I sat down to write today. Next thing I know, I’m down in the basement sitting on the floor, portfolio case open and artwork spread out all over. Finished stuff affixed to foam core; matted, under acetate. Doodles. Forgotten drawings, rolled and now spread flat.
Trying to sort it all out, but not sure why.
Then I saw him. The kid with the t-square. I remembered that kid, holding that t-square like it was some kind of weapon. A spear, maybe. This scrawny kid, he looked like a kid to me but he was probably my age back then. Nineteen. Twenty, maybe.
No shirt. Sweat pants hanging and big ol’ boots and he held that t-square, determination on his face and I remember thinking, Look at me with my number twos and you with that t-square, posing for me. Scrawny-ass kid, taking his job so seriously.
My purpose that day? To render him. His was to pose, let me do it. I traced sinewy arms and curved spine, trying to capture him on paper. I knew him as well as one can know a body, rendered him as well as my talent would allow. He was patient, allowing me to look, trusting me to see–to capture the essence of who and what he was. To make him real. Trusting me to him justice. I tried, and I’m still trying.
I just draw with a keyboard now.