A Little Sketchy

CAPTION: ""Excuse me ladies. Please pardon my pencils."

So I started something new on Light Rail yesterday. I'm sketching someone going to campus, and someone else coming home.  That's not really new, except I've comitted myself to the task.

What's new now is that I've also got my camera with me? So after I complete my drawing?  I yank the camera out of my bag and snap off a few frames for posterity.  Then?

Well then I carefully tug the sketch loose from my pad. Then I gingerly crumple it up and stuff it in my bag?

No. Here's what happens.  I put on my pompously generous grin, lean over towards the model? And I say?

"Here! This is for you."

You'll note that I very deliberately say "This is FOR you" and Not "This IS you."  Folks don't always agree.

Since the first subject is without wrinkle in her Merchant Marine recruiting attire? (I'm a pretty good eavesdropper by trade.) And since her hair is in a flawless tight bun? And her shoes might as well be mirrors?  I'm thinking I better be upfront with this potential model.

"May I sketch you?"

Her icy pupils lock on my trembling ones.

"I guess," she says.

"Thanks!"

But she's not done.  She doesn't utter this verbally, but you can hear it in her eyes.

"Who is this old creep?"

This is what she did say.

"Is this just a HOBBY with you?"

"Uh, huh!"

So I commence to sketching and color penciling and get done one stop before mine.  I go through the routine described earlier and I'm shaking as I hand her the hoped for resemblence.

Her jaw is tight, and her threatening stance is set. I am pretty much prepared to get socked in the nose at least.  But?

The jaw loosens, the curved lines from her nose to her mouth drift upward forming nice rosy little cheeks. It's a smile. Eyeball to eyeball she then says:

"Nice. And you have a NICE day."

Whew!  I can't tell you how much guts that takes.

The result on the way in is making me feel good enough to try it again on the way home. I quickly find an expression I understand. This woman's face says frustration, exhaustion. I must capture her.

So without talking I go to work.  In about two stops she catches on and her recognition of my activity isn't clear. Her eyes are hard to read. She appears to sequentially be saying, "what are you doing," "why are you doing this," and "WHY ME?"

But I push ahead and after about five stations I see her getting fidgety. I must rush. I get it done a stop before hers, hand it to her, and fearfully wait for a response.

One look at the sketch, followed by an intense glare at me. And then she quickly reaches for her cell phone.  I'm not close enough to hear the conversation but it seems to me she only pushes three buttons. You know, like 911?

So I'm prepared to be met with a swat team at the next stop, tossed to the floor of the train and handcuffed.

Instead? Off the phone here's what she says:

"That was my daughter. I want her to pick me up so my picture doesn't get wet in this rain.!"

"Whew!" Now its time for my mouth to nose lines to shoot upward."

"Its okay then?"

"You've just MADE the day of a woman who has had a very long, hard day at work. Thank you so much and have a great day!"

As she steps from the train I semi shout, "If you really like it? Spray some lacquer on it so those colors don't run.!"

Today I'm actually going to sign them. My artist sister Brenda says "you're not an artist until you are brave enough to put your name on them."

They still wouldn't be able to trace them to me. No one has ever been able to read my handwriting.