A Study in Form (#LunaEast)

A Portrait for a Dancer - Interlude -

Contrary to the gossip mill running around Luna East, he wasn’t declaring his undying love for Saree Termulo.

There was just something about the outline of her arm poised mid-arabesque—the subtle curves in stark contrast to the blinding light of the center spotlight—and her facial expression—happy and in love—during that particular moment in her solo at the dance recital that caught Eli’s attention, and later compelled him to commit that brief moment's image on canvas.

-@-

It was the annual dance club recital in February. Eli Manuel Antonio, then a Junior, was forced to watch the whole thing from the second-to-the-front row because his sister, Mel, was slated to perform, and his parents got prime seats for their daughter’s special day.

Nearly two-thirds into the two-hour program, Eli just had about enough of pointes, tutus, and twirling ballerinas. He had already mentally rehearsed his excuse—about wanting to stretch his legs—and was about to whisper to his mom to gain his freedom, when the strains of the intro to Barbra Streisand’s All I Ask of You began playing, and a flurry of fiery red entered the stage and caught his eye.

The dancer twirled around the stage in her red pointe shoes, every movement refined and graceful that Eli unconsciously sat straighter in his seat. And when the music swelled into the first chorus, she executed a flawless arabesque. And when he saw her face at that moment, Eli was blown away.

-@-

Driven like a modern day art Einstein, he grabbed on to his eureka moment and painted like mad, facing his easel and canvas with only his paintbrushes, palette, and the memory of that moment. He reserved studio space at the arts building for the next few weeks in advance (much to the chagrin of the other students), and he labored over his oils, barely noticing the time. The paint, mixed with sweat, smeared on his arms and face testified to his zeal.

During one of the few breaks he remembered to take, he realized this was the first time he worked so hard. And he wasn’t the only one to have noticed it as well.

While he was thinking that using oil was an overkill for a portrait of the dancer, Mr. Arthur Conan Bayle, one of Luna East Arts Academy’s art club painting mentors, approached him.

“Watercolors would do justice to a face like that.”

Eli dropped his brush. Mr. Bayle picked it up and handed it back to him, as if he wasn’t the cause of his student’s shock in the first place.

-@-

He was a freshman when he first encountered Mr. Bayle. It was the middle of the second semester, and he was bored in English class, so he kept sketching his classmates and the view of the quad from the classroom window.

The drawings would have remained a part of his private portfolio, as most of his others were, if he hadn’t forgotten his sketchbook in the classroom. It would have been undiscovered still, if he hadn’t forgotten to close it and stow it properly under his desk. But he forgot about it completely, and the sketchbook was left open and hanging precariously on top of his hastily stowed English textbook. As fate would have it, a new teacher, and one of the mentors of the art club at Luna East, happened upon it during his turn to do the end-of-the-day inspection.

The next morning, Eli was surprised when a Mr. Arthur Conan Bayle, a teacher he has never encountered, called him out for a private word during his homeroom.

“Mr. Antonio,” Mr. Bayle began. “I believe you left this at your desk.” He then handed Eli his sketchbook, opened to his sketch of his classmate laughing at what another one said.

Panicked, Eli grabbed the sketchbook and closed it quickly, as if hiding it behind his back could make the art club mentor “unsee” everything.

“I’m also sorry because I couldn’t help myself and looked at your other sketches,” Mr. Bayle continued. Eli groaned inwardly. “You have a very good grasp of technique, Mr. Antonio. Even Mr. Dimaano says so, and he is very strict when it comes to technique.”

Mr. Edilberto Dimaano, Luna East Arts Academy’s resident terror art teacher, was well known even to the freshies. Eli hadn’t been in the school that long, but he gathered that the number of instances Mr. Dimaano gave praises to students equaled to almost none.

“But what struck me most with your sketches is how you captured expressions,” Mr. Bayle commented. “That’s a special gift you have, Mr. Antonio. I hope you don’t waste it.”

Eli took the faculty member’s advise and joined the art club the following week. But, since joining, he knew he has been nothing but a disappointment to the teachers. Unlike the other students who were proactive and productive, he mostly kept to himself, putting out works when desperately needed, pretending to work on a piece when prompted. And he never once tried to do more.

Until now.

-@-

“Subtlety is the key,” Mr. Bayle said, bringing him back to the present. The teacher pushed his thick-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose before heading for the door.

“And save those paintings, Mr. Antonio. You might want to put them up for the next art exhibit.”

Might want, Eli thought. But judging by the way his teacher sounded, it was as if he wasn’t giving his student much choice in the matter.

Eli stared at the canvas in front of him for a long moment before deciding that his teacher’s suggestion had merit. He took down the canvas and started fresh.

-@-

Months later, the finished works he named Grace in Motion and Eloquence found their way to the art exhibit for the week-long foundation celebration of Luna East.

Observers who passed by his paintings commented that they couldn’t help but feel a heartstring or two being pulled within them upon seeing the pieces. Mr. Bayle, who sought him out during the opening, was quick to pass on to him about the reception of his work.

“Ms. Castillano, a guest of the Vice Principal, even asked if she can commission a piece from you for the accent wall of her newly-renovated dance studio,” Mr. Bayle said with a chuckle. “She is serious about it, though. Looked like the world ended for her when the Vice Principal pretended he wouldn’t allow it.”

Eli paused for a moment, not quite sure he heard right. A commissioned piece? A commissioned piece?!

“I—I’ll think about it,” he replied after a while.

“Do. It’s a great opportunity.” Satisfied, Mr. Bayle turned to leave, but stopped and turned back to face him again.

“Mr. Antonio, I have to admit I was quite surprised then to find you in the studio almost every day. Even the other teachers thought it strange, especially since it has long been a source of lamentation how indirectly proportional your passion is to your talent.”

Eli frowned at that. He knew it was the gospel truth. But were teachers at Luna East allowed to say those things to their dearest students? Mr. Bayle, however, was oblivious to his doubts and went on.

“All of us were glad to see that something finally inspired you to open up and really explore your potential. Keep it up.” And with a congratulatory pat on Eli’s back, the young teacher left.

Eli remained in the classroom for a long while, thinking. He was quite elated with the fact that his teachers thought highly of him. But despite all the positive feedback he received, he still felt that he didn’t completely have what it takes to do the accent wall piece. It was too big of an endeavor for him, he thought, and it was better to leave it to other, more capable, students.

He was already formulating the excuse he would tell Mr. Bayle when the door to the classroom opened with a bang, bringing him out of his thoughts. He looked up and came face to face with the ballet dancer in red. He was flabbergasted, to say the least.

She, on the other hand, was furious.

Before he could recover from the shock of seeing her, however, she stomped her way towards him and barraged him with a non-stop verbal attack. But her words weren’t registering in his mind. Even his earlier excuses for Mr. Bayle escaped from his mind. And all because, for the second time in his life, he had a eureka moment.

In the middle of her tirade, he grabbed the sketchpad and pencil inside his bag.

“What are you doing?” She asked in the middle of her monologue.

He looked up, and said, “Dance for me.”