Page 13 of Pink Ink
The girl beside me does a mini fist pump. I haven’t met anyone who likes Bradford, either as a person or as a teacher, so while the situation that resulted in his absence is unfortunate, I would have been over the moon if it were quite literally anyone other than Shaw subbing in.
He doesn’t bother explaining his background. He proves he’s perfect for the job within the first five minutes.
Shaw slowly paces the small space at the front of the class, clicking through the slides to a screenshot from a film I’m not familiar with. Half of the subject’s face is pooled in shadow, softer beneath his eyes.
It’s a moody scene. Dramatic. A lower angle to show us we’re lesser than the character. It’s shorthand for power.
“What does this one image tell you?” When no one immediately answers, he continues. “Pay attention to the contrast, where the light falls, the angle. It’s more than a mood. Every frame says something. It’s telling a story. What is the subtext?”
Nicole raises her hand in front of me. Shaw nods at her. “That the character is ambiguous.”
“Correct.” He offers Nicole an approving head tilt that makes my stomach dip unpleasantly. “You can only see half of his face. In a single frame, you know he is half myth, half man. Legendary and unknowable. It’s a world where morality is obscure.”
Fuck me, I didn’t even pick up on half of that. Now that he’s said it, I see it, and I hate it because it means he’s highly competent and perfect for this class.
“Can anyone tell me what the combination of the soft light and the lower angle represents?”
I glance at the guy on my left. We’ve never spoken, but Austin is always happy to give his two cents. Like now.
“It’s slightly off-center.” It is? Shaw is throwing me off my game. “The lighting is basically nostalgic, so it’s a memory.”
“Yes, it’s tilted from where your eye expects it to be because we aren’t in the present. The light, the low angle, and the subject being off-center tells us one more thing: It’s a melancholic power, and it’s fading.”
He pauses, dragging his eyes over the class, conveniently missing me.
I’ve never seen this many people so focused in any of my classes. There must be about seventy students here, and there isn’t a phone in sight. Even the guy who usually playsThe Simsin class is fully engrossed, and I’m pretty sure the pupils of the girl on the other side of me have turned heart-shaped.
“Lighting and angle isn’t for visual flair. Itisthe story. This is not just the act of recording. Angle can become a thematic device. Lighting is a language, and you need to learn how to speak it.”
The room is silent enough to hear a pin drop.
The longer he talks, the more on edge I am. Oh, he’s good all right. Too good.
To Bradford, a camera is just a camera. To Shaw, a camera is an extension of art. Passion oozes from every eloquently worded concept with enough detail to understand without making the waters murky. Even though he’s a grade-A prick, he teaches in a way that ensures we absorb everything he says because he truly wants the best for us.
Or at least, the best for everyone but me.
Not once does he look my way during the whole two hours.
I’m screwed if he kicks me out of this class. I’ll have to retake it next semester if Bradford is back by then; if not, I won’t be able to graduate.
No, I need to get it together, keep my head down, and not look a gift horse in the mouth. Maddox Shaw can be the reason this university adds me to its book of legendary alumni.
Let him rip into my work. In fact, I hope he hates me enough that he won’t hold back from telling me all the reasons why my work is terrible, so I can learn and make him scramble for a single bad thing to say.
Mom said I’ll make it big one day. She was right. I will. And Shaw is going to help me get there.
Game on, Maddox.
MADDOX
A loud crash booms through my studio office, followed by an aggravating, grating “You got any food? I’m hungry.”
I shut my eyes and take a deep breath before pointing my paintbrush in the direction of my half-eaten lunch. I have neither the patience nor the neurons to deal with the verbal diarrhea that my brother might choose to let loose today.
“By all means,” I grit as I glare at the canvas in front of me. “Please, damage the hundred-year-old door.”
“Sorry,” Spencer murmurs, humming an annoying, nasally tune that has me approximately two seconds from murdering him with the aforementioned paintbrush. My patience is limited on the best of days. Lately, there isn’t a speck of it in existence.
