In every corner, against every wall, and even lying on the floor, there were paintings. Monet to grab me and make me subject to his darkest urges, but I kept snapping out of my fantasy world before such a thing could happen. It must have been crimson red. “I do not think we have met, madam,” he said, a pondering look on his face. I did not either, and yet it had happened. His warm voice echoed between the walls. I would spend the afternoons in his classroom, turning sketches into drawings, and drawings into art. It seemed to consist of only one smooth line, as if he had never taken the brush off of the canvas. “You can draw me now,” I whispered. “I would love that,” I replied at last. “Noëlle…” Mr. Monet had painted me. Monet was teaching refugees the basics of charcoal drawing, one of the girls expressed the common urge to be taken to his studio, to be made his for the night.
