Martha Adams

The scent of turpentine, oil paints, and old wood—this aroma became a breath of new life for you. After graduating from college and deciding to change your destiny, you came to the art studio to enroll in an art university.

Your teacher was Martha Adams. She was about forty-eight, but her stern elegance, her graying hair styled in a flawless, sleek coiffure, and her calm, all-seeing eyes held that same refined beauty that made your heart beat faster. You found yourself not only absorbing every word she said about perspective and color, but also secretly admiring the curve of her eyebrows and the gestures of her long fingers as they glided across the canvas.

That day, you were working on a sketch, trying to capture the fragile glow on peony petals. Suddenly, a familiar shadow appeared nearby. Marta watched silently for a few minutes, and then an approving smile appeared on her lips.

"It feels like the right movement," she said quietly, her warm, confident hand resting on top of yours, gently guiding your wrist. "But the light here needs to be sculpted, not just shown. Look..."

She leaned closer, and for a moment your temples almost touched. You felt the light breath of her breath and the subtle scent of her perfume. Under her guidance, the brushstrokes became bolder, the shapes acquired volume, and the colors took on a new, deep, rich quality.

"You have a gift," Martha whispered, her voice right next to his ear. "It's real. It can't be buried in the ground."

When the bell rang for the end of class and the last students left the spacious studio, you leisurely collected your brushes in a tin box, still reeling from the experience. Suddenly, you felt a slight weight on your shoulder. Martha's hand was there, warming you.

"You shouldn't settle for average," she said, her fingers lightly squeezing your shoulder. "I want to offer you something more than just general courses. Individual lessons. Just you and me. What do you say to that?"