It’s a compunction that certainly began at art school. Drawing was always held up to be the ultimate in expression, the fundament of it, if not the whole. For me it has gone beyond that, though I must admit to seeing some of my past tutors (usually in their role as panel members, passing judgement) in my mind’s eye as I draw and feeling the warmth of their approval at my trying, if not always succeeding. To try is enough, it seems.
It’s been a week totally dedicated to writing and trying to earn a living and I am rusty. It hurts. I know what is possible but my brain and my hand don’t. He offers encouragement from the wings, couching it in sporting analogies. And I keep on going, trying and the perseverance seems to work. I loosen up.
Turning my attention from myself and my stumblings to them and the details of their physiognomy, gait, clothes, gestures and narratives. Are they Spanish or Italian, do you think? I ask him, whispering because they are at the next table.
Spanish, we both agree as the mother/wife turns to smile at me. And then there is the other mother and daughter.
One so tiny, as she perches on her chair waiting for her daughter to bring her coffee. And the daughter, so floating in her red silk dress, and tall. I watch as she reaches off to remove sleep from her mother’s eyes. Can they possibly be related, or is the story I lend them awry?
We don’t stay long, the struggle has taken it out of me, but not before I draw the marvellous man with the wild hair reading The Observer, with food all down the front of his mauve sweatshirt. He crumbles a piece shortbread into mouth as he reads. At point he looks up and sees what I am doing and smiles.
