home.
“Changez,” Monsieur Girard said.
Dupont squatted and arched one arm above her head. Thirty seconds later, at Girard’s order of “Changez ,” she laid on her side. She was in her fourth pose before Caitlyn calmed down enough to look at what Monsieur Girard was doing.
At his easel, Girard was making wild scribbles of charcoal that loosely captured the shape of Dupont’s positions. “It is the feel of the movement that you want to capture,” Girard said, his arm moving in sweeps as he covered the paper with continuous black lines. “What is the spine doing? Where is the center of gravity? Which way does the head turn? What is the feeling of the pose? You must exaggerate. Do not give me this,” he said, demonstrating a rigid up and down stick figure. “Give me movement.”
Embarrassment began to give way to interest. Caitlyn and the other girls crowded around Monsieur Girard, watching rapt as the ungainly figure of the cook was translated into graceful looping lines on paper. Dupont’s heavy belly and thick thighs became living lines that spoke of voluptuous grace and the glory of womanhood. Girard’s skillful hand made obvious what Caitlyn had been too blind to see: the beauty of Madame Dupont.
Then it was their turn to draw. Caitlyn picked up her charcoal and stared hard at Dupont’s body, no longer seeing private parts and varicose veins. She sought instead the line of Dupont’s spine, the tilt of her hips, the lyrical swoops of her arms. She wanted to draw forth the beauty of the cook, just as Girard had done.
“Do not draw with your hand!” Monsieur Girard said, coming up beside Caitlyn and gripping both her wrist and shoulder. “Gesture drawings come from the shoulder!” He forced her into the movement he wanted, wielding her arm like a giant paintbrush. “You see? Much better.”
“Oui,” Caitlyn squeaked.
They moved on to a longer pose, Monsieur Girard working his way around the room to torment each student in turn.
“What are these ugly scribbles?” Caitlyn heard him saying to the Laotian girl.
“Shadowing?”
“You must unify your lines. Draw them all in the same direction. Parallel.”
Caitlyn looked at her own drawing, full of scribbled shadows, and quickly went over them with parallel lines.
Girard moved on to his next victim. “You think that is the size of her head? Really?” he asked Daniela. “You think it is one tenth the size of her body? You are paying no attention to proportion. The head is one seventh to one eighth the height of the body.”
“Of course. I know that. I’m just having trouble putting it on paper,” Daniela said. “I’m a very good artist, but it’s all locked in my head.”
Monsieur Girard snorted quietly, then more loudly, the snort turning into a guffaw of derisive laughter. Caitlyn glanced up as he tapped Daniela on the forehead. “Locked in your head! I have a classroom of brilliant artists, but the art is locked in their heads! Ha! The only true artist who ever lived here was Antoine Fournier, for a brief time in the 1870s. It was he who put in the skylights for the studio. He did the painting of Fortuna in the Grand Salon, upon which the symbol for the school is based. Of course, Fournier said that it was that painting that forced him to leave the château.”
The bait dangled for several seconds until Caitlyn finally bit. “How could a painting make him leave?”
“Because! Fournier said that his model for Fortuna was a ghost, a spirit who haunted him while he worked in his studio. She told him what to paint.” Monsieur Girard threw up his hands. “ Alors! What painter wants to be told what to put in his picture? There is such a thing as inspiration, as a muse, but a ghost goes too far.”
Caitlyn froze. A ghost. There was a ghost in the castle. It had been a real presence she’d felt! Chills moved up and down her arms, and she felt the hair standing on the back of her neck.
Monsieur Girard grinned at the effect his
“Changez,” Monsieur Girard said.
Dupont squatted and arched one arm above her head. Thirty seconds later, at Girard’s order of “Changez ,” she laid on her side. She was in her fourth pose before Caitlyn calmed down enough to look at what Monsieur Girard was doing.
At his easel, Girard was making wild scribbles of charcoal that loosely captured the shape of Dupont’s positions. “It is the feel of the movement that you want to capture,” Girard said, his arm moving in sweeps as he covered the paper with continuous black lines. “What is the spine doing? Where is the center of gravity? Which way does the head turn? What is the feeling of the pose? You must exaggerate. Do not give me this,” he said, demonstrating a rigid up and down stick figure. “Give me movement.”
Embarrassment began to give way to interest. Caitlyn and the other girls crowded around Monsieur Girard, watching rapt as the ungainly figure of the cook was translated into graceful looping lines on paper. Dupont’s heavy belly and thick thighs became living lines that spoke of voluptuous grace and the glory of womanhood. Girard’s skillful hand made obvious what Caitlyn had been too blind to see: the beauty of Madame Dupont.
Then it was their turn to draw. Caitlyn picked up her charcoal and stared hard at Dupont’s body, no longer seeing private parts and varicose veins. She sought instead the line of Dupont’s spine, the tilt of her hips, the lyrical swoops of her arms. She wanted to draw forth the beauty of the cook, just as Girard had done.
“Do not draw with your hand!” Monsieur Girard said, coming up beside Caitlyn and gripping both her wrist and shoulder. “Gesture drawings come from the shoulder!” He forced her into the movement he wanted, wielding her arm like a giant paintbrush. “You see? Much better.”
“Oui,” Caitlyn squeaked.
They moved on to a longer pose, Monsieur Girard working his way around the room to torment each student in turn.
“What are these ugly scribbles?” Caitlyn heard him saying to the Laotian girl.
“Shadowing?”
“You must unify your lines. Draw them all in the same direction. Parallel.”
Caitlyn looked at her own drawing, full of scribbled shadows, and quickly went over them with parallel lines.
Girard moved on to his next victim. “You think that is the size of her head? Really?” he asked Daniela. “You think it is one tenth the size of her body? You are paying no attention to proportion. The head is one seventh to one eighth the height of the body.”
“Of course. I know that. I’m just having trouble putting it on paper,” Daniela said. “I’m a very good artist, but it’s all locked in my head.”
Monsieur Girard snorted quietly, then more loudly, the snort turning into a guffaw of derisive laughter. Caitlyn glanced up as he tapped Daniela on the forehead. “Locked in your head! I have a classroom of brilliant artists, but the art is locked in their heads! Ha! The only true artist who ever lived here was Antoine Fournier, for a brief time in the 1870s. It was he who put in the skylights for the studio. He did the painting of Fortuna in the Grand Salon, upon which the symbol for the school is based. Of course, Fournier said that it was that painting that forced him to leave the château.”
The bait dangled for several seconds until Caitlyn finally bit. “How could a painting make him leave?”
“Because! Fournier said that his model for Fortuna was a ghost, a spirit who haunted him while he worked in his studio. She told him what to paint.” Monsieur Girard threw up his hands. “ Alors! What painter wants to be told what to put in his picture? There is such a thing as inspiration, as a muse, but a ghost goes too far.”
Caitlyn froze. A ghost. There was a ghost in the castle. It had been a real presence she’d felt! Chills moved up and down her arms, and she felt the hair standing on the back of her neck.
Monsieur Girard grinned at the effect his
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