Art school seemed like a bad idea… until you took your first figure drawing class.
Your name is Karkat Vantas, and the last thing you want to be doing today is waking up to go and draw in a dim classroom smelling of pot, surrounded by losers with no direction. But that is apparently what art school is.
You have always been what your teachers and other adult role models called a "prodigy", even ever since you were very young. Your work was framed and praised and entered in art shows. It helped had a tragic backstory and stark white hair, and being able to appear sweet and innocent didn't hurt. The general public went wild, and you were offered merit scholarships and full financial aid to most art schools in the country. So here you are, partaking in the fate practically forced upon you by your superiors.
Its not really that you don't enjoy making art, its the intense pressure placed on your fragile, pale shoulders since the first time you made a mark on paper with a crayon. Also? this is the third art college you have transferred to, and its the same as all the others. Everyones stoned and their drawings are all about "feelings" or some metaphorical shit made up at the last second so that they wouldn't have to admit that the mess of colors on their page was what they true during some kind of crazy trip. You have personally found drawing your feelings (and drug use) to be ineffective. You found it impossible not to focus on the work you were doing, and the line quality, color, composition, and other shit about it which had been drilled into your head for the past roughly 18 years of your life. Instead, you yell a lot and write long, explicit letters to those who you hate, and then burn them, muttering to yourself like you are crazed.
But, there seems to be nothing you can do about it . Your fate seems to be that of endless art instructions, and praise of your work, and articles written about your "fascinating yet tragic life story and unusual gift".
You were partially snoozing on your arm when the model walked in, and you wished you had seen him sooner so you could have maximized your time looking at him because as soon as your eyes met the masterpiece which is his very being your heart froze.
"So, where do I stand?"
he asks, lazily, pulling off his clothes. His clothes. Taking them off. In front of you. You are certain that your very pale skin has just flushed to a shade almost equivalent to your eyes, perhaps redder. The art teacher has given him instructions but you are too focused on the way his back arches as he stretches while he walks, the barely noticeable ripple of muscles under his skin, the slight pudge around his belly and thighs. His face is framed by a halo of pale blonde curls, which, was obviously bleached because they do not match his hair in… other places… good lord… and now you notice his butt. You are an absolute pervert, and are ashamed at yourself for sexualizing anyone's body. you put your head down on your desk for a moment, pressing your hot cheek to the almost freezing metal, and curse at yourself silently.
In the art world, most artists live by the belief that the human body itself is a work to be appreciated, and not sexualized as much as worshipped and praised.
"Everything is art and were all stoners."
and, as sexually confused as you are (or, perhaps, used to be, judging by your reaction to this terrific bastard) you agreed with it, and were disgusted at those who dropped their maturity and giggled at the nude models who had chosen to come in and stand for them. But now you are no worse than they are, blushing like a fool over this random person who is simply doing his job.
When you look up you immediately have to duck back down again and silently swear because is there possibly a more appealing pose they could have had him in? his back is facing to everyone drawing him, but his shoulder is turned outwards and he looks down at the ground, and thats when you notice he hasn't taken off his sunglasses. Is he blind? perhaps. oh god,, you're sexualizing a blind person. you absolute sinner.
But then you notice that the rest of the class is hard at work sketching this masterpiece which will certainly not be reflected in their own work, and you buckle down and do your job, falling into the routine of measure, mark, line, repeat, until your mind is numb from the process which will earn you what in the long run you are after; praise and recognition.
