13 November 2009
I sat next to an artist today. Late for class, I slipped in the back and into an empty seat. Dr. I. was explaining the implications of Apple’s new (imaginary) invisible i-phone on the current markets as I pulled out my notebook. The girl next to me was already scribbling away in hers—in long broad strokes of pen on heavy paper. I watched, enthralled, as the lines bent and converged into a girl in a trendy polka-dot dress, coat thrown over her arm, hair flouncing as she walked.
Inside, I longed to make my pencil strokes come alive like these. In fascination I watched her fill the page spread with doodles of dancing models in chiffon dresses, silk pants suits, taffeta party dresses.
I was sad when she closed her sketch book and tucked it into her pink backpack. She was unassuming, even plain, and no one would particularly notice her walking across campus. But I knew there were dancing pictures hidden in her grubby bag, and in her stubby fingers, nails cut down to the quick, there was real magic.
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