"What do you see?" he asked, standing close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his body.
"It's... alive somehow," I said finally. "There's a depth to it that I don't understand technically. How did you achieve that luminosity?"
"That's what we're going to explore tonight," he said. "There are techniques that aren't taught in conventional academic settings, methods of creating art that access something... deeper than mere representation."
He touched my elbow lightly, guiding me down the hallway. We passed several closed doors before reaching the end of the corridor, where Ezra pressed his palm against a sleek panel. There was a soft click, and the door swung open, revealing a large, meticulously organized studio space.
Unlike the cluttered, chaotic studios I was accustomed to at Ravencrest, Ezra's workspace was immaculate. White walls, polished concrete floors with drains set at regular intervals, specialized lighting that could be adjusted to create any desired effect. A large worktable dominated the center of the room, its surface clean except for a few select tools.
What struck me most was the absence of completed canvases. Most artists I knew lived surrounded by their work. Ezra's studio was notably empty of his own art, except for a single canvas on an easel in the corner, covered with a black cloth.
"This is my teaching studio," he said, watching my reaction carefully. "Where I work with select students. My personal workspace is... elsewhere."
I nodded. Being admitted to this space was already a privilege few had experienced. The thought sent a small thrill through me, a sense of having been chosen that momentarily overwhelmed my apprehension.
"It's perfect," I said, moving toward the worktable to examine the tools laid out there. Brushes of various sizes, palette knives, and several implements I didn't recognize, curved metal tools that looked more suited to surgery than art.
Ezra moved behind me, close enough that I could feel his breath stir the hair at the nape of my neck. "You know, Micah, I've been watching you for some time. Long before you submitted your portfolio."
I froze, uncertain how to respond. "What do you mean?"
"I attend all student exhibitions," he said. "I saw your work last year. The Pietà with the Madonna's face obscured by handprints. Even then, I recognized something... familiar in your approach."
He stepped around to face me, his gray eyes searching mine. "You felt it too, didn't you? When we first met. That sense of recognition."
I swallowed. "Yes."
His smile widened. "I thought so." He moved to a cabinet on the far wall, retrieving something before returning to the worktable. "Before we begin our work together, I'd like to understand how you see art. Not the philosophy you've been taught to recite, but your true perception."
He placed a blank canvas on the table between us. "If you could create anything, without fear of judgment or consequence, what would you paint?"
The question hung in the air as I considered how to answer. "Something honest. Something that acknowledges the beauty in destruction, the sacred in the profane."
"And what stops you?"
"Fear," I admitted. "Not of judgment, really. More of... confirmation."
"You've spent years trying to exorcise what you perceive as darkness," he said, his voice dropping to an intimate murmur. "Through religion, through therapy, through the destruction of your own work. But what if that darkness isn't a demon to be cast out, but a gift to be cultivated?"
My pulse quickened. "What kind of gift?"
"The gift of true vision," he said, his hand rising to hover near my face, not quite touching, but close enough that I could feel the heat of his skin. "Most people move through life with a veil between themselves and reality. They see what they expect to see, what they've been taught to see. But a few, a rare few, perceive what exists beneath the surface."
His fingers finally made contact, tracing the curve of my jaw with a touch so light it might have been imagined. "You see it, don't you? The beauty in what others call horror. The truth behind the masks everyone wears."
I remained perfectly still, afraid that any movement might break the spell of this moment. "Sometimes. But only glimpses."
"I can help you see more clearly," he said, his thumb brushing lightly across my lower lip.
I had the strangest urge to draw his thumb between my lips and taste him.
"I can show you how to embrace what you've been taught to fear." He stepped back suddenly, breaking the contact, leaving me slightly dizzy from the intensity of the exchange. "But first, you must experience both sides of the artistic relationship. You've mastered creation, but you've never truly understoodwhat it means to be the subject. The vulnerability required, the surrender."
He prepared his materials, setting out charcoals and a large sketchpad.
"You want to draw me," I said.
"Yes. But not as you present yourself to the world. Not as the careful construction you show your professors, your peers, your therapists." His eyes flicked up to meet mine. "I want to draw you as you truly are. As God sees you."
