The more time I spend on European Art Classroom, the happier I am that I decided to apply. As the group gets used to routine, we slowly move forward from the 'honeymoon phase' when we first got here.

Proctor's European Art Classroom program is underway in Aix en Provence. After a year stateside in the American Southwest, this lucky group of eight students alongside program directors Jen and Dave Fleming are created their own artist colony in the south of France. Read more from Bella '22 below! 

"Dwight", the van, whipping through the grand fields of New Mexico. I’m currently losing the “guess who’s song is playing” game run by Leo my beloved, our leader this week. Lars and I are amped up on Dunk's coffee which is pretty exciting considering we have seen nothing but Starbucks for two months (every New Englander's nightmare).

And so we’ve come to our final week in the oh so wonderful pan flat, burning Hellscape of Casa Grande, AZ, and our final week of high school classes. There could have been no more perfect way to finish it off, everyone scrambling to complete a final project before leaving for Santa Fe on Sunday.

The air is stale and the heat is unbearable. We drive through the main street of Sedona passing by an array of outdoor shops that all seem to sell the same five goods including palm readings, psychics, and crystals. Interspersed is a series of restaurants and cafes with prices that make airports seem cheap.

Buckle up, its a long one… (Not bad, just long) 

A collection of memories and stories, laughter and light. Pages full of where you sat and who you met. And yes, the drawings are made up of scribbles and wonky lines. And yes, the colors blend in an unfavorable manner and the pencil smudges in lines across the page. To the eye of a stranger they are idle sketches, quite possibly a collection of nothingness. A graphite mountain stretches a small amount of the papers space, labeled “Mountains at Sunset” and a little frog who looks, mushy?? What could they mean to anyone? Each infantile sketch ignites a memory that would otherwise fade.

Sonoita. Historically, the word originates from the O’odham language and translates to “spring field”— an ironic assessment, seeing as none of us witnessed a drop of fresh water during our five-day excursion. 

We’re sitting across the kitchen island sketching each other’s portraits. It's 1:37 a.m. This is the first time I've had my portrait drawn. I’ve had a lot of firsts this past week.