The class laughed, and I pressed my tongue into my cheek to keep from saying a word.
“What I’m saying is that as a man or a woman, you see a naked person and whether you want to or not, your brain fires up all the chemicals that come with lust,” Liam continued, snapping his fingers to illustrate. “And I think Botticelli knew that when he painted this. He knew the women would wonder what it was like to have such full breasts, what they would feel like to squeeze, what the weight of them would be in each palm. What would it be like to be the goddess? And he knew the men would imagine themselves between her thighs, above her or behind her, the goddess of love crying out in their honor.”
I flushed even harder, but found my throat so dry I couldn’t argue with him this time.
“Okay, easy, Mr. Benson,” Professor Beneventi said with a smirk. “It’s an interesting viewpoint, but I challenge both of you,” he said, looking between me and Liam. “All of you,” he continued, addressing the class. “To really study the painting and think about the time in which it was created. Remember that it was rumored to have been commissioned by the Medici, so, is there a connection between the Christian ideology, as well as the myth of the goddess’s birth?”
He tapped the top of Liam’s easel as he walked past, and they shared a grin that made me fume even more. Again, it was as if they had this inside joke, as if Liam could do no wrong. We’d only completed one assignment, and already Professor Beneventi had decided Liam was a worthy student.
And I was predictable.
The professor went on to explain our next assignment, how he wanted us to go to the Uffizi and spend time with the painting, to feel it, and then to re-create our own interpretation of it.
I was too distracted to hear all of the instructions, however, because Liam was watching me with that stupid smirk on his face, like he’d won.
I glared back at him with the unspoken promise that he had not.
“Remember, this is your interpretation of the piece,” the professor said, leaning down into my line of vision as he walked by. He arched a brow. “So don’t get caught up in the urge to recreate Botticelli’s work. Make it your own.” He stood, then. “Trust me, it’s impossible to recreate, anyway. I’ve tried.”
The class was a chorus of chuckles, and then with the assignment given, we moved on to the day’s study.
I found myself strolling past The Birth of Venus even more than usual during my shifts at the Uffizi. I volunteered to stand next to it and answer questions from tourists, to give unprompted tours to those who were open to it, and the more I did, the more solid I felt in my interpretation of the artwork and what it meant.
What Botticelli intended for it to mean.
I read countless studies on the work, historic documents as well as modern analyses. Then, every night when I went back to the dorm room, I’d have a quick dinner with Angela before locking myself in my room for the night to work.
I decided to work privately this time, instead of in the classroom.
I wanted zero distractions.
And zero interaction with Liam Benson.
The week flew by in a blur of class, working at the museum, and painting until my eyes burned and my body ached for sleep. But when the following Monday morning rolled around, and I carried my canvas carefully across campus into the classroom, I felt as confident as I did tired.
I made sure to get to class early, ensuring I had enough time to set up the canvas and touch up anything that might have been affected by the cloth cover or me carrying it. My parents had always emphasized that if you were fifteen minutes early, you were on time. And if you were on time, you were late.
With that mindset, I figured I’d be alone, but there hard at work at his easel was Liam.
Working until the very last minute, yet again.
I rolled my eyes when I saw him, but didn’t pay him any mind after. I focused all my energy on setting up my station and preparing for the professor.
“How’d it go, Chambers?”
I stilled at the question, rolling my lips together before I rolled my shoulders back and down. “Fantastic. And you?”
Liam laughed. “I’ll let you know in about…” He checked his watch. “Twenty-seven minutes.”
I shook my head. “I see you took the assignment seriously.”
“I didn’t realize art was meant to be taken seriously. I thought it was meant to be felt, to be lived.”
I didn’t even entertain him with a response, especially when a few more students joined us in the room with their own canvases. I said my greetings and then unveiled my painting, sitting back in my stool to admire it.