the music trapped within the ivory keys.
He
’
d
totally composed a symphony here. I could feel the crescendos, the staccato and
legato all twisting through the marble, branching out in the form of limbs and
appendages, fingers and toes. A note here. A stanza there. An entire
composition enclosed within a body that straddled the line between art and
rebirth, the limbo where the creator became a living part of his work.

“
Tell me,
”
I breathed, no sound behind my words
except puffs of air that inhabited the void where my vocal chords should be.
How could a slab of rock do this to me? It was almost embarrassing.
“
Have you ever seen the perfection of
a man done in such a way?
”

I
bit my lips between my teeth sharply, and then quickly shoved my pencil in the
space when I realized how desperate I must look. Honestly, I might as well be
fanning myself and sitting in a fainting chair. I remembered reading about
those in an outdated history book growing up, though I wasn
’
t sure they even existed. Could have
been made up or been some misrepresented history for all I knew. Like the whole
‘
the world is flat
’
sort of thing.

But
what couldn
’
t
be proved wrong that I was going to faint from the very real fact that I stood
in front of David once again. I breathed all too erratically, depriving my
brain of the oxygen it required to keep me alive. I needed that fainting chair.
I assumed they were used for instances such as this.

You
know, when you looked at a naked guy and nearly passed out.

In
my past three years as an art student at New York City
’
s University of Visual Arts, I
’
ve seen my share of clothes-less men,
trust me. I
’
ve
sketched, painted and molded the male body into being more times than I can
count, but every time I take a class of high school students to view this
infamous statue, I
’
m
left even more breathless than the trip before. A few more tours like this and
I might have to pack my own paper bag in my purse just in case I start to
hyperventilate.

“
Miss Thornton? Why are his hands so
frickin
’
big? They totally look out of proportion,
”
Eva, my undeniable favorite from this year
’
s
travel group, asked, her sketchpad folded tightly over her chest in a paper
hug. A few of the other students nodded in agreement, their heads of spiked,
dyed and dreaded hair bobbing behind her just out of sync. We sure had quite a
crew this trip, and I loved that so much of their creativity showed up not only
on paper, but visibly poured out of them in their own artistic style of dress,
too. It couldn
’
t
be contained within the confines of their body, but decorated the exterior with
the excess that sprung out of them.

I
adjusted my navy pullover sweater between my fingers. Would my outward
appearance ever match the inner artist that pulsed within me? After twenty-two
years, I was doubtful it would. I didn
’
t
often spend my creative energy on myself, but tried to focus it on my work.
Sweat and blood and all that jazz. You get the gist.

Even
if I wanted to, I was as far from fashionable as you could get. Think the style
sense of your Great Grandma Edna meets thrift store shopping. But not the
thrift store that Macklemore made cool again. No, the one where all the
hideous, reject clothes went to die. Like the clothing self-proclaimed hippies
and even Burning Man attendees wouldn
’
t
touch with a ten-foot pole, even if the pockets were stuffed with cannabis and
packed with granola. Then think of me going into said
Thrift Store of Rejection
blindfolded, spinning around three dizzy
times, and putting on the first thing my hand landed on. Only
that
would require more fashion
coordination than I had available. No popping tags for me. This was not f
’
ing awesome.

Blue
jeans and t-shirts would have to do. Sometimes a girl just didn
’
t have options.

I
glanced back to Eva.
“
His
hands are exceptionally large, aren
’
t
they? Great observation.
”
I bounced on the toes of my worn Chuck Taylors.
“
There are many theories on this. Some
say Michelangelo wanted to focus on the strength of David
—
how his hands were
such an integral part in battle when he defeated Goliath.
”

Pressing
between the river of bodies at the base of the sculpture, I guided my eight
students several feet back until we were no longer perpendicular with the
stone. He was at a 45-degree angle.
“
Look
now,
”
I instructed, swiveling on my heels. The friction of the rubber tread squealed
loud enough to draw attention, like I
’
d
taken a balloon and squeezed apart the opening to let the air squeak through, a
stinging sound that shrieked into the atmosphere.

From
our new vantage point under the statue, it was as though he took on an entirely
new life, figure and form. My students noticed it too. The widening of their
eyes and the sudden drop of their jaws gave it all away. Pure expression like
that was hard to smother behind a guard. It oozed, authentic and real. That
sheer second of uninhibited reaction. The visceral knee-jerk response that didn
’
t care what others thought because
others had nothing to do with it. It was just you and your impulse. Ignore the
rest. It wasn
’
t
about them. Man, how I loved that.

