Tina

Acrid. Sharp. The smell of school chemistry labs on a weary Friday afternoon. Leaking

fumes from chunky glass bottles with ill-fitting stoppers. The cloying, sickly odor of Bunsen

burner gas pipes, mixed in with a whiff of charred magnesium ribbon. Drains, recoiling

from their contents. Clouds of toxic stench congealing at head height to form an internal

smog inversion. Remembered longings to fling windows wide, wide open and fill starved

lungs with pure oxygen; breathe in the playing field green. But they were always painted

shut. The tallest person in the class would gingerly manoeuvre the giant crochet hook-like

pole to lever out the topmost pane, whilst we sat, knowing, the air that we craved was

dancing, ineffectually, on the Styrofoam ceiling.

 

Tina reeled from the unexpected olfactory assault that smacked her in the nose as soon

as she walked in. Nasal passages seared and sensitised by the after burn, did their best to

work out what it was. An all pervading mustiness nearly swamped all traces of the solvents

and thinners, but couldn't mask a pungent oily aroma. (Paints? Oil paints). The stale heavy

air, somehow familiar, churned her stomach. Rising bile flooded her mouth with a nasty

sour warmth. She swallowed - the taste stayed.

'Hello there, you must be Tina?'

An effusive welcome by someone that didn't look at all like the Daniel she'd imagined

when they'd spoken on the phone.

'Hi...sorry I'm a bit late though...trouble parking.'

'Oh no, you're fine...plenty of time. Nightmare in the summer it is...never any spaces.'

He clasped his large hands together in front of his chest in a conciliatory type of gesture,

wobbled them momentarily, before enveloping her in a grand sweeping arc which deftly

ushered her in, and completely cut off her escape route.

'So... you've done this sort of thing before then have you?'

He smiled, head cocked to one side like a foraging wren; monstrous huge eyes peering

at her through the thick lenses of his outlandish spectacles.

'Oh yes.' Tina lied, her responding smile fixed, frozen. 'Only for friends though...not for a

group or anything. But I'm...I'm sure I'll be ok.'

(Ok?...as if)!

Her knees buckled and threatened to give way. She started to get palpitations - an

uncomfortable pressure above her sternum amplifying her erratic, thumping heartbeat. The

smell wasn't helping. Combined with the nerves, it made her feel even queasier.

'Of course you will, of course. We're a friendly lot here...no need to worry.'

Only then did Tina take a good look around the room, or rather, studio. A dozen or so

people nodded or waved a greeting from behind their easels to acknowledge her arrival.

White-knuckled, she wrapped her arms around herself in a desperate attempt to hold it all

together - avoid doing an embarrassing runner, or worse, spill her guts there and then on

the paint-splattered floor.

(Oh my god...what was I thinking? How could I possibly have imagined I could do this?)

All the psyching herself up to get this far, the positive motivational pep-talk, vanished;

evaporated like white spirits. Topless sunbathing on holiday in France didn't count. Nor did

skinny dipping at parties after dark. Not even a brief period of employment in her pre-

politicised youth at a sleazy bar, waiting on tables for businessmen's lunches where the

dress code meant wearing a sheer see-through blouse, could have prepared Tina for this!

Beads of perspiration began to emerge above her trembling top lip.

'You can get changed here behind this screen, then we'll be ready to start in a couple of

minutes... is that alright?'

'Mmm...yeah,thanks...that'll be fine.'

(Great).

The easels encircled a stark dais – plain beige ply nailed to form a low rectangular

platform, probably 5ft by 3. Flashes of sacrificial alters, standing stones and druids sprung

to Tina's mind, unbidden. Interspersed with images of expectant vultures, patiently waiting

their turn to pick at the carrion, it was like watching some kind of torturous subliminal

advertising - where the product was her flesh. To the left-hand side, tucked against the

corner, was the screen in question. As she snuck in behind it's protective shield the

temptation to hide, stay right where she was and cower, was overwhelming.

(C'mon, c'mon...you can do it. Breathe).

Slowly, meticulously, she began to strip off the layers. Her favourite car-boot find hoody;

a bargain at 50p and lovingly mended where accidentally burnt. Next, an ordinary long-

sleeved top, followed by one of her daughter's strappy vests. These were all,

uncharacteristically, carefully folded and neatly placed onto a rickety old chair – no doubt

put there for that exact purpose. Deliberately unlacing her boots, and inserting a sock in

each, she slid these under the seat, taking great pains to ensure that the toes weren't

protruding beyond the front line. Wriggling out of her hipster jeans – the one's her other

daughter said she was too old for – Tina couldn't believe what she was about to do.

Knickers and bra joined the pile, there was nothing left for it now but to boldly go...

(Damn...need a pee...again! Too late now...bugger).

In the final few seconds before Tina stepped out, she suddenly realised that she'd no

idea how to go about crossing the void; what the correct protocol was in these situations.

Should she stroll over nonchalantly like she did this sort of thing all the time? Or stride,

purposefully and professionally, in all her biological glory – comfortable and at ease with

her body's total nakedness, and making eye contact with everyone?!

She felt like one of those cartoon character lambs who've just been shorn for the first

time, blushing and contorting in a vain attempt to try and cover up their bits. A lamb to the

slaughter's more like it, she thought.

(Deep breath in...exhale).

Her heart rate quadrupled; the pounding in her ears almost deafening. Her vision blurred

intermittently, throwing everything in and out of focus and making her head spin. A waft of

cold sweat emanating from her armpits caught in the back of her throat. She nearly

gagged. Senses heightened, it was if the bare pads of her feet were able to detect every

tiny splinter, each individual wood grain. Nerve fibres were screaming at her to run. Flee.

