Speaking in Mirrors

The Crowd

It is late afternoon and I am downtown standing on a street corner waiting for a walk light.  Small patches of grey clouds and a light cool wind add to my fatigue.  I scan a cluster of people across the road; two women chatter, their hands flying, bland faces, both in dark coats, not interesting enough; a tall male in his twenties drags on a cigarette, his face pitted, lips narrow, dusty yellow shaggy hair, good enough to explore; an elderly male wearing a beige cap and coat chews his lip as he leans on a walker, he eyes up the male smoking the cigarette, if I were to paint him I’d put a scarf around his neck, wool, blue, plaid – with a dash of red.

I notice a hand strike the air, a young woman with drab brown hair frowns as she speaks into a cell phone, her mouth moves fast, now there’s a good subject.  I try to take her all in, black and white checked waist coat with black collar, a stuffed shiny black purse all zippers and rings, washed out black jeans encase tweezers-like legs, worn black ankle boots.  She snaps shut her phone, places a hand to her forehead, then wipes away a tear.  The walk light changes, as we pass each other I attempt to memorize her features.

I take a seat on a bench, a few feet away sit two men on the ground, a sign written with broke, hungry and a dollar symbol is placed behind a hat with a small amount of coins.  I get out my sketchbook and pencil and settle in to draw.  I lightly outline the shape of the young woman’s head, hair, and neck; what look am I going for here?  The look she had as she hung up the phone, inner brows lifted; mouth slightly pulled down, the eyes hooded; I quickly sketch in her features, along with the coat and handle of the purse.

Something is not going right here, something is amiss.  I have not remembered her features well enough.  What colour were her eyes, blue, no green, a light green.  What was the height of her forehead, I don’t know, average.  Her nose is drawn wrong, I can’t recall the bridge, I’ve drawn it with a round-tip; a fabrication of my hazy memory.  The eyes are nothing like her eyes, I really should have focused more.  I glance up, a young blonde boy is watching me; he is standing back from a crowd of older teenagers; briefly, we stare at one another.  I go back to my sketch and throw in a few shadows, draw in some details.  It will do.

A loud screech seizes my attention; a teenager is jostling another, they’re snickering, a taller friend takes off his white ball cap and slaps one of them across the back, a couple kisses; the young blonde boy shuffles back further and looks over at me; a new subject.  He gazes at me as I sketch him, his face unchanging.  He’s about fourteen, slight frame, wearing a dark hoodie and jeans; wheat coloured hair curls down his neck, glassy blue eyes.  There is shouting from the group of teens and I look up, one of them has another in a head-lock as the rest hoot.  I get back to my drawing, I have failed, failed to capture the young boy’s  softness; the eyes are close enough, the mouth is a bit off, his chin is okay, I have messed up on the side of his face, and his nose, again the nose, I have drawn the bridge too far out.

A bus squeals at the curb, dust rises, I cough.  The teenagers board the bus, pushing and shoving each other, laughing, others follow; the young boy gives a backward glance as he makes his way to the bus.