First day of classes usually suck.  I know, right?  But when you combine Mondays and the first day of your very first college class, well let’s just say that things are bound to go wonky.  Yeah.  So, there’s the latte with the lid not on tight---you know where that went: right on the seat of my new car.  Still, it wasn’t on my lap, so I dealt.  Mostly. 

Then, there was the parking lot.  Fat lot of good parking passes do on the first day of chaos, ah, class.  I parked in East Timbuktu and hiked toward the main Arts building.  I wasn’t late, but I wasn’t early either; and I had a thing about being punctual.  And more importantly, I need MY seat.  Yeah, I’m one of those. I have to sit in the same spot all the time: far right side of auditorium, midway up the rows, first aisle seat.  It’s weird. I know it’s weird, but I just can’t function if I’m not in that spot, in every class, movie, theatre, etc.  What can I say?  I’m an Art major.

I toss my empty cup and tug open the doors to the building, only bumping into about four other people with my overloaded backpack.  My oversized sketchbook jabs me in the side from within the pack’s depths.  I simultaneously love and loathe that spiral-bound tablet.  I can’t be without blank, white paper.  Ever.  I must be able to sketch at a moment's notice.  But, I don’t think I’ve ever NOT had a bruise from carrying one with me since I was six.  Damn sharp corners. 

The clerestory windows of the Arts building are framed by broken gold and silver tiles---almost replicating sunlight, in my mind.  Given that we’re in the gloomiest place on earth, I appreciate the effort it must have taken.  Seattle, WA.  Not quite as rainy as neighboring Forks, but pretty darn close---or so I’ve heard.  Ah, there it is, right in front: the main auditorium, where my class was currently assembling. 

I walked through the open doors, breathing a sigh of relief as I realized that, given the chaos of “First Day,” I was in fact a bit early.  My seat, MY seat, was still available.  I may have actually dashed over to claim it, but I like to think I walked “quickly,” yet decorously.  I tugged a notebook and a pencil out of my backpack, just idly glancing around.  Other students filtered in, taking seats randomly, mostly being quiet.  It wasn’t even eight a.m., so it was completely understandable. 

A small brunette at the front of the room was setting up various types of media---cloth, canvas, wood.  And there were paints, charcoals, clay, and even a few cameras scattered about on the four small tables in front of the huge screen.  Hmm.  Weird.  She must be the TA, I thought, shrugging.  Some kind of show and tell, maybe? 

This class was for Honors Arts program majors and was by invitation only.  I was feeling both smug and lucky at the moment.  If only I had another latte in my hand, I’d be seriously sky-high.  I was still watching the supposed TA as she placed oversized black-and-white photos on various easels.  I sat up.  There were at least five gasps, one of them probably mine. 

Whoa.  The room got a bit quieter, and then there was silence.  The brunette had saved the best one for last, obviously.  It should have been a gloomy photo, no sun, rain dripping from leaves on the dark branches.  But, even in black and white, the photo was magnificent.  The subject was male and beautiful.  The camera caught so much---his eyes, his cheekbones, an incredible jaw, long fingers scraping through a gloriously messy head of hair and, oh, God, the smirk.  I couldn’t even process that it was a full body shot at first.  I could only focus on the face and his expression.  It was as if he was staring into my soul---and that he liked what he found.  There was just a tweaky tilt to his lips as he almost smiled.  But the hand, sweeping upward, gave the impression of bashfulness.  Like he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.  Lucky jar.  Lucky cookie.

I think I started to blush as I studied the photo further.  The subject---I was trying to be objective, professional, but it was hard when I just wanted to start panting---was leaning with his back against the rain-drenched tree.  He wore dark jeans, dark shoes, and what looked like a gray tee.  Simple, right?  I’ve seen fashion shoots that would kill to capture the nonchalant yet arrogant elegance that this man had.  He made James Bond, any of them, even at their most dapper, look like amateurs---in jeans and a tee, for heaven’s sake.

Being an artist, hands are kind of important to me.  I notice hands.  I especially notice men’s hands.  This guy/perfect-example-of-male-beauty?  His hands were rockstars.  The hand that wasn’t caressing his longish locks was perched on his left hipbone, almost provocatively.  At least that’s what my blood pressure spiking told me.  I inhaled deeply, too chicken to see if anyone else was thinking what I was thinking. 

The brunette had a slight smirk on her face, and I wondered if she knew the guy in person.  And if she did, would she be willing to be my BFF and give me his phone number?  I watched as she approached the left blackboard and wrote “Bella Cullen” in large, precise letters, along with her room and contact phone.  She looked way too young to be a tenured professor, let alone a PhD, so I figured she must be a grad student, doing a student teaching stint.  And then she turned around.

It was a bit of a shock actually.  From behind, she looked almost ordinary, like one of us.  But she wasn’t.  She looked, well, she looked like what you’d expect an angel to look like.  Seriously.  Minus the wings of course.  Her face and features were so delicate, her dark hair swirling around her pale neck, and her hands and arms flowing gracefully.  But it was her eyes that caught my attention---a honey golden color, they almost sparkled with joy.  It matched the smile on her face perfectly.  Once she began talking, I got it, got her.  She loved art.  It was obvious she was here because she wanted to be, and that she was doing exactly what she wanted to be doing---sharing her love of art with others.

