Last night he showed me his portfolio. Filled with sketches in pencils, charcoal and ink on tea stained and brown colored paper. I was surprised how small the pieces were – no bigger than 5×7″ or so; of animals, mystical creatures and studies of the female figure. Drawings with fine and exquisite lines and details. I could tell he spent many hours with careful consideration working on them. But, most of the pieces we’re left half-done. I wondered why? And when I asked him…… he said something about “that’s where it ended” the feeling of inspiration or his desire to create it.
As he spoke, I could see his eyes move over the paper longingly, adoringly as he talked about his work and what inspired him at that time. I listened quietly, and my mind slipped into his story. I see him designing every curve of her. Every cross hatch a hint into her character and desires and ways of her womanhood. I couldn’t help but want to be his canvas. Every pencil mark pressed firmly onto me, imprinting his intentions. Every finger blending shapes into a sense of permanance. And as he blows eraser stubble from the paper, my body is kissed by his breath.
At the end of the night before our goodbyes, his face snuggled in the crease of my neck, feeling the warmth of him and not wanting him to leave. I could feel my eyes glare over and the deep desire to be the piece that’s finished to the end…. the final draft, the piece that’s not left half-done. Sketch by sketch, blend by blend, shaded, highlighted….. til every inch is explored by the touch of an artist.