Читать книгу Nirvana Is Here - Aaron Hamburger - Страница 20

OUT OF PROPORTION

IN ART CLASS, WE COULD TAKE off our jackets and cover our shirts and ties with pale blue smocks. After outfitting myself in a smock, I opened the metal supply cabinets, filled with an impressive array of pens, brushes, paint tubes, and expensive paper. I thought of asking Mom if she wanted me to steal some for her.

I chose a piece of good paper and sat at one of the tables. The other kids dirtied their hands with ink or paint, or snacked on granola bars in plain view of our teacher, Ms. Hunter. One kid fed an Ice-T tape into Ms. Hunter’s old stereo, which she’d brought from home to inspire us, and another guy said, “Hey, faggot, turn off that rap crap.”

“Who you calling faggot, faggot?”

“You, faggot.”

I fixed my eyes on my drawing. My pen had torn a small hole in the paper.

“Hey, hey, hey . . .” Ms. Hunter came scooting over, stopped the stereo. “Watch the language, guys. And no more stereo privileges for today.”

“Aw, come on, please . . .” both boys begged, almost in chorus.

“Alright, but don’t let me catch you talking that way again.”

Ms. Hunter, the only female teacher in school who wore pants, didn’t give much in the way of instruction beyond how to work the projector, so we could trace images directly onto paper or canvas. “No one draws freehand anymore,” she said, winding her long hair into a bun that inevitably came loose. “You think Andy Warhol drew freehand?”

Despite Andy Warhol, I stuck to the old-fashioned way, drawing a multi-panel cartoon of Dean Demuth choking several students lining up for uniform check. “Cool beans,” said Ms. Hunter, peering over my shoulder.

Cool beans? I thought. Was that something people said?

“Your faces are good,” she added. “But the bodies are out of proportion. You might want to spend a little time looking at yourself naked.”