the artist at dolores park

He was sitting on grass, a couple of feet next to me, knees balancing a huge sketchpad, his fingers moving in long, steady strokes. I tried to pretend that I wasn't watching him intently, taking note of his colorful pants, the slightly crooked hat covering his thick grayish hair, the assortment of pens, pencils, and bags next to him -- everything about him is bursting in color.

Soon enough the book on my lap captured my entire attention and I was lost in it, the afternoon slowly winding down to sunset, all thoughts of people-watching and writing gone. It must have been after an hour or so when I finally placed the book down, stretching my arms and legs before laying down on the grass, staring at the sky.

An inspiration came and I hurriedly sat up, grabbed my notebook and pen, and furiously started scribbling away. It was then that I turned around and saw him looking at me while drawing on his sketchpad. After awhile I looked again and he smiled, I think I must have smiled back a little, though deep inside I was dying to know if he was sketching me or not. And if he was, how did he see me?

Such a small moment, but it made me happy.

2 comments:

  1. Sounds like you found a little story of your own...

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  2. Ahh...:)

    I would be dead curious too!

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