Since, A Novel

viii. HEREIN, THEREAFTER

viii.
HEREIN, THEREAFTER

               October 2023. Though beaming, reluctancy settled on her knees like a huge nail. She began chewing on her lower lip. It was too dry it hurt. She then stood up, carried her things, and moved onto the next bench where the other woman sat, scooting over to make a little room. The size of the wooden bench appeared to be between 53" and 80" and could have accommodated another person, but with them were their things, piled and a little messy. Ara began sitting half-lotus style, putting down her roots with another knee up the chest so the pad has something to rest on. How strange; like a dried leaf, the wind has blown her poise away.

earlier

       "Please?"
          "You can." she airs a little smile.

     And she needed another look—a glance, now—at the person next to her before she picked up where she left off. She controls the fluidity of her pen starting with the shape of the head; long, a little square, the jaws; narrow and protruding, then to the hair; straight, the end of bristles rests on her collarbones, to eyes; slightly mono-lid and hooded, to nose; a little aquiline with little freckles on it, cheekbones; the other woman averted her head a little, the afternoon sun hit a side of her face; it was not contoured; then quickly she turned back to her, and the sharp shade came back. Ara was done after a minute. She intends to give flesh to the sketch, and began to shadow.

          "I . . . uh, I apologize again for making you—" she stopped sketching to look at the other woman, slightly clutching the pen. "Are you sure I should continue? This
must be so uncomfortable," but after swallowing, she began to study the other woman's face.

     Wanting to study things enough to not forget must be this one strategy that may reserve her a seat for a decent career. She supposes—supposed—that it is the same for people, only, they are humans, who, of course, most likely deserve to sit on a bench, enjoy their own space, and go on about their lives without a stranger asking if it's okay for their faces be drawn. Ara studied the whole anatomy of the human body, thanking Paul Richer's "Artistic Anatomy" and his guides, wits, and hints, though not really yet finishing the book. She remembers the last time when she went out and about, with the same pad and pen in the hand, eyeing different group of people with the most peculiar, unconventional, even experimental clothings; the way the self-expression leaked through the type of vests they wore, or the fabric used discerned from a distance of a sophisticated woman's palazzo, the color of their shoes; the height of the heels, and the body adornments from silver and gold to the colorful beads you could tell were handmade that all oh-so well seal the big genius clinging to the muse, and that being able to see through it gives you the final overall cue of its sense and appeal.

     Of course, most of the time, it does not have to "make sense". It does not have to be beautiful or unique nor does it have to be loud to express what you want to say. It gets to be complex, and most of the time misunderstood or funny, and sometimes it'd feel incorrect, for the wearer and the beholder—but only if you feel that way. Those are some of the only few ways on bringing about a sense of freedom, all while walking and talking and living. These people she has seen may not be wary of the salutary eye-satiating art raying off of them as they walk, but she's here to see beyond the character through the clothing, and remark the pieces of statement that make it inimitable, and understand what it is like to be in the gaps between these people, knowing that you yourself have to see the interlude these people are quietly trying to communicate, and have it, and most of all be part of it before you know it's gone.

     But she is here, sitting on a bench, after years of struggling on making art out of a face—which is already art itself. With a stranger. With a stranger she made uncomfortable. With a stranger that assured. With a stranger who allowed her. She is here and this is her first attempt on creating flesh out of a portrait. And she, all of the sudden, could feel her every nerve dry up like sunless roots.