General Fiction posted July 21, 2025

Chapters:

...8 9 -10- 11 ...

tfawcus

Tony Fawcus, ex-RAF Navigator and Junior School teacher, spent 22 years living on South Australia's Fleurieu Peninsula where he ran a small farm and a B&B cottage before his recent move back to Adelaide.

He is an accomplished novelist and is currently at the #7 spot on the rankings.

He is an accomplished poet and is currently at the #84 spot on the rankings.

The Seal of Quality committee has rewarded him with 6 seals. He is also an active reviewer and is holding the #24 spot on the top ranked reviewer list.

Portfolio | Become A Fan

Exceptional

This work has reached the exceptional level

The Art Lesson

A chapter in the book Dmitri's Extraordinary Fate

Dmitri's Extraordinary Fate: 10

by tfawcus

Background
Dmitri suffered from catatonia after losing his twin sister, Mira, in a bombing. He discovers an aptitude for art, which is helping his recovery.

The road into town was mostly downhill. The wind stung Dmitri's cheeks, and the sharp, autumn air scorched his lungs. He felt like an uncaged bird released into the wild, disorientated and afraid, yet incredibly alive.

By the time he reached the town centre, he was breathless, flushed and a little sore. Paying no regard to the town clerk's prohibition, he chained his bicycle to the iron railings protecting a bronze statue from all but the pigeons.

The town had the weary charm of a place that had survived too many goodbyes, a town whose menfolk had all gone to war. Its shopfronts were faded, the shutters weather-beaten, and the plaster on some buildings had peeled back to reveal old stone beneath. What's more, there were no visible street signs to help him find Madame Miret's studio.

On the other hand, the square surged with activity and wore its weariness well. He paused, letting the sights and sounds wash over him. He hadn't been among this many people in months. However, any unease he might have felt was soon dispelled by the town hall clock playing a joyful carillon to signal the hour. Geraniums overflowed from window boxes, and the scent of fresh coffee drifted from a café on the opposite side of the square. He still had an hour before his lesson. Plenty of time, but it wouldn't do to be late.

Before crossing the cobblestoned street and entering the café, he ran his fingers through his hair and adjusted the set of his coat. A pretty girl in an embroidered apron showed him to a seat and prepared to take his order.

He spread Elena's mud map out on the table. 'Could you tell me how to get to this place?'

She leant over, swamping him with a heady aroma of fresh bread. 'Madame Miret? Of course! She lives at the end of that street. The one with a bookshop on the corner. Everyone knows her. She's a bit of a dragon.' She put her hand to her mouth. 'Oops! I shouldn't have said that. She's probably your long-lost aunt or something.'

He was quick to reassure her, 'No, nothing like that. I am going to take art lessons with her.'

'Ooh! You are brave!' She gave him an admiring glance and stood with her pencil poised above an order pad. 'How about a mug of coffee and some cherry strudel before you face the old witch?'

'That sounds good.'

'It is. My father made it this morning.'

She waved her hand in the general direction of the counter, where a large man with bushy eyebrows was serving another customer. He looked up and jerked his head with a gesture that made it clear this wasn't the time for idle chatter with customers. She pouted, then hurried away to fill the order.

Dmitri dawdled over his coffee, watching the minute hand of the town hall clock creep slowly to the quarter hour, then got up and left. The art studio was less than five minutes away. It was on the ground floor of a narrow building with crooked gutters. A faded sign beside the front door read "Atelier: Pavla Miret" in looping script. Through the open door, he could hear the scrape of an easel being adjusted. He stood for a moment, steadying his nerves. This was his first venture into the world as an artist. He was no longer just a convalescent with a sketchbook.

From inside, a woman's voice called out, 'If you're the one Elena sent, you're ten minutes early. But don't worry, it makes a welcome change. Most of my students turn up late. Come on in and shut the door behind you.'

Dmitri stepped into the cool interior, where filtered light fell across worn wooden floors. A clutter of easels and stools stood at varying heights. Charcoal sketches curled on the walls like faded ghosts, and a pervasive odour of turpentine caught in his throat.

A woman stood near the back of the room with her arms folded. She had a smear of ochre on one sleeve. Her short grey hair was cropped close to the scalp, and she wore a paint-streaked smock over practical trousers and boots. Her eyes were slate-coloured and watchful, but not unkind.

'Dmitri, is it?' she asked.

He bowed awkwardly and nodded.

'I'm Pavla Miret.' She offered her hand without ceremony. Her grip was firm, and she held it for a moment while she studied his face. 'Elena tells me you are an artist. I hope she didn't exaggerate; she's a terrible romantic, that one.'

