It’s evening, I’m tired, and I want something sweet to eat. I pack up my sketchbook and head to my neighbourhood coffee shop. They have sliced banana bread wrapped in cellophane, dark chocolate brownies that get me salivating, humongous chocolate chip and oatmeal raisin cookies, and doughnuts, lots and lots of beautiful, glazed doughnuts; I select a thick piece of date square and strong, black coffee that’s served in a rugged brown mug; the sign on the rust coloured wall reads, “our cups are made by local artisans and are for sale, inquire with the cashier.”
I settle at a small wooden table, place my sketchbook down, and position the date square and coffee in front of the sketchbook. I take out my pencil and look about for a target. The woman with a geometric red, yellow, and green head scarf bent over a word puzzle book, perhaps; or the man wearing a dark baseball cap, on its front is a patch with a large truck, also a consideration. I hear something in the background, and follow the soft snores to a man in his twenties; a very good score – someone who’s not going to move about for a while.
I swipe my hand across the smooth surface of the paper and plot the layout; with quick light lines I sketch in the basic shapes of his head and shoulders; and pause. His head is tilted back, balanced on the top of the bamboo chair. He’s wearing a dark sweatshirt with a hole at the elbow crease and frayed sleeves. His jeans are dirty, stained, worn at the knees; the tan boots scuffed at the toes. His hand, grubby, nails short and broken, rest upon a newspaper.
I go back to drawing; blocking in his head, the hair, nose, mouth, beard, and then eyes; I’m trying to get the form of his neck, attempting to see past the shadows. With a loud snort he has awakened himself; he shakes his head, looks about the room, and shuffles the newspaper. He is now in a different pose; I pause again, take a few forkfuls of date square and drink some coffee, while I take in as many details of his face as I can. He gets up and leaves the paper at the table.
Now, I have no model, no free model. I glance at the woman with the geometric head scarf who is chewing on her pen, she is my next focus. The man with the baseball cap reaches over for the newspaper. I do a quick finish on the sketch of the sleeping young man. I go back to eating the date square and drinking my coffee as I plan the layout of my next subject.
YOU ARE READING
Speaking in Mirrors
Short StoryIllustrated short stories. Seeking connections, a glimpse or a sigh; stale hotdogs and greasy beef jerky; reincarnation and landfills; King for the day; whiskey, lacquered hair and keeping happiness – tall tales of a small city.
