I'm sketching him for two reasons. First of all, he's being still. This is important. I'm not one of those sketch artists who can take a mental snapshot and draw from that. I need the subject to remain largely unchanged. Secondly, there are the lines of his face. He is a tall old black man. He's dignified and sober looking, with his glasses perched low on his nose as he reads his book. His hair is not as short as many black men wear their hair today. It has a little length, and it is grey at the temples. He has the facial lines of a man who has smiled a lot and frowned a lot, and is probably good at both, though he's doing neither at the moment.
Oops. He's seen me. I look down, noncommittally, shading a little here and there. Soon, however, I've exhausted my mental store of information, so I have to either abandon the sketch or look again. Casually, using only my eyes, I glance over. He's looking down. I make note of the shape of his left eyebrow, and look back at the page. The memory doesn't last long. When I'm sketching, I typically glance at the subject every three or four seconds. I glance back. Still reading. I take in the eyebrow again, shaping it wiith light strokes of the pencil. Another look, the pencil still in motion.
He's caught me. Eye to eye. Before I can look away, he smiles. I feel a little emarrassed, like an intruder. He deliberately closes his book, picks up his empty coffee cup and stands. He approaches me.
"Do I get to see?" he asks. He has a voice like a professor. I smile and turn the sketch pad for him to see. I'm about ninety percent done. "Hey, that's pretty good."
"Thanks," I say, "it's a hobby."
"Well, you're good at it." Thankfully, he turns to leave.
"Have a nice day," I say.
"You too, Picasso." He doesn't look back. He tosses the cup in the can by the door and walks out.
The bad ones are when they want you to keep going. I turn the page on another unfinished sketch, one of many.
Hello, friends. Sorry I've not been about. How are you?
Later. Love.
