Paint Job

I step back to survey my canvas. She stands at a statuesque 6 ft 1”; her pretty face has a smattering of freckles and a set square jaw. Pretty enough to turn heads, tall enough to hurt me.

My last tryst with make-up was when I was seven. I squashed mama’s coffee bean lipstick while rummaging through her vanity case. It was a rare evening alone, and I was on the hunt for other things brown and creamy.

Fifteen years later, I’m jolted back from the parental bedroom by the orientation speech on make-up application techniques and hairstyling by a Cruella De Ville lookalike.

‘‘This is matte,’’ said Avleen Khokar, another faculty member, introducing me to a plastic case containing over 30 different bottles of viscous tan concoctions.

Apparently matte (the last we met was at the neighbourhood photo studio) is every make-up artist’s best friend. ‘‘Use two layers of N1 and N3 as the base, that’s to cover up all the zits,’’ Khokar advised, and then, seeing the quizzical look on my face, she added, ‘‘better get used to all the jargon, honey.’’

I set up my workstation under Cruella’s eagle eye, neatly separating the hair, eye and facial products into the separate pockets of my by now bulging, ungainly apron. I’m with 15 other fledgling make-up artists, all eager to unleash their creative expertise on Bollywood’s film sets, big budget theatre productions and international fashion magazines. These are the men and women who will one day get paid to OD on crimson paint and tomato sauce on the Zee Horror Show.

‘‘You know, even if you need to depict something as simple as a cut finger, or a bleeding temple, you would need a make-up artist,’’ explains Khokar. Some of my students are with Elle and Vogue,’’ she quickly adds.

Each of us have been instructed to create various looks, ranging from one for a staid sari campaign to another for an anti-drugs ad. ‘‘I’d like to use dark colours to create an intense, brooding look. That’s how drug addicts are, you know,’’ a student explains.

Back to Hell. I try to maintain an impassive face as I squeeze some foundation (a homogeneous mixture of N1 and N3) onto a plate and begin painting her face, shoulders, neck and cleavage. ‘‘Try and keep to the sketch as much as possible,’’ says Cruella, handing me an artist’s impression of a Cosmo look.

‘‘Move in closer,’’ she barks. I’m so close now, the cleavage is out of focus. ‘‘Smooth, flowing strokes in the direction of the hair growth,’’ she instructs. So

I switch from Impressionist Vincent Van Gogh to Renaissance Michelangelo.

An assistant stuffs a bunch of preheated large barrelled rollers into my hand. I’ve seen my grandma do this, so I scoop a section of her wavy locks into my dexterous hands and begin. ‘‘Ow,’’ Hell says as I pin the curler close to her scalp.

A good half hour, a little spritz and some fixer later, the Cosmo face is on. Hell stands up—nothing’s burnt, no scars anywhere, and she seems pleased enough.

Cruella’s on the prowl again. ‘‘Patchy foundation job, and too much product around the eyes,’’ she says, scribbling the not-so-great feedback on her clipboard. I mumble something about being a greenhorn and leave. Thank Heavens!