All The Colors Of You || Bang Chan

Chapter One - Perrie

There is nothing random about painting.

Everything - from the first stroke of my brush to the last - is done with intention. The choices I make determine what the audience sees, what the audience feels. Wether I use a round brush or a flat one, what colors I use, where I place the shadows. It all comes down to me and my decisions.

It's an incredible feeling full of sizzling anticipation and glittering possibility - but it's also a lot of pressure. Especially when you're painting to make a living, like I am.

I always knew I wanted to be a painter. From the first time I held a brush in pre-school, it was the path that I followed like a light in the darkness.

It wasn't exactly part of my plan to end up in Seoul, but beggars can't be choosers. And my life here is good. I have an apartment. I am renting a space where I work on my own time. I know at least a handful of people that think I'm incredibly cool. Everything is good.

This kind of feeling always overcomes me when I am working. This happiness, this feeling of being content with life. Even now, that I'm simply holding a graphite pencil and dragging it over the blank pages of my sketchbook, I could not be happier.

I'm sitting on a bench at the Mecenatpolis Mall, my sketchbook in hand, a boba tea and my backpack beside me. My pencil is flying over the page, leaving lines and scratches behind. I am completely caught up in the bustling of the people, the strong lighting, the ever-changing faces around me.

My eyes go back and forth between the vendor from the noodle shop and my sketchbook. He has a strong jaw, very square, and the hat on his head sits slightly lopsided. He's easy to draw. When I'm done with his rough portrait, I pick up a colored pencil and put in the shadows, before switching again to another color for the light placements. Then I take a fine-point ink pen and finish the portrait by adding details and the final line work.

It's my favorite way to work on my progress and skills. It allows me to see the faces in different ways. After everything is done, I rip the page out of the sketchbook and place it neatly onto the pile next to me. I don't like keeping the finalized sketches in my book, I always take them out and put them on a wall in my workshop.

I spend entire hours here. I come here at least once a week to sit and draw, practice.

I look around the mall's square, flitting from face to face, looking for the most interesting one. I like sharp features, or big noses. I like when people have imperfections, because in my eyes, it makes them more interesting. Anyone can draw a perfect face, but it takes skill to capture the correct line of a big scar, or a droopy eye, or swollen lips.

As my eyes catch on a blinking fairy-light chain, someone passes beneath it. A man, no doubt, clad in a black cargo pant, grey shirt and denim jacket. His face is covered by a mask and a bucket hat, and though he looks rather small he walks with confidence. From his hand, a paper bag is swinging with every step he takes. Behind him, a group of men a bit older than him follow, each one of them with their phone in hand.

They stop to look at sunglasses and I get to work. I start with the general shape of the hat, then the face. I take special care of the neckline disappearing into the collar of his denim jacket. I try to capture him as best I can before he moves further away and out of my eye sight. But I get lucky. One of the young man's companions is tapping the next one's shoulder, raising his phone to his ear. Someone is tapping his watch with his pointer finger.

They seem stressed. Like they're waiting for someone. Whatever it is, it gives me more time to perfect the contour of his cheeks, before I finally add in the shadows and light patches in two different colors. Then I take the ink pen and finish it. Since I can't see his mouth, nose, or eyes from this angle, I concentrate on the make-up of the hat, the folds on the mask, and the fabric of the jacket. The resemblance is uncanny when I'm done, and I'm satisfied with the finished sketch.

Before I can rip it from the sketchbook, someone next to me speaks up.

"Oh, wow! You're really good!"

Surprised, I look to my side. A beanie covering his hair and forehead, a mask covering his mouth and nose. A black leather jacket over a black sweatshirt, paired with black jeans. He's standing halfway behind me, looking over my shoulder.

I cock my head to one side.

He looks familiar. I think I've heard this voice before.

"Thank you," I answer then and smile.

He points at the page and then at the pile.

"I'm sorry for startling you, I didn't mean to scare you. Are you getting rid of them? Because I would really like to have that one," His eyes squint and I guess he's smiling, "I'm friends with him, you know."

"Oh! Yeah, sure!" I rip out the page and I am about to hand it to him, when he speaks up again.

"Are you an artist? These are all really good."

"I am a painter, actually." I smile again and turn to face him better. "These are just studies and practice. I usually work with acrylic paints."

"Wow, that is so impressive! Do you have a website or an Instagram account?"

I nod, "Yes, I do! It's just my name, Perrie Becket, and the word 'art' behind it. Here."

I turn over the sketch he wanted and write down my Instagram handle and website link. Then I hand him the paper and he takes it with another smile. His eyes are dark, but something about them seems warm and friendly. His voice is very soothing.

"Great, thank you!" He straightens up to look at the guy in the bucket hat. "I better get going. Have a great day, Perrie!"

He turns and leaves, and I wave after him even though he can't see it. Then I turn back to my sketchbook and put down the lines of his face, trace the shape of his eyes and everything I can remember about him. It's as easy as if he is standing right in front of me.