After ten minutes the teacher asked us to go back to our seats. He asked what we had noticed. Hadi raised his hand.
“Yes, Hadi.”
Hadi said, “No one can draw.”
Some laughed, but most protested loudly against this destructive criticism. The teacher clapped again to silence everyone and yelled: “Enough!” He reprimanded Hadi, saying: “Everything has its time, but I will not tolerate such disrespect. Each student has drawn the scene from his spot and the same scene appears slightly different from a different angle. Therefore, perspective is very important in drawing.”
He asked us to pay attention to the proportionality and size of objects. We shouldn’t, for example, draw the bag very tiny and the apple very huge. He said he would show us the best drawing he’d seen. He came toward me and took my pad and returned to the middle of the classroom and stood there.
He raised the pad and said: “Look at your colleague Jawad’s drawing. There is attention to proportion and accuracy in capturing details. Well done, Jawad! Marvelous!”
I was filled with joy as everyone looked at me and he returned my pad. He said that he would tell us more the following week about light and shade and their relationship. Our homework assignment was to draw the TV at home.
After class I went to thank him for the pad. He asked whether I’d studied art before. I said I hadn’t, but that it was a hobby and I had many notebooks filled with sketches. He said: “You have a strong hand and are talented.” I was happy and thanked him.
Mr. Ismael’s class became my favorite that year. I waited all week for that one hour. In every class, he would choose one or two drawings and use them to demonstrate strengths and weaknesses. Despite his evenhandedness and the special attention he gave every student, I still felt that he praised me more often. This earned me the jealousy of some of the students. Hadi used to tease me and said once in front of all the students: “Mr. Ismael is a homo and he wants to fuck you!” I was very angry and told him that he was an idiot and was jealous, but he said: “Why, then, does he always talk to you after class?” He kept repeating: “Jawad is a faggot. Jawad is a faggot. Jawad is a faggot.” I was furious and we got into a fight, but other students separated us. I swore never to talk to him again and told my friends that they had to choose between being my friends or his. He used to say out loud right before arts class: “Your fucker is coming. Your fucker is coming.”
Mr. Ismael noticed that I was sulking that day and asked me what was wrong, but I said nothing to him. I told Ammoury, who said that Hadi was jealous and I should just ignore him.
Mr. Ismael organized several artistic activities at our school, and we were asked to work together in groups to design a wall newspaper, which included literary texts and artwork. We also organized an exhibition which featured the best drawings of the year. He selected two of mine. One was inspired by al-Sayyab’s poem “Rain Song,” the other was of my father holding his worry beads. The drawings were hung on a wall close to the principal’s office, and the names and sections of students were written under them. The exhibition went on for a month and I was happy to see my name in big letters next to my drawings and to see students and teachers standing before them.
One day after class Mr. Ismael asked me: “What do you want to be when you grow up, Jawad?”
Without hesitation I said: “Jawad Salim.”
He laughed and patted my shoulder saying: “An artist. Why not? You can study at the academy, but you must keep to your drawing and never stop.”
I answered: “Of course, Sir.”
At the end of the year he asked me to go to his office after class and to bring my backpack along. The last part sounded odd. When I got there he asked me to sit down on the chair in front of his desk. He repeated what he’d told me throughout the year about my talent and unique eye. He said I was the best student in all of his classes, better even than those who were older. He added that talent was important, but it was not sufficient by itself and had to be augmented by constant practice and study.
He opened the drawer and took out two pads of the same sort he had given us at the beginning of the year. He took a plastic sack out of his leather bag and put it on his desk. He asked me to take out what was inside. I did and there was a midsize box of watercolors with two brushes and a set of pastels. I was delighted by the surprise and a bit shy. I didn’t know what to say except a soft “thank you.” He said that it was a gift to encourage me to develop my abilities. I thanked him again and told him that his was my favorite class and that I’d learned so much.
“You deserve much more, Jawad,” he said. “You will not be Jawad Salim, but you can be a fabulous Iraqi artist one day.” He looked at his watch and said that he had to go to another class. We shook hands warmly and I put his precious gift in my bag. I thanked him again and we said goodbye.
After our last class before the summer break I waited for the other students to leave, especially Hadi, and then gave Mr. Ismael a gift. It was a profile of his face I’d worked on for weeks until I got the best version possible. I wrote on the back: To the best teacher ever. From your grateful student Jawad Kazim. He was very happy as he looked at it. He said he would cherish it and frame it. He shook my hands warmly and patted me on the shoulder. He reminded me to keep drawing and said that he was looking forward to seeing what I would draw during the summer.
During the summer I filled the two pads with drawings after having practiced using watercolors on ordinary paper. I liked to draw with pastel too, but I focused on strengthening my hand with the brush. For the first time ever I found myself impatiently waiting for the break to end so I could show Mr. Ismael my new drawings.
On the first day of school I looked at the rosters of students and teachers and at the schedules posted on the wall next to the administration offices. His name did not appear anywhere and there was an X instead of his name next to “Arts.” My heart sank and I asked the assistant principal about him. He said that Mr. Ismael had been called up for military service and that they’d assign a new teacher.
When it was time for arts class on Thursday, the vice principal came into our classroom and said: “No arts. You can leave.” I inquired about the new teacher. He said: “There is no new teacher.” I asked why. He said: “No idea, son.”
The arts class became a free hour during which students had fun playing and running around, but for me it was impossible to fill that void with anything. I never studied art with any other teacher after that and never had any further formal training until I entered the Academy of Fine Arts five years later. One month after the start of that academic year in 1980, the war with Iran started. I always wondered about Mr. Ismael’s fate as I watched the footage of fierce battles on TV. I asked other teachers whether they’d heard anything about him, but no one knew anything.
NINE
She was all in black. I was late for my art history class that morning because I had decided to sleep an extra fifteen minutes past the alarm. The professor was strict about attendance and wouldn’t allow anyone who was more than ten minutes late to enter. Students called him “The Englishman” because of his obsession with time and because of the fluency and excessive — and somewhat pretentious — accuracy with which he pronounced various English terms. I was panting when I quietly opened the door to the lecture hall. I thought maybe he’d forgive me, but he shook his index finger and pointed to his watch and gestured to me to close the door. I did and walked to the kiosk outside the academy and bought a copy of al-Jumhuriyya. I read the headlines on my way to the cafeteria. Nothing new except military communiqués and constant victories over the enemy. I folded it and put it with my books. I went to the cafeteria, because I hadn’t had time to have breakfast at home. I bought a white cheese sandwich and a cup of tea.