“
Oh my God. Look at that!
”
Carlo shouted, jabbing his elbow
into Eva
’
s
ribs. The canvas bag crossed over his body swung at his side and I could hear
his pencils clang within their metal case, a tinkering of potential creativity
just waiting to break out of their miniature jailhouse.
“
They totally look in proportion now!
”

“
Yes!
”
I halfway shouted in an octave just
outside of my normal range.
“
That
’
s exactly it, Carlo. It
’
s all about perspective. Just like we
talked about with last week
’
s
realism compositions.
”

“
I think I
’
m in love,
”
Eva swooned as she rocked on her
heels. She was all kinds of adorable with freckles smattered across her nose
and permanent black charcoal caked under her nail beds. And she totally owned
it, which made my heart swell because back when I was fifteen, and had oil
pastel and pencil lead as tattoos lining the creases of my hands and fingers, I
’
d wanted to tuck them away and keep
my passion under wraps. It was a bravery that I hadn
’
t possessed back then
—
being comfortable
in my own skin. I was so grateful that now, in my final year of college, I
’
d finally gained it.

This
was me, no insecurities, no hang-ups, few complaints. Twenty-two was a good age
to have finally found myself, though I never felt lost to begin with. I grew to
love my clumsy awkwardness at a young age because it made me different than so
many other girls. I didn
’
t
fit the mold, and even if I wanted to, I would likely break it. I knew myself
well enough to figure that would be the case.

That
was the thing about being comfortable in your own skin
—
even your faults no
longer bothered you, no longer kept you up at night with insecure anxiety. You
accepted them because they were a part of you, and to fully accept yourself,
you had to take the good with the bad.

No
one was perfect.

Maybe
that
’
s
why I am an artist. Maybe it
’
s
my optimistic attempt to create something that crept just a little closer
toward perfection than I
’
d
ever be able to get on my own as a human. I would always skirt that edge, trip
over it probably, but my artwork could propel me further. I knew enough of
Michelangelo to know he was far from perfect. But his David? Maybe after
sculpting him he got just a small glimpse of what it was to be God. To know how
it felt to be the Creator, not just the created.

I
couldn
’
t
think of anything else that allowed us to feel that way. That alone was
awe-inspiring.

“
He
’
s gorgeous.
”

I
returned my attention to Eva and her unabashed admiration of the stone man in
front of us.

“
Sorry, Eves. Can
’
t have him.
”
I shook my head quickly and the end
of my brunette ponytail bit my cheek.
“
He
’
s all mine.
”

“
I think I
’
m going to have to fight you on that
one, Jules,
”
Ian, my roommate, piped up as he bracketed two large hands over my shoulders in
a hooked grip. They were warm and friendly as he playfully rocked me side to
side, a human pendulum.

“
Hate to burst your bubble, but I
’
m pretty sure David wasn
’
t gay. In fact, I think he liked the
ladies a bit too much, if I recall.
”
I reached up to squeeze Ian
’
s
fingers between my own.
“
Bathsheba
ring any bells?
”

“
A guy can dream.
”
He draped a heavy arm over my
shoulder and leaned forward, the golden fringe of his sandy blond hair sweeping
into his eyes. Those irises were green like always, but his emerald blazer made
them appear several shades darker than usual and the intensity that emanated
out of them made him pretty close to drop dead gorgeous. He was at the very
least encroaching on heart palpitation territory with his lazy smile and
telling eyes.

Ian
pushed up his hair with the heel of his hand and swung around toward our
students as he continued,
“
And
while I
’
m
dreaming, you all start sketching. Feel free to post up wherever you can find
room and not get in the way of the other visitors. But try to spread out. I don
’
t want everyone
’
s drawings to be of David
’
s ass.
”
With a coy grin that he
’
d perfected in his youth, I was sure
because it was just that good and equally convincing, Ian added,
“
Who am I kidding, I
’
d be totally fine with that.
”

There
were those gay guys that were like girlfriends. You know, the ones you could go
shopping with and blabber on about the latest tabloid gossip over martinis and
cosmopolitans. The ones who would watch Sex in the City with you for the
1,846th time, all while painting your toes the latest OPI seasonal color.