I barely heard her introduction; she was, in fact, a full professor.  This particular honors class was her idea.  While a beginning course, the class wasn’t an open intro class---it was reserved for serious art students.  And evidently, the Cullen family provided more than a bit of financial aid to the university.  Ms. Cullen made it sound like we’d been invited to an exclusive club.  If we needed supplies, we simply needed to ask.  If we were interested in overseas studies, ditto.  If we had questions, we had her cell number.  To say that I was impressed would an understatement.  I think I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.  Literally.  And then she started giving a briefing on various media---encouraging the entire class to experiment, to go out of their comfort zones.  Painter?  Try photography.  Sculptor?  Try painting.  And so on.  It was incredible.

Bella, as she preferred to be called, suggested organizing our portfolios, if we hadn’t already.  She offered excellent suggestions, and she advised that this class would be one of exploration and in-depth study.  She alluded to a syllabus she’d posted on our class website, but just suggested we look at it later.  At this point, I was surprised no one had asked about the incredible photos up front yet. 

She brought it up herself.  Art is passion.  We take what moves us and try to capture that feeling to share with others.  If we felt nothing, we could not create art.  It was simplistic and yet, I liked it.  It was…true, basic.  She often smiled as she spoke, her voice a curious, lilting sound, soft yet precise---like her.  Her introduction, “My muse.  My husband, Edward.” 

At the almost collective groaning from the room, she giggled.  Yes, she actually giggled.  I thought it was pretty cute actually.  I took another look at the main photo---not that I’d really ever looked away from it---and thought that her Edward looked awfully young.  Granted, she looked barely out of high school herself.  Still, there was something about both of them.  A stillness, an “age” for lack of better term.  I simply couldn’t see either of them partying like normal college kids on spring break.  Not at all.  But they didn’t seem to be the overly religious or geeky sort either.  It wasn’t overt, in your face, jolting “sex on legs”---it was sensual, understated beauty.  He personified it.  She was enchantment.  You couldn’t watch her and not want to continue to watch her.  It made strange sense for them to be together---it was if they were interlocking pieces of the same puzzle. 

Bella outlined some of her thoughts on her photos, skirting silly, blatant questions regarding her husband---and somehow managing not to blush---when she pulled the “Tree” picture, as I called it in my head, down to show the one behind it.  The class fell silent again.

This one was in color, yet still in muted grays.  Her muse, Edward, was sitting casually along a lake’s shoreline.  The water was slightly choppy, the wind evident from Edward’s hair.  The overcast sky reflected in the color of the water---about twenty shades of gray.  His clothing seemed to be dark blue---pants, button down shirt.  There was the hint of forest in the background, waiting.  Bella had taken the picture just as he turned toward her, probably in mid-thought.  His stare into the camera was so intense, I’d give anything to know what he had been thinking at that moment.  It had to have been good, based on the small and incredibly sexy smile he wore.  One hand was on his raised knee, the other plucking a blade of grass. 

From an artist’s perspective, I could see---and appreciate---the sheer genius of Bella’s photography.  Her compositions were elegant, yet subtle---much like her subject, her muse.  She had captured moments in time so effectively that you could literally feel the moment yourself.  The movement of water, wind, leaves, combined with the moodiness of low lighting---clouds, rain, trees---painted a cocoon of sorts.  Adding the dark tones made the textures come alive.  I’d made sketches when I was a child where I wanted to simply jump inside of them, to go where my imagination had gone.  Bella’s photos incited the same feelings.  I suddenly felt like that lucky cookie jar. 

Bella ended the class with a simple suggestion---go find what inspired our creativity.  Bring ideas to share on Wednesday.  The class lingered, all of us wandering through her mixed media presentations---and of course the incredible photos.  Strangely, there was not one crude remark, no sexual objectification.  Maybe we were just thinking it. 

I nodded to Bella as I left, murmuring a quiet “Thanks, great class.”  I think I felt stunned.  If this was college, I was never leaving.  I turned a corner, heading to the back of the building where my next class was located---music theory, a general requirement, and as I was musically illiterate, I was dragging my feet. 

Then I heard it.  A faint, yet wonderfully intricate piano piece, coming from a small music room to my right.  I stopped at the slightly open door, and my mouth fell open.  Bella’s muse in person, teaching from the looks of it.  A handful of students gathered around his grand piano, eyes wide open, just listening.  He lectured as he played, something about finding one’s muse. 

I smiled as I noticed Bella walking toward me.  Right on cue, I thought.  Hearing the music, she smiled at my compliment, “He plays beautifully.” 

She nodded in agreement, “He truly does.”  I watched as she pushed the door open and entered quietly as Edward finished his piece.  I heard him say, “This is my Bella, my muse.”  Even his voice was beautiful. 

I sighed as I walked to my next class.  I wondered how long it had taken Bella and Edward to find each other.  I somehow doubted that I’d find my own muse overnight.  It could take decades.  I pushed open the classroom door, annoyed to find MY seat already taken.  Damn.  I head to the same mid-section, end row seat on the left and plopped down.  Maybe the change would be good for me. 

In the meantime, I started a list of things that inspired me---sunlight, joyful people, kindness, cinnamon, shiny wrapping paper with sparkly bows and blank white paper.

And the occasional latte.  I mean sure, Bella’s Edward/muse was gorgeous and all, but I’m practical. 

fin