But it was the lack of air that terrified her the most - the suffocating closeness in the

room. The place was thick with dust. Untold years of it had accumulated on every

conceivable surface. Zillions of dust particles hung suspended in mid-air. Shafts of light

spilling through the two small, unopened windows, illuminated them like a souvenir

snowstorm paperweight from Blackpool.

By the dais, a Calor gas heater radiated a fumy, soporific heat which together with the

industrial paint smells and the palpable dust soup, seemed to have eradicated all of the

available oxygen.

(Breathe...breathe).

How she managed to physically walk out there into the middle of the room without

fainting, passing out or being violently sick, Tina never did understand. It was an ordeal

she certainly wasn't planning on repeating any time soon.

'Oh...have you not got a robe or anything with you then? Never mind. We might as well

make a start then shall we?'

(Shit, a robe...shit, shit...what a fool...why didn't I think to bring a dressing gown? All that

agonising...the long walk of shame...bleeding amateur! Christ...the humiliation of it all!).

'So, this is Tina everyone. It's her first time with us today, so we'll promise to be gentle

wont we?'

Tina cringed as Daniel quietly sniggered at his own joke, his shoulders juddering with the

effort of trying to suppress his mirth. She took an instant dislike to his casual chequered

shirt and brown corduroy trousers, but thankfully, nobody else seemed to be laughing.

'Thought we'd begin with a 10 minute standing pose...something quite natural... maybe

with your weight on one leg...is that ok Tina? Is everyone ok with this one...yes? Excellent.'

Total exposure. Under intense scrutiny. Eyes boring into her from all directions.

(They're not looking. They're not looking at me really. Not me as an individual, a person.

I'm just a shape...a line...a form. I have become negative spaces...pure and simple. I am

light and dark and all the shades in between. Marks on paper, nothing more. I have been

liberated...body and soul...I am free. Shit... they'll see my cellulite).

The class leapt into a frenzy of pre-drawing activity. Selecting materials, working out the

precise composition they wanted, calculating angles etc... An Ichabod Crane lookalike,

wearing black Lycra cycling leggings, and the special shoes that clip directly onto the

pedals, held his pencil out at arm's length, twisting it this way and that to determine the

correct proportions. Daniel fussed with a small travel alarm clock briefly, before bulldog-

clipping a sheet of water colour paper to his board. Then taking a step back, he just stood,

and quietly stared. At Tina.

With one hand resting on her hip, the other dangled relaxed and limp by her side. Her

right leg, slightly bent, transferred all the weight down through the left one, as per

instructions. Finding her balance point, Tina now had to focus on being still. Statue still.

Worried that the rise and fall of her chest, with its rapid, shallow movement might be

too noticeable, she tried to regulate her breathing. Slow and controlled. Air in...and out.

She was glad of the distraction, something to stop her from thinking about the 'audience'

out there. All staring. At her.

The technique she used to remain stock-still was a simple one. Tension. Her back was

rigid with the effort of immobility. What she hadn't anticipated, however, was the difficulty

in sustaining such a level of intensity for any length of time.

The minutes passed excruciatingly slowly.

At first, the only ambient background noise had been a gentle scritch-scratch of charcoal

and pencil on paper. Thirty seconds in, a complaining creak of wood against wood as

someone adjusted their easel, punctuated by the threading of a wing nut. The tinkly

sloshing of a brush being rinsed in a jam jar rang out sweetly. From outside, the low drone

of traffic, and piercing gull's cries, cut through the glass panes in a way that the breezes

did not.

( Why can't they open a window? It's so stuffy in here).

An almost audible hum of inspired concentration permeated the studio. The walls that

had contained countless thousands of artists during the School Of Painting's lifetime,

and on whose stained surfaces, their work had once been pinned, felt infused with

creativity. Beneath their inch thick coating of dust, even the solid overhead beams gave

the impression of being saturated with this collective essence. It was as if the entire fabric

of the building resonated art and expressive freedom. Tina, daren't move a millimetre.

Without warning, a CD player rudely interrupted the industrious silence. Bursts of

staccato orchestration, a sort of new age-y flavour and a vaguely recognisable melody...

(Oh no...not Enya).

Unable to help herself, Tina was soon mentally singing along to the Orinoco Flow.

(Sail away, sail away, sail away...).

It was around about this point that she realised she'd been clenching her teeth so hard

as part of her keeping-utterly-still regimen, that her jawbone felt as if it had fused together.

In fact, all of her body parts were beginning to object. Her neck muscles groaned under the

strain of maintaining her head at a specific tilt – she'd looked in that direction to catch a

glimpse of the sea, just visible through the far window, beyond the slate rooftops. Now she

was in agony.

All her blood seemed to have pooled at her tingling feet. Too sluggish to travel back up

flaccid veins, the lack of circulation had brought on the early stages of pins and needles.

A grinding ache at the apex of her thrust up hip, bored through, and into her socket joint;

begging for relief; clamouring for a change of pressure - a shift in weight.

(Can't move...mustn't move. Jesus...how much longer)?

'A minute left now everybody.'

(Oh, thank god...nearly there...just grin and bear it. C'mon... you can do it).

' Thank you Tina. Just have a stretch now for a minute or two before we go into the next

pose, ok? Something similar would be nice, but perhaps for a bit longer this time...say 15?

And maybe with a slight twist...is that ok?'

Tina nodded dumbly in answer, incapable of speech. She watched, horrified, as Daniel

demonstrated the desired twisting element, feeling the wrench and discomfort in her torso

before she'd even begun.

(Think about the children...just keep thinking about the kids... Gym fees... school camp...

new shoes for Lucy... Uggh, that smell...what is that god awful smell? Got to do it ... for the

kids. Jesus, need some air...can't breathe...fresh air. C'mon then, let's do it... only 2 hours

and 20 minutes to go...).