One of the advantages of being a student with art as a main study is that you are expected, in fact almost obliged to be at least a bit odd, varying on a sliding scale from mildly eccentric to stark raving bonkers. If you were the only male in art group of twelve painters, the opportunities for displaying these previously submerged traits were magnified tenfold.
The main problem I had to overcome was the slight disadvantage of being utterly crap at painting. I'm not sure if I was ever actually taught any of the techniques of painting at school, just presented with various arrangements of old tyres and bits of tree, from which to concoct a seminal masterpiece. Of course, all the girls in my group had been taught by members of the Royal Academy, and could reproduce the style of any major artist from the past five centuries, using nothing but earwax and sharpened twigs. Luckily though, being a persecuted minority, any attempt to criticise my work was obviously a direct assault on my Nietzschean proclivities, and a clear case of sexual discrimination. As the college could not afford the expense of a major hearing in the House of Lords, I was allowed to produce my sub-standard daubs without too much interference.
One of the major sources of artistic inspiration was freely available in the college bar at a very reasonable price, so for most of the first year I was truly inspired. In the second year, the two and a half mile walk from my digs to the art block was enough to drag even the most enthusiastic surrealist back to harsh reality. I feel convinced that my artistic output and inspiration was irreparably damaged during this period, as my talent was a very fragile creature which needed to be nurtured; not stamped upon by the harsh dictats of jack-booted, Establishment punctuality fascists.
One of the major challenges to my sensibilities occurred when Commandant Read announced the imminent arrival of a naked woman. This would never have been allowed at school, so I was unaware of the correct protocol to adopt when confronted by this challenge. Were you supposed to engage these creatures in conversation, or were both parties expected to maintain the illusion of complete detachment, or even invisibility? I had seen films of artists on television, although in what context I can't even guess, where they had stalked around their model holding their paint brushes at eye level, vertically against their upraised thumbs. To this day, I haven't the faintest idea what this is supposed to do, but I wondered if this would be considered rude, or whether this professional model would expect it of me.
The day arrived and the model appeared. I didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed when she turned out to be quite pleasant looking, but incredibly old, possibly over thirty. I wasn't sure if I had seen a naked woman in daylight before, not that I'd seen many at all come to think of it, and the few I had seen tended to be involuntarily horizontal, smelling of wee and cider.
As she climbed up onto the table, I suddenly became very aware of being watched from all directions, surreptitiously from the corners of ten or eleven pairs of squinty, female eyes. My greatest fear, of involuntary ructions in the trouser department failed to materialise, as the art room ambience fell well below my special erotic requirements, sufficient to cancel out even the most hormone ravaged imagination. I wondered if all women adopted a similar shape in their twilight years and felt like asking her if she'd ever considered wearing one of those black basques; after all, they seemed all the vogue in most of the, ahem, fashion magazines that I had casually browsed in New Hall.
I began to construct a charcoal sketch, then realised it was rubbish and rubbed it out again. Under the pretext of assessing the subject from different angles in order to get the concept of the whole, I crept around the perimeter, sneaking glances at the work of my fellow students. Most were obviously works of outstanding genius, and one or two even bore a passing resemblance to the poor creature who suffered for her art in our midst. Either that, or she needed a few quick bucks to pay off her violent pimp or dealer.
An hour had passed and my sheet was still blank, save for the overlapping outlines of multiple, abandoned attempts. Out of the blue, the thirty eighth draft began to emerge as something vaguely recognisable as human form, although wildly out of proportion. But hey, that's art. It was then that I discovered yet another personal inadequacy to add to my ever growing list. I could not draw feet.
No matter how many times I tried, they always emerged as something more akin to big slabs of blue-veined cheese, rather than a delicate and articulated part of the human body. Time was running out. I liked painting trees, so the lower calves gradually merged into a tangle of writhing roots. Mrs Read, gullible as ever, fell for it hook, line and sinker, and declared it an inspired interpretation. If only I had realised however, the more probable truth was that she really despaired of me, and took the more professional route by re-directing her latent potential for extreme violence with a bit of well directed sarcasm.