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perhaps it will inspire one or two of you to continue on this path toward being an artist. But I warn you, it may not be worth the price.”
    After such a pretentious opening, I wondered if I’d fought to get here for nothing, but I seemed to be alone in my assessment. All around me people were leaning forward, caught up in the excitement of being on the starting line of their dream.
    We first went around the class, saying our names and explaining our reasons for being there. Though it was supposed to be a class for beginners, several of the students were already selling their work at local art or craft shows. My guess was that the class White was offering for advanced artists had filled up the night he made the announcement, leaving several people to crowd into the beginner’s course. Those of us who really were beginners were divided into two categories: people that said “I’ve always liked to draw” and the more annoying “I feel I need to do this for my soul.”
    The pushy woman from the registrar’s office said her name was Sandra, and added, “I took this class on a lark because ceramics was already filled.” An odd answer given how desperately she wanted to get into the class. Oliver smiled at her, but there was no warmth in it and he moved to another student without comment.
    Then Oliver turned to me. “You’re the quilter,” he said.
    Was that a bad thing? “Yes,” I said. “I work in a quilt shop anyway. But I’m here because I’ve always enjoyed drawing and painting and I want to see if I’m any good at it.”
    “You learned from your grandmother, if I recall,” he said.
    “Yes.”
    He nodded and moved past me to an older man who had been a reporter for years before retiring to Archers Rest and finally taking up his lifelong dream of becoming an artist.
    After he was finished, a familiar voice started speaking behind me. “I’m Kennette and I just like to draw,” she said.
    I turned around and waved. She was wearing the same bright outfit she’d worn to the opening and a huge, eager smile on her face.
    To assess our artistic abilities, we started the class by drawing a group of bottles that Oliver had placed on his desk. I pulled out my drawing pad, a piece of vine charcoal, and a kneadable eraser and arranged them on my easel.
    “Do you have a piece of paper I could borrow?” Kennette tapped my shoulder.
    “Yeah. Sure.” I tore a piece of paper off my drawing pad and handed it to her.
    “Cool,” she answered. “Do you have some extra charcoal?”
    I nodded and handed her a piece. “Do you have an eraser?” I asked.
    “No, I don’t need one.” She smiled. “I’m very free-form.”
    She immediately started drawing bottles on her paper without bothering to look at the arrangement.
    I, on the other hand, spent most of the class struggling to recreate the bottles in exacting detail, making liberal use of the eraser. Oliver walked around, stopping at each student, making comments or suggestions, and filling me with terror. When he stopped at Kennette’s easel, I saw out of the corner of my eye that he was smiling approvingly.
    “You’ve really found the essence there,” he said to her.
    How do you find the essence of bottles? I wondered, feeling as completely inadequate as I ever had.
    Then he walked over to me. He watched me for what seemed like an eternity before he quietly said, “Nice, but very restrained. Let yourself be wrong because it will allow you to take more chances.”
    He moved away from me and on to another student before I had a chance to respond or even to think about his assessment.

    When the class ended I lingered a minute. The “let yourself be wrong” comment stung since I knew that was not my strong point. Besides, wasn’t the point of the exercise to draw the bottles? How could getting them right be the wrong thing to do? But those questions weren’t the reasons I waited to speak with Oliver. More than anything, I wanted confirmation that I belonged