I’m trying to build up my confidence, not only in drawing again but drawing in public. It’s funny, drawing is, for me at least, essentially a private occupation and yet I feel I need to do it in public. And by doing so I am aware that it becomes a kind of performance. Regulars in my chosen café have begun to notice, though most say nothing. I like that. I draw the same faces and bodies over and over again. And by doing so I feel that I come to know them (though we’ve never exchanged a word). The last two days I’ve stuck with line. I like ink best. I draw fast, it is better that way, for my brain isn’t given a chance to interfere – it is bypassed. I want to capture gait, details, facial expressions and hand gestures. I love the ways in which people inhabit space, what they put on the tables, drape over chairs and so on – like the middle-aged lady who rests her folded paper over her handbag (is it to hide it?). And the solitary café frequenters who never sit still – the fidgeters, who are always smoothing their hair, or shifting position. One elderly man sat twirling his thumbs round and round. Drawing is not only an act of deep-seeing but one of compassion also.