'She says I have potential,' Dmitri replied carefully.

'That means nothing.' Her eyes fell on Dmitri's satchel. 'Anyway, down to business. Let's see what you've got.'

He opened the satchel and handed her his sketchbook, unsure whether to stand or sit, stay silent or explain. Pavla took it to a nearby stool and sat down, flipping through the pages with quick, practised fingers. She said nothing for a while, and he was left wondering what terrible flaws she had found.

Eventually, she spoke. 'You've got an eye for atmosphere, young man. And for pain. That's uncommon in someone your age.'

For a moment, Mira was back in his arms. 'I've experienced quite a bit of it,' he said quietly.

'I guessed as much. You don't draw like someone who's been cocooned in luxury.' She closed the book and handed it back. 'We'll start with pencil and take it from there. I want to see how you handle movement, weight, and stillness. Later, we'll work in ink. Maybe watercolour. Maybe oils, but that depends.'

'On what?'

'On whether you want your work to complement the decor in drawing rooms or to reveal harsh truths.' She didn't blink as she said it. 'I teach both kinds of students. I don't judge. But they're not the same.'

Dmitri was silent for a moment. Then he said, 'I want to make sure nobody forgets this war and what it's done to our people.'

'Good. That's what I wanted to hear. But we'll still start with a bowl of fruit. No one jumps straight into the abyss.' She gestured to a corner of the studio where a still-life arrangement had been set up beneath a spotlight: apples, a clay jug, a faded linen cloth. 'Go on. Take that easel. Let's see how you handle light.'

Dmitri moved to the easel and stood uncertainly for a moment, then opened his sketchbook to a fresh page and clipped it into place. Pavla brought over a jar of graphite pencils and placed them beside him without comment.

He chose a medium-weight pencil, held it poised below his lip, and frowned.

'Don't overthink it,' Pavla said from behind him. 'Just look. Find the shapes. Forget it's a jug and an apple. It's shadows and contours. Edges. Negative space.'

He started with the jug, sketching its broad belly, the slightly chipped rim, and the shadow cast across the cloth. His lines were tentative at first, like someone feeling for a foothold in unfamiliar terrain. But as he worked, he began to relax. His breathing steadied. His hand found rhythm.

'Better,' Pavla murmured. She stood a little behind him and to the side, with her arms folded. 'Don't try to make it beautiful. Just make it true. Beauty's a side effect.'

Dmitri wasn't sure how long he drew; maybe twenty minutes, maybe an hour. Time lost all meaning while he was immersed in his work.

She didn't interrupt, but when he finished, she said, 'You've got good control, but you're drawing from the wrist. Let it come from the shoulder, from the whole body. That's where movement lives.'

She picked up a charcoal stick and a sheet of butcher's paper. In three broad, effortless strokes, she rendered the basic shape of the jug, bold and abstract, then handed the stick to him. 'Now your turn. Big paper. Big gestures. Get messy.'

He hesitated, then swapped pencil for charcoal. It was grittier and more volatile. The lines came faster now, looser, rougher. The fruit became smudged orbs, the jug a soft-bellied silhouette.

'Good. See what happens when you stop controlling every detail?'

He stepped back, wiping his hands on his trousers. There were black smears on his forearm and down the side of his thumb. His chest rose and fell with quiet satisfaction.

'That's better than pretty,' Pavla said. 'It's honest.'

Dmitri nodded, unsure how to reply.

'Come again next week,' she added. 'Same time. We'll try figure study. If you're going to draw pain, you need to know the body from the inside out.'

She returned to her own corner of the studio and picked up a palette knife without looking back. The curt dismissal was obvious, though unstated.

Dmitri gathered his things, tucking the charcoal sketch carefully between the pages of his book and stepped outside with a strange lightness in his chest, like a seed stretching for sunlight.

Write A Review

Recognized

Characters

Dmitri, a teenage boy recovering from catatonia (a state in which someone is awake but does not seem to respond to other people and their environment).
Mira, his twin sister, who was killed in a bomb attack.
Elena, a volunteer carer looking after Dmitri and aiding his recovery.
Leila, a foreign girl employed by Elena.
Pavla Miret, an art teacher.

Setting: Somewhere in Central Europe.

British English spelling and grammar are used throughout.

Thank you for reading and reviewing. I welcome honest, constructive criticism.

Pays one point and 2 member cents.

You need to login or register to write reviews. It's quick! We only ask four questions to new members.