I remember the few instances when I caught someone sketching me.
Once I was on the D.C. metro and I noticed that familiar up and down head bob out of the corner of my eye, as a guy was moving his eyes from a sketchbook to my face. I felt my cheeks burn— I tried not to act nervous or ruin his drawing by shifting away or becoming unnatural. It was an odd feeling, being the one drawn. Another time I was sketched in San Francisco while arguing with an ex of mine— which was uncomfortable for several reasons— but when the sketcher showed me the frantic lines of my anger and wild hair, and the curves of my ex's relaxed posture, the perfect capture of the moment made us all laugh.
Sketching people is intimate. There is a connection made somewhere between the eyes and the hand that holds the pen. I am not concerned with likeness when I draw, but more with holding onto that moment, that expression and feeling in a person— their essence. Sometimes the connection is so powerful that I can find a kind of perfection in my drawing, and other times it just doesn't work.
I love these portraits Javier sketched of me.
It's an honour, being on the other side.